Page 26 of Booked on You
“Wordsarepowerful,” she agrees.
“You should know, Miss Romance Author.”
A grin that I can’t stop staring at touches her pouty lips.
“I’m slowly starting to remember that,” she says.
“I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to expect a well-written review of my cottage.” I shoot her a wink.
“So far, five out of five.” She chuckles, and I like the sound of it. “But then again, I can’t gush too much, or the people who stalk me will rent the cottage until the end of time, and I’ll never be able to stay here again.”
“Ah,” I say. “I’d clear the schedule for you.”
Scarlett smirks. “You really should stop.”
“Stop what?” I ask, playing dumb. I’ll flirt with her as much as I want.
“You know what.”
Silence takes over as we eat, but it’s comfortable.
“You know, I’m wildly impressed. Most of the men I know can’t even prepare toast,” she explains.
“Apologies,” I mutter. “They don’t sound like men. Sounds like boys who suck.”
“Now that I think about it…they are.” She stabs a potato and pops it in her mouth. Her shoulders relax as she settles into her seat. The sound of forks and knives on ceramic fills the brief silence. “Thanks for this, Ezra. I can’t recall the last time I had a home-cooked dinner.”
“You’re welcome. Millie always says a shared meal soothes the soul.”
“She sounds like a smart woman,” Scarlett says.
“Oh, she is. A complete handful. Always prying and bothering me, especially after my mom passed away.”
I don’t know why I shared that. Maybe because I want her to know.
Scarlett swallows, blinking up at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s okay. I forget not everyone knows my entire life story.”
She gives me a small smile. “That’s the most relatable thing you’ve said since I’ve arrived.”
The air shifts between us, and I can’t pretend this time with her doesn’t matter to me. It feels like a new beginning of sorts.
Scarlett licks Alfredo sauce off her thumb like she knows it’ll kill me. Carefully, she cuts the asparagus into slices as I pick one up with my fingers and eat it. Utensils aren’t always required in my kitchen.
“Are you an only child?” She swipes her chicken around the plate, not missing a drop of sauce.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Fun fact. I actually grew up in this very house.”
“Really?” she asks, looking around like she’s seeing it for the first time. “I bet it was incredible living here. Lots of places to play hide-and-seek.”
“It was great, but lonely,” I continue. “Did you feel that way being an only child? Like you missed out on life experiences?”
She meets my eyes. “Not really. I had many cousins my age who would often stay at my house, especially during the summers. My parents were great; they always planned vacations and activities for us to do together. I never felt lonely as a kid, but I was a loner. I wanted to write in my diary about my fictional life without interruptions and read dirty romance books nonstop. The real loneliness set in for me when I became an adult and chose the wrong men to be with.” She leans back in her chair and drinks more wine. “I don’t know why I shared that,” she mutters.
“Because you wanted to. So, you’ve always wanted to be a writer?” I ask, needing to change the subject away from anything too deep.
“That’s not the question you wanted to ask,” she says.
