Page 27 of Booked on You
“You’re right, but I don’t give two shits about your exes unless you’re still seeing them,” I tell her.
She studies me. “I never go back once I’ve writtenThe End, not on books or relationships. I personally don’t believe in second chances after someone cheats.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with a lowered voice. “Also,fuck him.”
“Yeah. But I’m glad it happened before I married him.” She pauses. “I wouldn’t have this moment with you if he didn’t screw around.”
Scarlett lifts her glass, and I lift mine; wetinkthe edges together and then drink. I notice how she chugs a little faster.
I’m curious, but I’m also patient, even if she’s leaving in a week. I don’t want her to leave yet. Not when we’re tearing down each other’s walls, brick by brick.
Scarlett clears her plate, which is the best compliment she could ever give me. “To answer your question, I wanted to be an author from the moment I could write sentences. My parents used to take me to the bookstore, and I’d dream about my words living inside there,” she says, smiling like she’s reminiscing.
“Seems like you made your dreams come true,” I say, completely fucking enamored by her. “Not everyone can make money from their art. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“It is. I’ve worked hard, but I also know how lucky I am. I don’t take a day of it for granted, even though some people might say I do.” She sighs. “Enough about me. What did you want to be when you grew up?”
“A husband. A dad,” I say without missing a beat. “And strangely, a corn farmer. Their tractors are cool as fuck.”
She snorts and blinks up at me. “Really? About the husband thing?”
“Really.I wanted to get married before I turned thirty and have several kids before thirty-five. Providing and protecting is my kink, Scarlett.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine, but I see her growing flustered. “What did you put in that chicken?”
I lick my lips. “Mm. Your cheeks are red.”
She places her hands on them. “We can thank the wine for that.”
“Ah,” I say, seeing how her breathing slightly increases.
After both of our plates are empty, I stand, and so does she.
“I’ve got this,” I tell her.
“Let me help you,” she nearly begs. “Please. You cooked.”
I allow it, even if I’d usually insist. She needs this, and I’ll let her have it. Scarlett rinses the dishes in the sink as I put the rest of the food in the fridge. I try not to touch her when I move past, but fail when I reach over, and our arms brush together. Being with her like this is comfortable in a way that almost catches me off guard.
She glances out the window. “Do you ever light the firepit?”
“Sometimes,” I say, standing beside her as I look out toward it. Overhead, the string lights are still hanging, but I haven’t turned them on in months. “The mood usually has to be right.”
“Is it now?”
“Yeah.” I lift my hand and brush it against her cheek. “I think it is.”
I smile, then break away from her, grabbing some matches from my junk drawer close to the door. Scarlett follows me outside and sits in one of the Adirondack chairs. I stack the kindling in a tight pyramid with the center open and strike a match. Seconds later, the dry wood catches and the flame crackles to life, eating straight through the dry cedar. I move my chair close enough for our knees to touch, and then I sit.
“You’re good at this,” she says, noticing.
“I’m actually rusty.”
We’re angled toward the fire like it might explain what’s going on between us.
Scarlett removes her shoes and wiggles her toes.
“I can’t explain this feeling,” I say, staring at the fire. “You know what I’m talking about.”
