Page 31 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

After a pause, I brush off my better judgment and reach across the table to pat her hand. “Go to law school, Daphne. I’m here now. I’ll take care of Sora.”

“You’ve been her boyfriend for exactly two minutes. I’ve been her best friend for more than a decade.” Her voice is tinged with uncertainty.

“Whatever’s happening between us is new, but…” I trail off, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “There’s something about her. Something I can’t walk away from. So, I’ll be here. A shoulder to cry on, an ear to vent to—whatever she needs.”

Daphne studies me, her gaze piercing. “You sure I can trust you with my friend’s heart?”

It’s a fair question. One I’m not sure I deserve to answer affirmatively, given my complicated life. But I think about how Sora looked when she talked about her books, the vulnerability in her eyes when she shared her insecurities. I think about the way my chest tightened when I saw her crying.

“I’m loyal,” I say finally. “Above everything else. Ask anyone who knows me. When I care about someone, I don’t bail when things get tough.” I think of Dakota, of the battle I’m willing to fight for her. “If there’s one thing you can trust, it’s that.”

Something in my tone must convince her, because Daphne nods slowly. “Okay then. I guess Lincoln it is.”

“Lincoln it is,” I echo, squeezing her hand before releasing it.

A slow smile spreads across her face. “Hey, I have an idea to turn this shitshow around for Sora. Are you game to help?”

“What do you have in mind?”

Her eyes scan the ballroom, calculating. “Wait here.”

Before I can ask what she’s planning, Daphne darts off, weaving through the crowd with determined purpose. I watch as she approaches several other author tables, gesturing animatedly, pointing in our direction. To my surprise, the authors—all women—nod and smile, handing her various items.

She returns moments later, arms loaded down with…props?

“What’s all this?” I ask as she dumps a cowboy hat, a motorcycle helmet, and a sequined bow tie onto our table.

“Our salvation.” Her eyes glint with mischief. “Take off your shirt.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me. Shirt off, pants unbuttoned—but zipper up.” She glances around the ballroom, then grabs a blank piece of poster board from her tote bag and a marker. “We’re going to give these readers something Tila can’t.”

“Daphne, I don’t think?—”

“Look,” she cuts me off, her face suddenly serious. “Sora is about to come back here, probably still crying, to an empty table while the woman who humiliated her is five feet away with a line around the block. Do you want to help her or not?”

Put like that, there’s only one answer. I unbutton my shirt, ignoring the curious glances from nearby attendees. “What exactly is the plan here?”

Daphne scribbles rapidly on the poster board, her handwriting surprisingly elegant despite her speed. “We’re going to use you as bait.”

“Bait,” I repeat flatly.

“Book-boyfriend bait,” she clarifies, holding up the completed sign with a flourish: Buy a book, take a photo with your choice of book boyfriend! Cowboys, bikers, CEOs—we’ve got ’em all!

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re devious.”

“I prefer resourceful,” she counters, arranging the props on the table. “Now, lose the shirt and give me your best smolder. We’ve probably got about sixty seconds before Sora comes back, and I want a line formed by then.”

Shaking my head in amused disbelief, I pull my shirt overhead and toss it onto Sora’s chair.

Following Daphne’s instructions, I unbutton my jeans, leaving them hanging low on my hips.

The cowboy hat feels ridiculous perched on my head; I haven’t worn one of these in years, but the small crowd already gathering suggests it’s having the desired effect.

“Ladies,” Daphne calls out, her voice carrying across the nearby tables. “Special promotion at Sora Cho’s table! Purchase any book and get a photo with our live book-boyfriend model—your choice of theme!”

The response is immediate and shocking. Women from Tila’s line begin to peel away, drawn by curiosity and, let’s be honest, the novelty of a half-naked man. A group of twentysomethings giggle as they approach, pointing not-so-subtly in my direction.

“Is this for real?” one of them asks Daphne.

“One hundred percent,” Daphne confirms. “Buy any book, take any photo—within reason.” She gives me a wink. “Our model is very accommodating.”

And just like that, they’re sold. One after another, they grab copies of Sora’s books, barely glancing at the covers before handing over credit cards and cash to Daphne, who’s seamlessly taken on the role of cashier.

“Perfect promo idea, right?” Daphne whispers to me between sales. “Sora’s boyfriend helps boost her career. That’s serious relationship goals.”

I nod, not trusting myself to respond. If only she knew the truth—that I’m not Sora’s boyfriend, that our entire relationship is built on a lie that started with a mistaken proposition and ten thousand dollars.

By the time Sora emerges from the bathroom, red-eyed but composed, a line has formed at our table that almost rivals Tila’s. The look of confused shock on her face would be comical if it weren’t so heartbreaking.

“What…what’s happening?” she asks, her voice small as she approaches.

“Your fanbase is growing,” I respond, adjusting the ridiculous cowboy hat. “Better get signing.”

To my surprise, an elderly woman thrusts a copy of Sora’s book at her. “Oh my god, you’re the author? Your boyfriend is hot!”

Sora blinks, then looks at me, her confusion slowly giving way to understanding. “My…boyfriend?”

“Don’t be shy, sweetheart.” I offer her a wink. “See? Bells on like I promised.”

