Page 45 of Booked on You
Our eyes meet. “I hope you’re hungry.”
I stare at her for half a second too long. “Yeah, because you ordered a pizza the size of a satellite dish.”
“I wrote nine thousand words today,” she says, stepping closer. “I very much earned those carbs.”
I clear my throat, trying not to look at her pebbled nipples through the shirt. “How much pizza can a person eat?”
“Lots,” she tells me. “It’s my favorite. This place had great ratings.”
She takes the box from my hands, fingers grazing mine. My brain short-circuits.
“Don’t be shy,” she says, moving to the table. “I know it’s kinda late, but I’m not eating this entire thing alone.”
I watch her flip the box open like it’s a treasure chest. It looks like she ordered half a margherita and half a pepperoni with extra black olives and mushrooms. No nonsense, all flavor.
She grabs a slice and takes a bite out of it, then immediately starts blowing. “Hot. Hot!”
“Spit it out,” I say with a laugh, holding out my hand.
Half-chewed pizza that’s hot as fucking hell lands in my palm, spit and all.
“Great. I think I just burned my tongue off,” she says.
“Want me to kiss it and make it better?” My brows quirk up, and she smirks.
I pull some plates from the cabinet and cloth napkins from the drawer.
“Want a beer?” I move to the fridge.
“Sure,” she tells me.
“Okay, so pilsner goes best with margherita, and you’ll want to pair the pepperoni with an IPA or a stout.”
Her brows raise. “You’re such a foodie nerd. How about you pick one?”
I grab us each an IPA and pop the bottle caps from them. Her fingers brush mine again, and I remind myself to have some self-control.
We eat at the table, sitting side by side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She polishes off two slices before I even finish my first.
I can’t stop looking at her. Scarlett’s cheeks are still pink from sleep, her hair in that messy half-knot.
Eventually, she points to the bag on the counter. “What’s that?”
I grab it and return to the table. “The girl at the bookstore was discussing her favorite author with me.”
She wipes her fingers on the napkin. “Really? Let me guess who. Meadow Wilson?”
I laugh and slideMy Everythingfrom inside.
Her mouth parts when she sees it. Recognition flashes in her eyes, and something else flickers there, too.
“You boughtmybook?” she asks.
“I did,” I say, holding it up like it’s a peace offering. “Thought maybe you’d sign it for me.”
She reaches for it. “Got a pen?”
I grab one from the junk drawer and pass it to her. She flips to the title page, hesitates for a second, then writes. Her lips twitch as she thinks, then the pen moves in a series of quick, confident strokes. When she’s done, she hands it back, eyes sparkling.
