Page 23 of Booked on You
“It’s not a date,” I say out loud, as if that’ll stop the adrenaline spike. “It’s southern hospitality at its finest.”
I sit up, grab my voice recorder, and click it on out of habit.
I close my eyes and speak freely.
“He doesn’t look at me like a man who wants something. When his eyes meet mine, it’s like he already knows I belong to him. And I—” I pause. “I don’t know how that makes me feel.”
The recorder hums in my hand.
“He brought me a sandwich,” I add. “Wrapped in twine. What the hell kind of man does that? It’s hero energy. He said, ‘Let me take care of you,’ like he meant it.”
I click the recorder off, then click it back on.
“He’s trouble. And I’m sitting here pretending what’s going on between us is absolutely nothing. I’m trying to pretend I didn’t want more of him after he kissed me. Our tongues slid together, and I moaned against him. He’s a really good kisser. Slow and patient and full of passion.”
My throat tightens as I think about how his fingers grazed my cheek. I wait for the panic to come, knowing I could easily fall for this man, but it doesn’t.
I play back the last few minutes.
“Words from the heart,” I whisper.
I save the recording and upload it to my laptop so I don’t lose it.
The second half of the sandwich disappears over the next hour. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
I set the parchment-wrapped bundle aside, now crinkled and torn in the corners, and stare at my laptop. The screen is still glowing, cursor blinking in that impatient way it does. This time, I’m going to make it my bitch.
After an hour of reworking my dictations, the words are edited, and I’m inspired enough to keep going. With my fingers on the keys, I don’t overthink it. I just write my raw truths, knowing it’s the only thing that will save my failing career.
Hours pass without my permission. The light shifts across the floor, gold turning to blue at the edges. I lower the temperature of the air conditioner when it gets stuffy.
I glance out the window as I stretch, noticing Harry outside, plucking at the grass.
My responsibilities fade into the back of my mind, but I don’t dare forget about Ezra and how he kissed me, or the blackberries, or the sandwich. I can’t stop thinking about the look on his face when he volunteered to take care of me.
It shouldn’t matter, but no one has shown an interest in me or my career like this in a long time, not without expecting something or making it about themselves. I’ve known Ezra for three days, but I already know he isn’t like that. I’m usually good at reading people.
At seven fifteen, my alarm buzzes, pulling me out of my writing trance. My heart stutters with anticipation, knowing I’m having dinner with Ezra in fifteen minutes.
I stand, and my back pops from sitting too long. My legs feel like they belong to someone else. I should’ve taken a break earlier. I should’ve maybe spent the last hour not lost in the emotional climax of chapter seven, but here we are. The sun’s already disappearing on the horizon. The furniture in the cottage casts shadows in the warm light.
I walk over to my suitcase and open it, sorting through the clothes I packed.
“This isn’t a date,” I remind myself, rifling through the options. “It’s just food. He probably invites every woman who rents his cottage to dinner.”
I pause, holding up a blouse I packed for a night on the town. It’s somewhat sheer in the right light and has always made me feel pretty. I pull it on, along with a pair of relaxed jeans that sit low on my hips. I add some mascara and lip stain. Every move is calculated to look effortless. When I check myself in the mirror, I almost hate how much I care.
“I’m going to eat, then leave. One hour max,” I say.
The moment I slip on my flats and catch my reflection, I know that’s a lie.
The path to the main house isn’t long, but tonight it feels like it’s ten city blocks away.
Somewhere in the trees, cicadas buzz. I wipe my palms on my jeans and keep walking forward.
This morning, when I came for coffee, it didn’t feel like this. There wasn’t a pit in my stomach or a voice in my head whispering not to mess this up.
Now I’m wearing red stain on my lips and pressing them together like I want to feel his mouth on mine again.
