Page 5 of Booked on You
“Whatever you say.” I snatch my suitcase from him before he can finish the threat.
The porch steps creak beneath my shoes as I make my way down toward the stone path. Flowers climb up the latticework. The walkway is overgrown with wild blooms as the moon hangs low in the sky.
I stop and take it in, admiring how beautiful it is.
“Wow,” I whisper.
Before I can continue my appreciation, I feel something sting my ankle. It’s followed by pain on the back of my arm and my neck.
That’s when I hear the buzzing and realize there are mosquitoes everywhere.
“Oh my God,” I yell, flailing like I’m on fire. “What the hell? Ouch!”
I drop the suitcase handle and spin in place, swatting around. My cardigan slips from my hand and lands on the stone sidewalk.
“Ugh!” I shout. “This is awful!”
Laughter echoes from behind me.
I whip around and see Ezra leaning against the back porch, arms crossed over his chest like he’s watching his favorite show.
“If you had let me finish,” he calls out, amused, “I would’ve told you that you’ll attract skeeters. Your warmth and sweat are bait. I’ll make sure to light some citronella candles for you for the rest of your ten-day stay.”
I swat at my legs. My hair is stuck to the back of my neck, arms red from the bites. “Is it always like this?”
He shrugs. “In late summer? Yup.”
I snatch my suitcase and march toward the cottage without another word, only shit talking under my breath.
“Welcome to the South, city girl,” he says, smirking as I disappear farther down the cobblestoned path.
I should be angry. I should be mortified, too. But somewhere under the bites and the banter, I feel something else buzzing. And I can’t blame the mosquitoes.
CHAPTER 2
EZRA
After meeting Scarlett, I climb the stairs to the third story to finish picking up my mess from working all day. The heat over the past week has been relentless. By mid-August, the tower room that doubles as my studio turns into a kiln. But I love the sea view and the vibes, especially in the early mornings and late evenings. I enjoy watching the boats float across the sparkling water as the sun sets. This is the only space in the house that still whispers ideas to me and keeps me inspired.
Sweat beads along my spine and trickles down the middle of my back, but I ignore it. My mother always said a clean workspace inspires creativity. Organizing and picking up after every session is a habit I’ve maintained over the years.
I take the stairs down to the bathroom and step into the shower. I close my eyes and rinse off the layers of dried sweat that come with living on the coast. The cool water shocks me back into my body as I rest my palm against the tiled wall.
Right now, the only thing on my mind is that city girl with her snarky little attitude. I sigh, pushing those thoughts to the side as I grab the soap and wash away the day.
I don’t remember the last time a woman intrigued me so quickly. Maybe never.
Twenty minutes later, I turn off the water, then dry myself and wrap the towel around my waist. I walk into my bedroom and glance out the large windows, only to catch a glimpse of movement down below in the cotton candy pink cottage. It’s an open-concept cabin with a bed, a small living room, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom with a toilet and a shower.
My mother was eccentric, and every inch of this property is a representation of her. When I was in grade school, everyone knew I lived in the Barbie house. It didn’t bother me, though. There’s no way I could ever change a thing about it. Some days it feels like the only thing I have left of her.
I lean closer, pushing back the sheer curtain with two fingers. There she is, pacing in front of the desk. She appears to be chatting with someone, but she’s not holding a cell phone. No, it looks like a recording device.
My eyes trail down her long legs that go on forever. She’s dressed in clothes most would wear in the fall, and that tells me she has no idea what humidity is.
City girl.No question about it.
I can’t stop thinking about her high cheekbones and big green eyes with long, curling lashes.
