Page 13 of Booked on You
Lately, she’s been impatient for breakfast. But also, this cat has never once gone without, even when she was a stray.
Once downstairs, I feed Willow and pour water into the coffee maker. This exact routine has settled in my bones; it’s a rhythm I never have to think about. One that hasn’t been disrupted since I moved into this house.
I glance out the window toward the cottage and notice the curtains across the large windows are drawn, and the light is on.
Yesterday, I told Scarlett she’s invited to have coffee with me. Part of me wonders if she’ll show up or if she’ll ignore me until she leaves. I don’t know the answer to that question, but I’ll likely find out within the next hour.
I spot movement in the cottage, and I know she’s awake. Beside the sink, on the drying mat, sits the mug she used yesterday.
It’s slate-gray, the color of a battleship, and slightly tapered near the base. The uneven rim gives it a crooked kind of charm. I washed it and left it out for her. But I still wonder why she chosethat one.
There are at least a dozen in the cabinet. I have some that are rounded, tall, or short, but they’re all imperfect. Some are bright colors, others have speckled glazes, and a few are matte creams. However, out of the selection, she picked this one. It’s subtle, simple, and flawed. I never noticed how much I liked that one until she was holding it.
There was something about how her hand curved around it, and the way she looked at it, like it made the coffee taste better. I pour myself a cup and lean against the counter. After Willow finishes her breakfast, she jumps onto the windowsill and stares at the backyard like she’s waiting for Harry to start a fight.
I hear Scarlett’s footsteps on the porch before I see her. The sound is followed by a gentle knock, like she’s asking instead of assuming she’s welcome inside.
I open the door, and there she is with messy hair and a black tee knotted at her waist. No robe or sassy attitude, just the real her.
She’s holding a mug in her hand. I glance down at it, noticing it’s the same color as the one she chose yesterday.
“I liked your mug so much I bought my own,” she says, lifting it. “Now I won’t be tempted to steal yours.”
The mug is familiar. I believe it’s the sister to the one on the counter.
Knowing she picked that one makes my stomach flip.
“Well, well,” I say, stepping aside, allowing her in. “Was wonderin’ if you’d be gracin’ me with your presence this mornin’.”
“Like I said, coffee tastes better when I’m not the one making it.” She grins and breezes past me. “I found your littletreasure trove in town. Paris Pottery & Studio. Very mysterious. Very moody. Smelled like a Pottery Barn—in a good way, not a corporate way.”
“I can’t believe you left your confines,” I say, closing the door.
“Retail therapy helps when I’m stuck.” She lifts her chin, pleased with herself. “Found your best-kept secret.”
“That’s funny.” I move closer to her. “Can I see your mug?”
“Only if you promise to return it,” she says. “No way I’m letting you add that special one to your collection.”
“I promise,” I tell her, finding her adoration so damn adorable as she hands the mug to me. I take it, turning it in my hands. It’s a good one. It’s well-balanced and warm-toned, the kind of piece I would’ve set aside if my cabinets weren’t already full.
“Amazing find,” I say.
Her smile shifts.
“It kind of found me.” She trails off, then shrugs. “The mug chooses its owner.”
I glance up at her. She’s watching me like she’s not sure why she said it. Scarlett glances away like she thinks it sounds silly.
“I know exactly what you mean. I’ve had a connection with each piece,” I explain, glancing up at the ones in my cabinet.
There’s a pause as a thick, invisible thread stretches between us. It has hooks on each end and digs in.
She smiles. “Feel free to fill it to the top.”
With a chuckle, I pour coffee for her, then hand it back over. “Enjoy.”
She watches me over the rim as she blows on it. “I will.”
