Page 8 of Booked on You
“Pfft.Too messy.” She tightens her robe. “Most people would have provided their guests with a real coffee maker that didn’t become an entire chore to use it.”
I lean against the doorframe, eyebrows shooting upward. Willow tries to run past me, and I bend down to pick her up.
“You know what? Never mind.” She turns to go, but I reach out and catch her wrist before she can escape. Her skin’s warm, soft against my fingers. She goes still, and when she looks up at me, her breath catches.
“Don’t be like that,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I make some of the strongest coffee in the South. I’d be honored to share it with you.”
She narrows her eyes. “You like to push my buttons.”
“You’re just impatient,” I offer, gesturing behind me. “Now, come have a cup or two with me.”
“Okay.”
I step aside and wave her in like a gentleman. She brushes past me and heads straight for the kitchen. I close the door behind us, trying to ignore her citrusy scent. I set Willow down, and she hides under the table.
“Choose your own mug,” I say. “It’s house rules.”
She reaches up and pulls one down, admiring it. “Wow. Are these handmade?”
“Yep. And it’s the only kind of mug anyone should ever drink coffee from. The thickness of the clay keeps the liquid warmer for longer.”
She eyes me, then looks in the cabinet, seeing several shelves of them arranged by color, shape, and size. “You’ve got a collection.”
“You could say that.” I shoot her a wink.
The coffee finishes brewing, and she pours herself a cup like she belongs here. I fill one, too, as she slides onto one of the stools. Scarlett blows on her drink, moving the steam around.
“Do you need cream?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” she admits. “But I like my first cup to be black. It jolts me awake faster.”
Willow, traitor that she is, winds around Scarlett’s ankles like she’s met her soulmate.
“Oh, hello,” Scarlett mutters as she bends down to pet her. “And who are you?”
“That’s Willow,” I explain. “The only female allowed in my bed.”
Scarlett chokes and almost spits coffee across the island.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“I just turned thirty-five in July,” I admit.
Her eyes soften. “Oh, you’re two years older than me.”
She drinks half of her mug, then stands and refills it to the top.
“You interest me, Ezra,” she says, turning toward me.
“Why?” I ask.
“I dunno, there’s just something about you.” She smiles into her mug, and for a second, there’s no snark in it. No shield, either. It’s just her and her truths, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to say something more.
Before I can ask her any questions, she moves toward the door. Scarlett doesn’t let the conversation drift any further. “As fun as this has been, I’ve got to get to work.”
“Already?”
She shrugs. “Deadlines don’t care about first impressions.”
