Page 4 of Booked on You
“You’re lying.”
“Okay. Call my bluff.”
I sigh and lift my arm, gesturing toward the door. He chuckles and lifts my suitcase off the ground and onto his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
“Now you’re just showing off,” I say, mostly out of reflex.
He smirks again. “What the hell do you have in here? Bowling balls?”
“Books. Lots of them. Sometimes I like to thumb through the classics while I let ideas percolate.”
He carries the case toward the kitchen like it’s full of feathers. “Artists are weird creatures, aren’t they?”
There’s something about the way he says it, but I can’t put my finger on it.
He sets the luggage down in the middle of an aesthetically pleasing, country yellow kitchen with tall cabinets that stretch toward the high ceilings. The shelving is open, and I want to rub my hand across the stained butcher block counters. The whole place screams artisan. My eyes scan over him as he leans against the counter like he’s part of the decor.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a writer,” he says.
I cross my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean? Do writers look a certain way?”
He gives me the kind of once-over that almost makes me weak in the knees.
“You look like you teach yoga on the weekends.”
I blink. “That’s oddly flattering and insulting all at once. I do yoga several times per week.”
“Writers usually seem…” He waves a hand in the air. “More tortured. Mysterious.”
“Oh, I’m both tortured and mysterious. Just very good at hiding it,” I deadpan.
He laughs, a real one, and I hate how much I like the sound of the deep rumble.
“Can we please skip this?” I wave my hand around and realize I’m being dramatic. “I’m an introvert, and this is really hard for me,” I explain, keeping my voice level. “Plus, I’m tired. I smell like recycled airplane air, and I have approximately sevenpercent of my energy left. I’d really like to spend it on a hot shower, then go to sleep.”
He pushes off the counter. “Were you an only child?”
My mouth falls open. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Ahh. You were. That explains a lot.” Ezra’s brow lifts.
“I never said I was or wasn’t.”
He smiles. “The only child never answers. If you had siblings, you’d have mentioned it as soon as I asked. Scarlett, the only child. I bet you were spoiled.” He looks me up and down.
I press my lips together. “You’re absolutely unbearable.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. I try.”
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
“But you could be.” He pulls the key from his pocket and holds it toward me. “You’re gonna regret skipping this conversation.”
It finally drops into my palm.
“But suit yourself.”
He pushes open the back door, pointing toward the walkway leading around the side of the house. “The guesthouse is just down there. Watch your step. And, uh…” He grins again. “Don’t make eye contact with Harry, or else…”
