Page 2 of Booked on You
As the car pulls away, I drag my suitcase toward the front porch while taking in the swing, the overflowing flower boxes, and the crickets chirping. It’s dreamy.
I pause at the bottom step, then lift my suitcase to the top. After I wipe my palm on my leggings, I press the doorbell that conveniently has a camera in it. I glance away, knowing I’m being recorded.
A ten-day retreat here is all I need. I have a week and a half to clear my head, avoid distractions, and finish this damn bookbefore I lose my entire writing career. If my publisher drops me, it’s over.
A minute later, the front door swings open.
When my eyes land on his baby blues, I forget how to breathe.
He’s unapologetically shirtless. Jeans hang low, hugging his hips like they were made for him. His skin glistens in the heat—either from a recent shower or from doing something physical. It could go either way.
His dark hair is damp and messy, like he ran a hand through it but didn’t bother to check a mirror. Dark scruff lines his chiseled jaw, and I can’t help but notice how his lips are perfectly plump. The bottom one dips in the middle.
My gaze continues to slide down his body, to the deep V that disappears into dark-washed jeans that should come with a warning label.
I take one step back, because I wasn’t expecting him.
He’s tatted down his shoulder to his wrist on one arm. My eyes focus on his big hands, and I know I probably shouldn’t be looking at them so closely. Basically, if he were a “bad boy” Pinterest board, he’d be titled “Bad Decisions and Southern Regret.”
“Can I help you?” He clears his throat. “Or do you plan on standing there and staring at me for the rest of the evening? You’re welcome to take a picture if you’d like, but the tip jar is inside.” His voice is low and scratchy, like he just woke up or hasn’t spoken aloud all day.
There’s a faint southern twang threaded through his words, and I find it so damn adorable, I can barely contain myself.
“You must be Ezra Reed,” I say, remembering the owner’s name from the rental contract I signed.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
I snap my eyes up to his face, mortified that I’d gotten lost in my thoughts.
His mouth curves into a lazy smirk. “Ma’am?”
“Don’t call me ma’am,” I say, straightening my spine. “My name is Scarlett Collins. I rented your cozy cottage.”
I motion vaguely toward the backyard, heat crawling up my neck. I need to escape him while I try to remember how to form words. “Booked your place through the rental app. We’ve been messaging one another for a week, and you’ve answered my questions about accommodations.”
He rubs a hand along his jaw and tilts his head like he’s trying to place me. “Scarlett. Oh, yes. Right. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Great,” I say, not feeling an ounce of relief. “Here I am.”
“Just didn’t peg you for a Scarlett. You look more like a Jessica or a Rachel. Scarlett is too…sophisticated.”
I exhale through my nose. “Are you trying to offend me?”
He grins, and I hate that his smile is so perfect. “When you scrunch your nose like that, it’s really cute,” he tells me.
My brow twitches. “Cute? I’m not eight.”
He chuckles. “I do appreciate a feisty woman.”
I blink at him. “Can we please stop with this.”
“With what?”
I tilt my head at him. “You’re flirting. That’s unprofessional.”
“Nah.” He steps aside and gestures toward the inside like he’s hosting an open house. “It’s not flirting. It’s what I like to call southern hospitality. Now, come on in. I can give you a tour.”
I don’t move forward. “I just want the key to the cottage. A shower. And a quiet space away from people, like you promised in your listing. I signed up for a secluded southern oasis.”
