Page 12 of Booked on You
I don’t ask more questions, even though I want to.
“I’m renting a place just outside of town, and they had several of these in their cabinet,” I tell her. “It kept my coffee warm until I finished it.”
Paula smiles. “Once you experience a Paris mug, it’s hard to go back to drinking hot beverages from anything else. Not to mention, they’re very addicting to collect because each one is so different.”
I pick up another one. It’s a rich forest green with a speckled glaze. It feels different in my hand from the first one. It’s rougher around a rim that’s not exactly even, and it’s a little heavier.
“I feel like I’m choosing a wand,” I mutter to myself.
Paula laughs. “Honestly, yeah. The mug chooses the owner.”
That earns a genuine smile from me. I cradle the gray one, then grab a second, it’s pale blue with a faint ivory drip that I’m going to ship to Hallie.
At the checkout, Paula wraps them both in paper and tucks them gently into a canvas bag stamped with the familiar logo.
“Enjoy,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll see you again. No one only visits once.”
“Thank you for everything. I really needed this today.”
She doesn’t ask why, but smiles like she gets it.
As soon as I step outside, my alarm buzzes. It’s time to go home.
By the time I make it back to the cottage, the sun is higher in the sky. Everything looks golden, like the world has been filteredthrough a glass of sweet tea. The gate creaks when I open it, and my hand tightens around my boutique finds.
After I unlock the cottage, I walk into the small kitchen and set my Paris tote on the counter. I pull my mugs out of the bag and unwrap the first one.
I rinse my pretty gray mug in the sink, then fill the kettle. Ezra stocked the cottage with different teas, which I appreciate.
As the water heats, I grab my laptop and open a new blank document. This time, when I place my fingers on the keys, I don’t overthink. The blinking cursor greets me like a challenge.
I write a single sentence, and another follows it. They may not be good, but they’re mine, and that’s what matters the most.
Right now, I’m not trying to impress anyone. Not my agent, not my readers, not the version of myself everyone expects me to be.
I just write.
It’s freeing, even if there’s no big breakthrough or euphoric high.
The kettle begins to whistle, and I know the water is ready, but I don’t pull away.
As I type, something different settles inside me. It’s a confidence I thought I’d lost.
Outside the window, I can see the edge of Ezra’s back porch, and I wonder what he’s doing.
I don’t know what tomorrow will look like or how many words I’ll get out today, but I’m not dreading the future quite as much as I was this morning.
That’s progress.
CHAPTER 4
EZRA
The next morning, the house is quiet.
I wake to Willow walking across my chest with an entitled meow.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my face. “You’re supposed to let Harry crow first.”
