Page 42 of Booked on You
Don’t get me wrong, I have a therapist whom I pay a lot of money for her services. But writing is different. It heals me in ways nothing else can. I know someone out there can relate. Love and falling in love used to be the core of my stories, but there’s more to it now than just a happily ever after. I’m enjoying the journey.
Will Helena and Jordan get their happily ever after? Yes. But I’m not sure how they get there yet. I’m waiting for my characters to tell me.
I climb into bed and pull the blanket up to my chin. It smells like the detergent Ezra washes his clothes in. I close my eyes, inhaling them, focusing on how cold the pillow is against my cheek.
I think about the little details in the cottage. The vase of fresh flowers he left on the table. The French press with locally roasted coffee. The vanilla candle on the bathroom counter. The kitchen was even stocked with food that’s easy to make. Ezra made sure I was comfortable. He’s the perfect host.
My eyes grow heavy as the ceiling fan spins above me.
My phone buzzes once on the desk where I left it. I let it sit there, screen glowing faintly with a notification I’ll deal with when I wake up. Outside, the tree limbs blow in the breeze, allowing the last sliver of sunlight to enter. It cuts across the floor and catches the edge of the bed.
I replay Ezra looking at me like I was a person worth remembering. No man’s gaze has ever made me feel like I matter, until him.
This time, as I drift off, I don’t think about deadlines, my shitty ex, or my potential failures.
I dream about Ezra.
CHAPTER 12
EZRA
The sunset is releasing that end-of-day warmth that makes the garden look like something out of a dream. The sun slips down behind the live oaks. Every branch, flower, and uneven stone looks like it’s been dipped in firelight. It’s gorgeous.
For the past hour, I’ve been checking the cottage to see if there’s a flicker of the lamp through the curtain. So far, there’s been no movement.
Scarlett must’ve fallen asleep. She’s been working her ass off lately, so she needs her rest, but I selfishly want to have dinner with her.
Did she eat anything other than the toast I prepared for her earlier? I hope so.
I stare so hard, like I can summon her awake with my Jedi mind tricks, but it doesn’t happen.
It’s not lost on me that today is over, which means I have only five more days with her.Five.It’s not enough time.
Scarlett told me she stayed up late writing and was happy to announce that the words were pouring out of her. I knew she’d crash hard, considering she was up at six. The bodyalwayscatches up to the mind. I imagine her curled up in a comforter, covered by dreams.
I stay where I am, pressing my knuckles to the pane like they might steady something in me. I don’t know why I keep checking for her. I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
That’s not true.
I head downstairs because I need to keep my mind busy.
Willow lifts her head as I pass through the living room, then flops back down with disinterest, like she’s bored.
In the kitchen, I make a cup of tea. The smell of the Earl Grey calms me. I add a spoonful of honey and stir. The warmth grounds me for a second, but it doesn’t last. I pull my phone from my pocket, flipping through my apps, already knowing what I’m going to do, aware that I shouldn’t.
I go to the web browser and type her name.
Scarlett Collins, author.
The results come fast. I’m served up photos, bios, and book covers with her name across them in bold sans serif fonts. I come across a dust jacket photo from a decade ago. She’s younger, eyes softer, lips parted like she’s about to say something clever but hasn’t quite decided how vulnerable she wants to be. There’s a confidence in her posture I recognize. Fucking fearless.
There’s a link for a podcast interview from three years ago, and an old write-up inThe Timeswith the headline:The Voice of Modern Romance Takes Us On An Emotional Roller Coaster You Might Not Survive.
Damn.
I click into an excerpt from the article and scan it. It discusses her last book reaching the number one spot onTheNew York TimesBest Seller list,The Sunday Times, andUSA Todayin its first week of release. There are full write-ups about movie options and major motion pictures being produced with A-list actors. Readers have her words tattooed on their bodies. Thereare articles speculating about why she hasn’t released her sequel. There’s a photo embedded in the middle with a quote from an interview she gave.
“Creating art isn’t an escape from life. It is life. Every book I write has pieces of myself inside. I share my most vulnerable thoughts with strangers, hoping someone can relate.”
