Page 17 of Booked on You
You’re getting ahead of yourself, babe. Write your book. Have some adult fun. Then tell me all about it.
I drop the phone beside me and groan, then start writing.
Sunlight spills in through the window like honey, painting the pink room’s wooden floors in a dreamy gold.
My mug sits on the table, empty. I pick it up, running my fingers along the edge, tracing the curve where the glaze pools near the base. There’s something remarkable about this color and the way it fits in my hand, like it was made for me.
I stand and stretch, needing to shake this feeling away.
I move to the wall of windows that look out over the backyard. The path that leads to the main house is barely visible through the ivy. I don’t see Ezra, but I think about him.
Honestly, I can’t stop thinking about how he looked like he couldn’t decide whether to tease me or live in the moment with me. He held my mug and turned it over in his hands, as if hewere impressed that I had chosen that one. He meant it when he said it was a good one, and considering he has a cabinet full, he’d know. Ezra is a Paris Pottery connoisseur.
I didn’t come here to connect or open up to anyone or feel anything. I came here to finish this fucking book about love and happily ever after, to prove to myself that I could, even if I don’t believe in those things anymore. This project has been the elephant on my back for far too long, and I can’t avoid it any longer.
For the first time in years, the idea of writing feels less like failure and more like a new beginning.
Outside, the wind rustles through the trees. A bird calls out once but then goes quiet again. In the distance, a screen door bangs shut. It’s so ordinary, but it’s evidence that life is happening around me.
Right now, I want to write more. Not because I have to, even though I do, but rather because today reminded me that Istill have it in me.And finding my confidence is enough, at least for now. I have one week to finish this book. The pressure is on.
CHAPTER 6
EZRA
After lunch, I rinse out Willow’s food bowl and set it on the floor. The ceramic clatters against the tile, and I realize how quiet it is in this big house. I turn on one of my playlists on my phone to fill the silence.
When I was a child, this house was filled with music, laughter, and love. Mom loved her garden, pottery, holidays, and me more than anything else in life. She taught me how to be a man and how to be compassionate. My mother treated every day as if it were a treasure. Life without her has been hard, and the world is much dimmer without her smile or the sound of her laughter. Her loss shook the world, but no one felt it more than I did.
That’s not entirely true. My aunt Millie was just as upset. The two of them, sisters only one year apart in age, were thick as thieves until the very end.
Fuck cancer.
Years have passed, and some days are harder than others.
Today, my mom is on my mind.
I grab the container of kitty beef jerky and shake it. “Treats! Willow!”
I wait to hear the bell around her neck jingle, but it doesn’t. She’ll find them when she comes in here to scavenge later. If I had to guess, she’s upstairs in the window, watching the birds in the tree, soaking up the sunshine.
As I set the container back on the counter, I notice movement flickering outside the kitchen window, just past the hedges.
Scarlett.
She’s barefoot and walks the stone path between the cottage and the house. Loose pants swish at her ankles. She’s holding her new gray mug in one hand and a small voice recorder in the other, talking into it with a look that’s all focus and no hesitation.
I lean forward, hoping I can hear better what she’s saying.
“New line,” she mutters. “Start with him at the door—more tension there. Make it needy.”
Her sunglasses cover half her face, but I can still see the crease between her brows and the concentration in her mouth.
She’s hyper-focused on the task at hand. She talks faster, like the scene won’t wait, like the words will vanish if she doesn’t say them mid-thought. Her voice drifts through the open window in pieces—some dialogue, a few notes for herself, one long pause followed by an exhale.
“God, that’s good,” she says, loud enough for me to hear.
She lifts the mug to her lips as she passes the window, then disappears down the path.
