Page 106 of Booked on You
“Exposed,” Scarlett finishes.
“Yes.”
She offers a small grin. “I get it. After everything, the thought of stepping out there again makes you feel like everyone’s waiting for you to fail or fall apart.”
I breathe easier, knowing how deeply she understands me without having to explain much.
Scarlett holds my gaze. “But this is your moment, your art, and your life and legacy. Nobody gets to decide what this means but you.”
I absorb her words. “Easier said than done.”
“Of course it is,” she says. “But you have something you didn’t have last time.”
I lift an eyebrow, amused. “And what’s that?”
Scarlett rises onto her tiptoes, brushing her lips across mine, her voice a whisper. “Strength.”
I grin against her mouth, savoring the taste of her kiss. “Explain.”
She pulls away from me, eyes fluttering open. “You lost it all, Ezra. Your mother. Your fiancée. And even after all of that, you’re still extremely successful and well-loved. At this point, your story is about what you went through and how you survived that through your art and because of it. You chose to keep creating when so many people quit after a loss so devastating as that. It’s…” She swallows hard. “Powerful. Inspiring. You should be really fucking proud for taking care of yourself during that time.”
She makes me smile.
“There it is,” she whispers.
“What?” I ask.
“Your sparkle,” she tells me. “I’ll support you with whatever you need. I even have a remedy if you want to throw up before the interview.”
I lick my lips, tucking strands of her damp hair behind her ear. “I’m so lucky to have you in my life.”
“I’m the lucky one.” Her hands rest against my chest, her lips curving against mine. The worries about media and exposure drift away, replaced by certainty about the woman standing with me in my kitchen.
After I put up the leftovers, Scarlett sighs. “I’m not ready for the night to end yet.”
I grin. “Back porch?”
She nods. “Can we bring more wine?”
“I’ll grab the bottle,” I say, snatching up the container and interlocking her fingers with mine. I lead her through the kitchen toward the back porch.
As soon as we walk outside, the briskness of the air raises goose bumps on my arms.
“Oh, this is firepit weather,” Scarlett says, playfully shivering.
“I was just thinking that,” I tell her, leading her off the porch toward the Adirondack chairs.
Scarlett breathes deeply as she watches me stack the fresh wood I cut the other day.
It’s peaceful, and for a moment, the world feels far away—no media, no pressure, no looming questions. I light the fire, and the wood immediately catches. I sit and pull Scarlett onto my lap. I lean back and take her with me, holding her as we stare at the flames, listening to the crackle. Right now, it’s only me and her, sitting quietly together, feeling completely and utterly understood. We pass the wine bottle back and forth until it’s empty.
Scarlett’s breathing evens out as we watch the flames rise, the warmth of the fire chasing the chill from the night. I rest my chin against her shoulder and inhale the scent of her hair, clean and sweet. Her fingertips trace circles along the back of my hand, and it settles something restless in me.
“Tell me something,” Scarlett says, her voice quiet but clear above the crackling logs.
“Anything,” I say, nibbling on her ear.
She turns slightly, gazing at me. “Do you ever think about how close we might’ve come to never meeting? The odds are astronomical.”
