Page 20 of Booked on You
It feels final, but my feet don’t move. Not right away, at least.
I head toward the house, but I’m not focused on anything.
She’s still in my head—barefoot, walking the stone path while mumbling into that little recorder like she’s chasing something urgent.
I know the signs well enough to recognize she’s under too much stress. It’s the jittery pacing, the dry coffee cup, the short temper, and the second skipped meal.
I’ve lived that day a hundred times as deadlines loom in the distance like storm clouds.
When I’m back in the kitchen, I open the fridge even though I’m not hungry, and I think about Scarlett. I ate lunch, but did she?
There’s a fresh loaf of sourdough from my aunt’s bakery on the counter, and I cut two thick slices of it. I take out some turkey and spread a thin layer of hot mustard for a culinary kick. I build the sandwich without thinking, wrap it in parchment, and grab one of the cotton napkins from the drawer that looks too nice to use, but I do anyway. I tie it closed with twine because my hands want something to do, and maybe because it’ll make her smile.She seems like the type of woman who pays attention to detail and notices small things.
Ten minutes later, I knock on her door.
She opens it, her hair messier than before, cheeks pink from concentration. A pen is tucked behind her ear, and her eyes flick between me and the bundle in my hands.
“I didn’t order anything,” she says, but there’s a curve at the corner of her mouth.
“You look like someone who forgot to eat lunch,” I say. “I do it, too, when I’m in the zone.”
Her expression shifts, like she wasn’t expecting to be so transparent today.
She takes the sandwich with both hands. Her thumb brushes the edge of the napkin.
“You made this for me?”
I nod. “Of course. Let me take care of you while you work.”
Her mouth quirks. “If you don’t stop…”
“Just being myself.” I almost said something more meaningful. Almost. But she looks at me with soft eyes, and I forget to speak.
“Well,” she says, adding, “thank you. I did forget to eat.”
She glances down at the sandwich, then back at me.
“You know, if you keep doing things like this, you might need to update your listing to a bed-and-breakfast and charge more.”
I lift a brow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She presses a hand to the doorframe and leans forward, her voice lower now. “Seriously. Thanks, Ezra. I tend to lose track of time.”
I nod. “Set an alarm.”
She laughs under her breath. “I’ve tried that. I snooze it every time.”
“You’re that stubborn?” I ask.
“Ten out of ten,” she admits. “I owe you one.”
“You don’t,” I say. “Now, back to work.”
“You’re going to make this fun for me,” she says.
“Oh, babe, you have no idea.”
And this time, when she closes the door, it’s gentle.
