Page 10 of Booked on You
I double tap her message until it’s hearted, realizing I forgot to reply. Travel days are always hectic, though, and she understands that.
Scarlett
Thank you! I’m trying hard.
Hallie
I believe in you! I’m on a call. Check in soon?
Scarlett
Yes! I’m going back into the writing cave.
Hallie
GOOD LUCK!!!
Scarlett
You too!
I forgot it was Tuesday, and that’s when she’s usually stuck on Zoom calls until dark.
I press my palms to my eyes, wishing I could snap my fingers and my book would be done. My brain buzzes with defeat as each second passes.
I came here to write from sunrise to sunset with no breaks or distractions. I’m already failing.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “Change of scenery time.”
It’s not defeat, but rather a part of my creative strategy. Or at least, that’s the lie I tell myself.
After I schedule a rideshare, I throw my hair into a messy bun. Then I grab my sunglasses from the counter.
Ezra isn’t in the kitchen when I pass the back of the house. I pause for half a second, wondering if I should leave a note to let him know I left, but I don’t. Each time I think about him, my heart races and my body temperature rises. No man has ever intrigued me as much as Ezra Reed, and that’s dangerous for me.
I exit the side gate and move toward the edge of the driveway to wait for my driver. The sun is already climbing, and sweat sticks to the small of my back. It’s barely eight in the morning. Minutes later, a van pulls up and I climb inside. It doesn’t take long before I’m entering the city, which looks like it was brushed in colorful paint and left to glow in the morning sunlight.
Brick-lined sidewalks stretch beneath swaying oak trees, their branches thick with moss and history. Flower boxes burst with trailing ivy and pink and purple flowers I can’t name. Many of the buildings have pastel facades with iron balconies.
The van slows, and I get out with athank you. There’s music playing somewhere, a saxophone, maybe, and it’s followed by the scent of something sweet. I walk on the unevenstone pathway, past storefronts filled with bright-colored linen dresses and monogrammed tumblers. Everyone smiles and acknowledges me, and I don’t know what to do other than smile back awkwardly.
In New York, I’m invisible, just another human with somewhere to be. In Charleston, I exist.
A man walking his golden retriever nods at me like we’ve known each other our whole lives. I grin before the moment passes us by.
Right now, I want to get lost here, even though I can’t. I pull my phone from my pocket and set an alarm for an hour, knowing that when the buzzer goes off, it’s time to return to the cottage.
I’ve been running from my deadlines for years at this point; what’s sixty more minutes?
Eventually, I step into a boutique with huge windows and a crooked sign that reads “Junebug & Daughters.” A fan runs inside the store, and a blast of cool air hits me just right. The place smells like lavender, fresh cotton, and something faintly like peach.
The space is overflowing with colorfully dyed scarves, handmade jewelry, and wide-brimmed hats stacked like pancakes. Floral print dresses are hung on a wall, and in front of it are racks of vintage handbags that look like they each come with gossip from their previous owner.
I barely make it ten feet inside before I’m greeted cheerfully.
“Well, hello there!” a woman calls from behind the register. She’s wearing bright coral lipstick and a name tag that reads “Cherry,” and I can tell shelivesfor customer service.
“How ya doin’ today, sugar?”