For a moment, I think she might be angry. Then, by a miracle of miracles, she laughs—a genuine, unexpected sound that transforms her face. The tension in my chest eases at the sight of her smile.

“Sign my book?” the woman prompts, pulling Sora’s attention back.

“ Oh. Yes, of course. Happy to!” Sora slides into her chair, careful not to disrupt my shirt, accepting the pen Daphne hands her. “Who should I make it out to?”

The next hour passes in a blur. I pose for photos with an endless stream of women—wearing the cowboy hat, the motorcycle helmet, the bow tie, sometimes combinations that make no narrative sense whatsoever.

Some of the bolder ones take liberties, their hands wandering to my chest, my abs, occasionally lower before I gently redirect them.

It’s not so different from my regular job, really. I’m playing a role, fulfilling a fantasy, making people feel special. The key difference is that every dollar spent, every book signed, every photo taken is helping Sora.

Between customers, I catch her looking at me—quick, furtive glances filled with something I can’t quite decipher. Gratitude, certainly, but also something more. Something that makes my heart thud hard in my chest.

By the time the signing officially ends, Sora’s table is completely sold out. Not a single book remains. Daphne’s eleventh-hour scheme worked better than any of us could have anticipated.

As the crowds begin to disperse, Sora finally has a moment to breathe. She sinks back in her chair, exhaustion and wonder warring on her face.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” she murmurs, staring at the empty space where her books had been.

“Believe it,” Daphne touts, counting the cash box with obvious satisfaction. “Every last book, gone. Plus pre-orders for twenty more copies of Lonely that I promised to ship after release.”

Sora shakes her head in astonishment, then turns to me. I’ve put my shirt back on, though I left it unbuttoned—partly because I’m overheated from the constant photos, and partly because I like the way Sora’s gaze lingers when my bare skin is on display.

“Why did you do that?” she asks quietly.

Daphne, sensing the shift in mood, mumbles something about checking on the parking validation and disappears into the thinning crowd.

I sit in the rickety chair beside Sora, suddenly very aware of how close we are. “You were upset. I wanted to help.”

“By taking your clothes off and letting strange women grope you for photos?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” I gesture to the empty table.

“That’s not an answer.” Her dark eyes search mine. “Why, Forrest? Really.”

The truth rises to my lips before I can stop it. “Because I wanted to see you smile again.”

Her expression softens, vulnerability replacing the wariness in her eyes. “That’s…a very sweet answer.”

“Maybe I’m a sweet guy.” I hold her gaze, letting the implication hang between us.

She looks down at her hands, strands of dark hair coming loose from her ponytail and curtaining her face. “You did all this for me, but you barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken questions. Finally, she raises her head, a hint of her earlier smile returning.

“Thank you,” she says simply. “For everything.”

“My pleasure.” I mean it more than she could possibly know.

And even though I know it can’t lead anywhere—even though in two weeks I’ll have Dakota full-time and my complicated life will become even more so—I can’t help but savor the odd connection that’s forming between us.

Maybe we’re both just lonely people who recognize something in each other—something real beneath the facades we present to the world.

The crowd finally thins to empty and we begin packing up the table. I notice Sora pulls something from her tote bag.

“I saved one,” she says, almost shyly. “For you.”

She holds up a copy of her book with the soft pink cover— Lovely . “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to read it,” she adds quickly. “It’s just…a thank-you. For today.”

I watch as she uncaps a pen and opens to the title page. Her handwriting is neat and small as she writes something, then signs her name. When she hands it to me, I read the inscription:

To my new friend, Forrest. Cheers to the journey.

—Sora Cho

The words echo our earlier conversation about love being a journey, not a destination. Something warm unfurls in my chest.

“I’ll read it,” I promise, cradling the book gently in my arms like it’s a treasure.

As Sora gathers her belongings, I catch myself stealing glances at the pink cover now tucked between my bicep and rib cage.

It’s clear, this is something more potent than lustful flirtation.

And it’s too late to forget about it. Maybe I took one step too many.

I thought seeing her again would curb my interest. Like scratching an agitating itch.

Instead, my intrigue has only magnified, and while I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, after today, I know one thing for sure.

I’m in trouble. Complicated trouble, like I’m standing at the edge of a deep pool I’m guaranteed to drown in.

“Hey,” Sora says, her bag flung around her shoulder. “I think Daphne’s tired and is about to head home.”

“Understandable,” I say in agreement.

“But I’m not so tired. Are you? Can I take you out for a drink as a thank-you?”

I pat my new book. “ Another thank-you?”

“A lot of women groped you today. I think I owe you a few more for exploiting you like that. I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable.”

I belly-laugh at her sincerity. My whole life is getting exploited and groped by women, but she’s sweet to be concerned. “A drink sounds good. But how about I pay?” I pat my wallet through my jeans. “My wallet is pretty fat these days,” I tease.

Sora rolls her eyes. “Ass,” she murmurs.

Laughing, I pull her tote from her shoulders and sling it around my own.

Then, I collect her suitcase, light as a feather after she sold all her books.

Once I’m geared up like a pack mule, I point Sora to the ballroom exit.

“Come on, cookie girl…” Images of the deep, dark pool of unknown possibilities flash in my mind. “Let’s dive in.”