Booked on You (Love Unwritten Duology #1)

Chapter 1

SCARLETT

The plane jerks hard to the right, rattling like it might fall apart midair. My stomach flips. I grip the armrest without thinking, only to realize it’s already occupied by the man next to me.

“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, pulling my hand back like I’ve touched something hot.

The older gentleman just smiles. “It’s okay. Take it.”

“You sure?” I ask, even though he’s already moved, giving me access.

His hand now rests politely on his lap as mine clutches the plastic like it might save me from spiraling into the Atlantic. I’m not afraid of flying, but I wouldn’t say I enjoy being inside a sky tube that’s rattling in the wind.

Two and a half hours later, we finally land, and I exhale through my nose. My jaw aches from how tightly I’ve clenched it while scrolling through movies I didn’t want to watch.

The moment I step outside, the hot air smothers me. The humidity sticks to my skin like a clingy ex who still remembers my favorite Starbucks order. South Carolina isn’t playing around in August.

My leggings instantly fuse to my thighs. The oversized cardigan that was perfect for the plane is too much here. I peel it off and loop it over my arm, dragging my carry-on behind me. I’m already sweating like I’m in a hot stone sauna.

I schedule a rideshare from the airport, and in ten minutes, the driver pulls up to the curb.

He loads my items in the trunk, and I slide into the back seat, where there are mini bottles of water waiting.

The guy taps the steering wheel while humming along to a country song as he merges into traffic.

I stare out the window and watch the scenery change. We slip onto small-town roads, with tree canopies stretching overhead. There’s something comforting about Charleston, but then again, this place has always made me happy.

It’s the only reason I’m here.

As the sun begins to fade in the distance, I smile.

I successfully escaped the headlines and the pressure from a culture that believes I need to do more and be more. For the first time all year, I feel a sense of relief.

I hope this escape is exactly what I need to focus but also relax. I have ten days to finish my book for my publisher. No more extensions will be granted. Either I turn in a quality draft, or I’ll be dropped and forced to pay back my six-figure advance. My editor told me this is my last chance.

Over the past two years, I’ve written one chapter of absolute garbage, ignored most emails from my editor, asked for my due date to be pushed three times, and convinced myself that a solo retreat would magically cure my creative paralysis.

No pressure or anything.

“First time down here?” the driver finally asks, his voice thick with a southern drawl.

“No.” I blink at him. “But it’s been a long time. Almost a decade.”

He glances in the mirror. “Ahh. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

He grins. “Big-city girl running away from somethin’ and tryin’ not to melt.”

“Good guess. New York,” I admit. “Brooklyn, to be exact. The only thing I’m running from is responsibility.”

He nods like he already knew the details. “Perfect place to do that. Just remember to enjoy the slower pace and late-summer evenings.”

“I’ll try,” I tell him with a smile as we pull into the driveway of my rental.

The place is gorgeous. In front of me stands a three-story historic blush-pink house with shutters and a wraparound porch straight out of a southern magazine.

A white picket fence surrounds the freshly mowed lawn.

The cottage I rented is in the backyard, partially hidden behind a curtain of flowers and trees.

There’s just enough distance from town for privacy, but it’s still close enough to walk to the touristy area.

As soon as I climb out of the car, I smell fresh grass mixed with the tiniest hint of sweet flowers and honeysuckle.

The driver hauls my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it to me. “Hope you have a nice stay. Don’t run too far from your responsibilities.”

“Thanks,” I tell him.

As the car pulls away, I drag my suitcase toward the front porch while taking in the swing, the overflowing flower boxes, and the crickets chirping. It’s dreamy.

I pause at the bottom step, then lift my suitcase to the top. After I wipe my palm on my leggings, I press the doorbell that conveniently has a camera in it. I glance away, knowing I’m being recorded.

A ten-day retreat here is all I need. I have a week and a half to clear my head, avoid distractions, and finish this damn book before I lose my entire writing career. If my publisher drops me, it’s over.

A minute later, the front door swings open.

When my eyes land on his baby blues, I forget how to breathe.

He’s unapologetically shirtless. Jeans hang low, hugging his hips like they were made for him. His skin glistens in the heat—either from a recent shower or from doing something physical. It could go either way.

His dark hair is damp and messy, like he ran a hand through it but didn’t bother to check a mirror. Dark scruff lines his chiseled jaw, and I can’t help but notice how his lips are perfectly plump. The bottom one dips in the middle.

