Page 101 of Booked on You
My phone immediately rings.
“Tell me,” she says, her voice bright and teasing.
“Do you have your laptop close by?” I ask.
“Actually, yes, I do,” she says.
“Okay, type in Ezra Reed. R-E-E-D,” I say.
I hear her keys clicking.
There’s a beat of silence, then she lets out a gasp. “Holy shit, Scarlett.”
“I know,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my forehead. “Trust me, I know.”
“No, seriously—holy actual shit,” she repeats, voice full of excitement. “This is the Ezra you’ve been casually spending time with?ThisEzra?”
I groan. “Yeah. Apparently.”
“Girl, he’s a big deal. Did you see his follower count? Millions, Scarlett. Literal millions,” she whispers dramatically, as if someone might overhear.
“I saw,” I reply.
She gasps again, higher-pitched this time. “Ryder freaking Reed is his dad? Midnight Riot Ryder Reed? Are you kidding me? How did you not know this before now? He looks exactly like him!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache approaching. “Because clearly, I’ve been living under a rock. And I haven’t exactly been in a state of mind to pay attention to anything except finishing this damn book.”
There’s a pause as keys clatter again. “He was engaged? Oh my God. Who’s this Sara woman? She’s gorgeous. What happened?”
“She wanted him to stop making pottery,” I admit, my voice dropping lower.
“Skank, hate her already.”
Laughter escapes me. “She showed up at his house this morning.”
“She did not!” she says. “Why? They broke up years ago. Like, get over it.”
“She was bringing him donuts,” I say flatly. “At seven in the morning. Like it’s a totally normal thing to do.”
“Do you think she heard about you?” Hallie asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, relieved that someone else understands the absurdity of the entire situation. “She asked him if he was going to marry me.”
She hums thoughtfully. “And what did he say?”
“Possibly,” I whisper.
Hallie squeals so loud that I have to pull the receiver away and put her on speakerphone. She’s busy typing and clicking.
“He seems complicated, especially with the millions of followers he has, a famous rock star dad, and a beautiful ex-fiancée who’s not over him. There are pages upon pages about him, Scarlett. He has his own fan club. I just want you to make sure you can handle this.”
“Complicated is my type,” I admit.
“True story.” Her tone softens. “From everything I see, he’s your type. Deep, creative, intensely private, stupidly attractive. He’s you in male form.”
I release a breath, feeling strangely comforted. “I thought the same thing.”
“Well then,” she declares. “Go claim that pottery prince, girlie. Complicated might just be exactly what you both need. And at least you know he can handle your readers.”
