Page 89 of Booked on You
The sky fades into shades of deep lavender and soft navy. The touch of coolness in the air causes goose bumps to trail down my arm.
Excitement races through me, but it quickly turns into fear when I see Harry.
I immediately look away, refusing to look him in the eye as I whisper under my breath, “Good boy.”
But it’s not enough.
Moments later, Harry sprints as fast as he can toward me, beak cocked forward.
“Bad chicken!” I scream as he continues to trot in my direction. I take off running toward the porch, but he’s just as fast. I nearly trip on the uneven stones of the path and rush up the steps. Thankfully, I slide inside, then look at him from the back door window. Harry is pacing on the porch, staring at me with his head tilted. With my hand over my heart, I try to catch my breath.
“I didn’t look you in the eye,” I say between clenched teeth, tempted to flip him off.
I turn and see that the lights are lowered in the house. A lamp is on in the living room, and the light above the oven is glowing bright. I look around the space, knowing Ezra has always been here; this is his home. I move down the hallway and up the stairs, passing the second floor, and moving up to the top. The higher I go, the warmer the air grows.
Light spills from the open doorway ahead, and I move toward it, mesmerized, knowing Ezra is waiting for me on the other side.
I pause at the entrance, pulse quickening. My breath catches as I step inside, and my eyes widen.
Ezra sits in front of a pottery wheel, shirtless, with droplets of sweat dripping down his back. Strong, skilled hands shape a lump of wet clay. His hair falls forward, brushing his forehead, eyes focused as he works. Everything clicks instantly into place—the mugs, the bowls, the plates—all handmade by him.
Ezra is the pottery artist.
“No way,” I whisper, barely audible, completely captivated by him.
His gaze flicks toward me over his shoulder. Blue eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us. A shy, almost nervous smile forms on his lips.
All I can do is stare.
My heart pounds in my chest, and my body immediately responds to the sight of his hands shaping the clay. Hands I’ve imagined on me countless times. Hands that have touched me in my most sensitive places.
“The entire time.” I breathe out, mesmerized. “It was you the entire time.”
He nods, watching me. “Yeah. It was me.”
I move toward him, and the thin fabric of the dress brushes over my thighs, reminding me exactly how little I’m wearing.Ezra’s gaze dips downward, then back up to my eyes. He shifts slightly, turning his body toward me.
“I’m your biggest fan.” I blink down at him.
“What a coincidence,” he mutters, making sure not to touch me with his clay-streaked hands.
He remains seated at the wheel but reaches for a cloth, wiping the damp clay from his fingertips without breaking our gaze. The room feels smaller, somehow. I instantly feel like Alice in Wonderland, who chased the White Rabbit to the end.
“You didn’t tell me,” I say, eyes sliding along the contours of his bare chest, noting how the muscles of his shoulders tense when I touch him. It makes my pulse quicken, too.
“Would it have made a difference?” His voice is cautious. There’s vulnerability beneath his confidence, and I find it so damn sexy.
“No. But it’s incredibly attractive.” I reach out, running my fingertips along the edge of the pottery wheel, feeling the slickness of water and clay that has been left behind.
Ezra chuckles, a deep sound that I want to hear more of. “Yeah?”
I reach forward to touch the stubble on his jaw. “That’s why you understood me. Because you’re an artist, too.”
“Guilty.” His gaze drops to my lips. “You know, most people can’t materialize their ideas? Being able to create, to make something that you can hold in your hands, is a superpower, Scarlett.”
“Hell yes, it is,” I whisper.
“Come here. Let me show you how,” he says, grabbing the hand I’ve stroked against the clay and rubbing his thumb on the inside of my palm. Ezra guides me to stand between his legs. His hands move down to my waist, steadying me, thumbs pressing into my hips.
