Page 1 of Booked on You
CHAPTER 1
SCARLETT
The plane jerks hard to the right, rattling like it might fall apart midair. My stomach flips. I grip the armrest without thinking, only to realize it’s already occupied by the man next to me.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, pulling my hand back like I’ve touched something hot.
The older gentleman just smiles. “It’s okay. Take it.”
“You sure?” I ask, even though he’s already moved, giving me access.
His hand now rests politely on his lap as mine clutches the plastic like it might save me from spiraling into the Atlantic. I’m not afraid of flying, but I wouldn’t say I enjoy being inside a sky tube that’s rattling in the wind.
Two and a half hours later, we finally land, and I exhale through my nose. My jaw aches from how tightly I’ve clenched it while scrolling through movies I didn’t want to watch.
The moment I step outside, the hot air smothers me. The humidity sticks to my skin like a clingy ex who still remembers my favorite Starbucks order. South Carolina isn’t playing around in August.
My leggings instantly fuse to my thighs. The oversized cardigan that was perfect for the plane is too much here. I peel it off and loop it over my arm, dragging my carry-on behind me. I’m already sweating like I’m in a hot stone sauna.
I schedule a rideshare from the airport, and in ten minutes, the driver pulls up to the curb. He loads my items in the trunk, and I slide into the back seat, where there are mini bottles of water waiting. The guy taps the steering wheel while humming along to a country song as he merges into traffic.
I stare out the window and watch the scenery change. We slip onto small-town roads, with tree canopies stretching overhead. There’s something comforting about Charleston, but then again, this place has always made me happy.
It’s theonlyreason I’m here.
As the sun begins to fade in the distance, I smile.
I successfully escaped the headlines and the pressure from a culture that believes I need to do more and be more. For the first time all year, I feel a sense of relief.
I hope this escape is exactly what I need to focus but also relax. I have ten days to finish my book for my publisher. No more extensions will be granted. Either I turn in a quality draft, or I’ll be dropped and forced to pay back my six-figure advance. My editor told me this is my last chance.
Over the past two years, I’ve written one chapter of absolute garbage, ignored most emails from my editor, asked for my due date to be pushed three times, and convinced myself that a solo retreat would magically cure my creative paralysis.
No pressure or anything.
“First time down here?” the driver finally asks, his voice thick with a southern drawl.
“No.” I blink at him. “But it’s been a long time. Almost a decade.”
He glances in the mirror. “Ahh. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
He grins. “Big-city girl running away from somethin’ and tryin’ not to melt.”
“Good guess. New York,” I admit. “Brooklyn, to be exact. The only thing I’m running from is responsibility.”
He nods like he already knew the details. “Perfect place to do that. Just remember to enjoy the slower pace and late-summer evenings.”
“I’ll try,” I tell him with a smile as we pull into the driveway of my rental.
The place is gorgeous. In front of me stands a three-story historic blush-pink house with shutters and a wraparound porch straight out of a southern magazine. A white picket fence surrounds the freshly mowed lawn. The cottage I rented is in the backyard, partially hidden behind a curtain of flowers and trees. There’s just enough distance from town for privacy, but it’s still close enough to walk to the touristy area.
As soon as I climb out of the car, I smell fresh grass mixed with the tiniest hint of sweet flowers and honeysuckle.
The driver hauls my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it to me. “Hope you have a nice stay. Don’t run too far from your responsibilities.”
“Thanks,” I tell him.
