Page 7 of Booked on You
I could play it safe and be charmingly avoidant of her for the next week and a half.
I could make sure we never run into one another again.
The truth is, though, I don’t want to do that.
I can’t ignore the way she looks at me, like she wants me. Needs me, even.
I go upstairs and grab my phone off the nightstand in my bedroom because I have a text to send.
Ezra
I won’t be in the office for the next two weeks. Okay? Taking a vacation.
Paula
Great. Don’t forget we have our charity gala in one month. You have to get ahead.
Ezra
You’re no longer my personal assistant. You don’t have to do that.
Paula
You’re right. I’m your store manager. So, don’t let me down. We have orders to fulfill. They want you, Ezra. Not an associate artist.
Ezra
I’ll get it done. I promise. Kicked ass today.
Paula
That’s what I like to hear. I’ve got your time off noted. Good luck.
Paula was my mom’s assistant and became mine when my mom passed away five years ago. When I decided I wanted to start working from home to avoid the spotlight, I promoted her to run my shop. She’s turned it around, keeping my mother’s visions alive.
I yawn, exhausted from my long day of molding clay. The house seems quieter than usual, but fuller than it has since I moved in. Right now, I need sleep, so I crawl between the sheets and try to erase the thoughts of Scarlett running through my mind.
Willow wakesme up after she’s crept halfway under the covers, vibrating with contentment. Her purr revs like a lawnmower against my ribs. I groan and shove a pillow over my head, but she’s already lazily kneading my side with her claws.
“I wanted to sleep in,” I mutter to the orange tabby I adopted three years ago. Actually, she adopted me. One day, she showed up on my front porch and never left. That’s just how the kitty distribution system works.
She meows. It’s her way of telling me to get out of bed and feed her.Now.Ignoring her isn’t an option.
I slide on some joggers and stretch as sunlight cuts across the wooden floor in streaks of gold. The house holds on to the hush of early morning before the world starts spinning. Getting up before my rooster crows is my favorite part of the day, but I tossed and turned most of the night.
The first thing I do is flick on the light and feed Willow, because she’ll meow bloody murder if I don’t. Then I start a pot of coffee, because I’m not a monster. Caffeine is my bestie in the morning.
When I’m halfway through pouring creamer, a knock taps against the back door, startling the hell out of me. I glance up, and through the glass, I spot a messy ponytail, a fuzzy black robe, and a very grumpy but adorable face.
Scarlett.
I open the door, trying not to grin. “Were you waiting for me to get up?”
She squints at me like I’ve committed a felony.
“Actually, yes. I need coffee,” she admits. “I can’t live without it. There’s no way to brew it in the cottage.”
“There’s a French press,” I tell her.
