Page 137 of Booked on You
“Starving,” she tells me.
I stand and hold out my hand. “Come on.”
In the kitchen, I grab some fresh eggs and bread while she sits at the counter watching me. The morning light comes through the windows and makes everything feel softer somehow, like we’re existing in a bubble separate from the rest of the world.
“What are you making?” she asks.
“French toast. My mom’s recipe.” I crack the eggs into a bowl and add cinnamon and vanilla. “She used to make it every Sunday.”
“Tell me about her,” Scarlett says quietly.
I pause with the whisk in my hand because most people don’t ask. They offer condolences and change the subject, but Scarlett leans forward with genuine interest in her eyes.
“Mom was stubborn as hell,” I say with a smile. “Refused to let me quit pottery even when I wanted to in high school. Said I had a gift and it would be a waste not to use it.” I dip the bread in the egg mixture. “She started the charity gala to give other artists the same opportunities I had.”
“You are so lucky to have had her.”
“I was.” I place the bread in the hot pan, and it sizzles. “Between her and Millie, I never got away with anything.”
Scarlett’s eyes get bright. “Oh, I can imagine.”
“Mom always had a thing about finding genuine people and latching on to them. Said life was too short for fake relationships and bad coffee.” I flip the toast.
“Smart woman.”
After I plate our French toast and dust it with powdered sugar, I carry it to the table. Scarlett follows me and sits, drowning hers with maple syrup. She takes a bite and closes her eyes.
“Ezra. Wow,” she says. “This is incredible.”
“The secret is the vanilla.” I shoot her a wink.
We eat in comfortable silence, and I watch her savor every bite. When we’re finished, she carries our plates to the sink. She turns to me, and there’s something in her eyes that makes my heart race.
“What?” I ask with a chuckle.
“I just want to remember this,” she whispers. “Right here. Right now.”
I move to her, cupping her face, and kissing her slowly. She makes this small sound against my mouth, and my whole body responds. When we break apart, neither of us speaks before our mouths are crashing together again.
We barely make it to the living room. Clothes come off in a trail down the hallway, and she pushes me back on the couch. Seconds later, she’s straddling me and we’re moving together with an urgency that wasn’t there last night. This feels desperate, like we’re both trying to hold on to something that’s slipping away.
The orgasms overtake us, and she collapses against my chest. Our bodies are sticky with sweat, and I hold her tight as we catch our breath. The clock on the wall ticks too loud.
“I should probably get ready,” she finally says.
“Yeah.”
She showers and changes into some jeans and a T-shirt before packing the last few things in her bag.
At twelve thirty, I grab her suitcase and carry it to the truck. It’s heavier than I expected, but then I remember she travels with a suitcase of classic novels. The thought makes me laugh.
The drive to the airport feels like it takes only seconds and too many hours, all at the same time. I keep my eyes on the road because if I look at her, I might pull over and beg her not to go. My hands grip the steering wheel, so my shoulders ache from the tension.
“Thank you for everything,” she says. “For showing me Charleston. For introducing me to your friends. You’ve healed me, Ezra.”
“You healed a part of me, too.” I glance at her and have to look away.
She reaches for me and takes my hand. “I’m going to miss you.”
