Page 24 of Booked on You
I reach the porch steps and hesitate, just for a second. When I lift my hand to knock, the door swings open like he was waiting for me.
Ezra’s barefoot, freshly showered, and wearing a heather gray T-shirt that clings to his shoulders like it was stitched for his body. Jeans sit low on his hips. My eyes scan back up to damp hair that’s curling at the ends. He smells like a mountain breeze and whatever he’s cooking—something buttery and garlicky.
I forget how to speak as heat rushes up my neck.
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, tilts his head. His eyes unapologetically slide over me, and when they return to my face, his mouth lifts at one corner.
“You’re late,” he says.
“No way,” I tell him, pulling my phone from my pocket. “You said seven thirty-ish.”
“Oh, right.” He sounds amused, like he’s already enjoying this more than he expected.
Ezra chuckles, stepping to the side to let me in. I move past him, careful not to brush his arm, but fail.
Goose bumps trail over my arm, and I try to rub them away without drawing any attention to it. Another fail.
He closes the door, and the soft click makes everything feel ten degrees warmer.
On the edge of the counter, I see a wine bottle and two empty glasses. A cast-iron pan sits on the stove, steam rising from whatever’s inside.
I follow the rich scent.
He crosses behind me to grab something from the cabinet, and I feel the air shift as he passes me.
“Red wine okay?” he asks, already reaching for a corkscrew.
“Yeah. Perfect. Not a wine snob at all.”
He nods and glances over at me as he opens it and pours me a glass.
“You look nice,” he says, handing it to me.
My breath catches as our fingers brush. That’s all it takes for me to know I’m doomed.
“Thank you.” I lift the glass to my lips as he pours himself one, then returns to the stovetop.
I can’t help but notice a small ceramic bowl tucked beside the oven. It’s misshapen, like it slumped inward before it hardened. A deep blue glaze pools at the bottom, like it was meant to be imperfect.
“Is that Paris Pottery, too?” I ask, pointing at it.
A soft smile touches his lips. “Every piece in this kitchen is.”
“I didn’t see those in the store,” I say, moving closer. “I want a casserole dish.”
“Ah, well, good luck. There were only a few made,” he tells me, and I try not to pout.
“Maybe I’ll just take yours when you’re not looking,” I tease.
I watch his hands—the sure way he moves as he cooks. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess a thing. It makes me feel even more like I’m the only uncertain one in the room.
I take three big gulps of wine, needing it to do its magic and calm my nerves.
“What?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just didn’t expect you to be so domestic.”
This earns me a laugh.