My gaze continues to slide down his body, to the deep V that disappears into dark-washed jeans that should come with a warning label.

I take one step back, because I wasn’t expecting him.

He’s tatted down his shoulder to his wrist on one arm. My eyes focus on his big hands, and I know I probably shouldn’t be looking at them so closely. Basically, if he were a “bad boy” Pinterest board, he’d be titled “Bad Decisions and Southern Regret.”

“Can I help you?” He clears his throat. “Or do you plan on standing there and staring at me for the rest of the evening? You’re welcome to take a picture if you’d like, but the tip jar is inside.” His voice is low and scratchy, like he just woke up or hasn’t spoken aloud all day.

There’s a faint southern twang threaded through his words, and I find it so damn adorable, I can barely contain myself.

“You must be Ezra Reed,” I say, remembering the owner’s name from the rental contract I signed.

“Do I know you?” he asks.

I snap my eyes up to his face, mortified that I’d gotten lost in my thoughts.

His mouth curves into a lazy smirk. “Ma’am?”

“Don’t call me ma’am,” I say, straightening my spine. “My name is Scarlett Collins. I rented your cozy cottage.”

I motion vaguely toward the backyard, heat crawling up my neck. I need to escape him while I try to remember how to form words. “Booked your place through the rental app. We’ve been messaging one another for a week, and you’ve answered my questions about accommodations.”

He rubs a hand along his jaw and tilts his head like he’s trying to place me. “Scarlett. Oh, yes. Right. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Great,” I say, not feeling an ounce of relief. “Here I am.”

“Just didn’t peg you for a Scarlett. You look more like a Jessica or a Rachel. Scarlett is too…sophisticated.”

I exhale through my nose. “Are you trying to offend me?”

He grins, and I hate that his smile is so perfect. “When you scrunch your nose like that, it’s really cute,” he tells me.

My brow twitches. “Cute? I’m not eight.”

He chuckles. “I do appreciate a feisty woman.”

I blink at him. “Can we please stop with this.”

“With what?”

I tilt my head at him. “You’re flirting. That’s unprofessional.”

“Nah.” He steps aside and gestures toward the inside like he’s hosting an open house. “It’s not flirting. It’s what I like to call southern hospitality. Now, come on in. I can give you a tour.”

I don’t move forward. “I just want the key to the cottage. A shower. And a quiet space away from people, like you promised in your listing. I signed up for a secluded southern oasis.”

“And you’ve arrived.” He laughs.

I huff, placing my hand on my hip, losing my patience.

“You just seem like the type who snaps her fingers and gets what she wants delivered on a silver platter,” he says. “Am I wrong?”

“Actually, you can cancel my reservation,” I tell him, grabbing my bag and moving toward the steps.

“Scarlett. You’re no fun. You’re more like a Lamelett,” he says, and I turn and glare at him. He’s amused by my agitation. “Look. There are things I have to warn you about. My big fat cock is one of them.”

I scoff.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. My rooster Harry likes to peck around the back porch in the mornings and afternoons. If you see him, just don’t look him in the eye, okay?”

My brain short-circuits. “Excuse me?”

“My big, fat red rooster,” he explains. “He crows every morning at six on the dot. His cock-a-doodle-doo is a little fucked up, but it’s endearing. It’s more like a ca-ca-kaaa.”

Ezra sticks his neck out when he does it.

I almost crack a smile. Almost.

“Harry tries hard, though,” he says. “Give him compliments if you’re awake.”

“Sometimes reality is stranger than fiction,” I mutter.

How do I escape this conversation?

He leans one broad shoulder against the doorframe and watches me. “Oh, right. You’re the writer.”

“I was. Not sure if I still am,” I say honestly. “So, if you could give me the key, I’ll be out of your way. I’m under a major deadline and don’t have the time or patience for this. I need rest because I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“Not so fast,” he says, reaching casually into his pocket and pulling out a key attached to a ring. He dangles it just out of reach. “House rules first.”

“I read the rules. Twice.”

“Well, they’ve changed.”

I narrow my eyes. “Since yesterday?”

“Yup. You know the regular ones. No smoking. No pets. No parties. But I just added a new one. No guests.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t change the rules. What if I want to go out and meet someone?”

“No hookups or booty calls,” he tells me. “No one else is allowed on my property other than you.”

This man is testing my patience, something no one does, ever. And I’ve known him for less than five minutes.

“Fine.” I exhale sharply. “I didn’t come here for romance, anyway. Once I finish my project, I’ll be out of your hair.”