Page 25 of Booked on You
“You don’t know me, Scarlett.”
“Maybe not, but I want to,” I admit.
Ezra smirks as he stirs the sauce in the pan. “I want to get to know you, too.”
We might be strangers, but I don’t think that’s going to last very long.
And whatever this is, I’m aware that it isn’tjustdinner.
CHAPTER 8
EZRA
Scarlett comfortably leans against the counter, hips tilted just enough for the stance to look accidental. She gulps her wine, watching me like she’s already gone through my character study and is waiting to confirm her theory. The overhead light shines down on her, and she glows, looking so damn pretty that I can barely speak.
I pull two plates from the cabinet and put a healthy helping of roasted chicken on one side, spooning garlic Alfredo sauce over it. I pretend not to notice the way she keeps brushing her thumb along the rim of her glass or how her eyes linger on my every movement.
“You can ask me anything,” I finally say, pulling the asparagus and potatoes from the oven and scooping spoonfuls for each of us. “That’s not an offer I make to just anyone.”
“Oh, I feel special, I suppose,” she says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her cocky-ass response, and it leaves me wondering if I’ve finally met my match.
Once our plates are loaded, I carry them to the table, then grab the opened bottle of wine. She joins me, picking up her utensils, then placing the cloth napkin on her lap.
“Are you a chef? This presentation looks Michelin,” she says, trying not to sound impressed.
“No, just a foodie. Meals like this are a social thing in the South, and not to mention, my aunt Millie owns a semi-famous bakery in town. Millie always said if I learned how to cook, I’d get all the chicks.” I don’t take my eyes from her as I drink my wine.
“Has it worked for you?” she asks.
“You tell me,” I say, watching her cut into the chicken breast. She seductively blows on it before she puts the bite in her mouth. She moans with satisfaction.
“Wow. Okay, she’s right.” She points at the sauce, then dips her fork in it. “What is this?”
“Roasted garlic Alfredo,” I tell her. “A classic recipe.”
“I think I could eat this every day for the rest of my life.”
“Babe.” I smirk. “If you gave me forever, this would just be the beginning. I have a large repertoire of meals.”
“Keep it up, and I may never leave.” She continues eating.
“I’d consider that a win for both of us,” I say pointedly.
Her cheeks heat. “Do you always do that?”
“Do what?” My brows lift.
“Flirt so much.”
Laughter falls from my lips. “Only when a pretty girl is sitting in my kitchen, moaning with every bite she takes.”
“You’re so…confident.” She glances away from our intense eye contact.
“My mother raised me to communicate and express my feelings openly. Words are powerful, and life is too short,” I admit. I cut into my chicken, and it’s juicy, perfectly cooked with the right amount of garlic and herbs in the sauce. I nailed it from memory. My mom would be proud as hell right now.
A smile touches my lips.
