Chapter 1 #2
He steps toward me, grabs my suitcase, and wheels it across the porch inside. “This way. Cutting through the house is quicker. The side gate is still locked. Unless you want to jump the fence, and if that’s the case, I’m watching.”
“Lead the way.” I groan as the wheels loudly roll across his hardwood floor.
Ezra doesn’t look back. He strolls through the front hallway like he owns the place. Which, fine, he technically does, but there’s something about the way he moves that irritates me. Cocky. And like he’s enjoying this a little too much.
“Make it quick,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m two seconds away from booking a hotel in town.”
“No rooms available. I already had several people call for the cottage if you, for some reason, backed out,” he says.
“You’re lying.”
“Okay. Call my bluff.”
I sigh and lift my arm, gesturing toward the door. He chuckles and lifts my suitcase off the ground and onto his shoulder like it weighs nothing.
“Now you’re just showing off,” I say, mostly out of reflex.
He smirks again. “What the hell do you have in here? Bowling balls?”
“Books. Lots of them. Sometimes I like to thumb through the classics while I let ideas percolate.”
He carries the case toward the kitchen like it’s full of feathers. “Artists are weird creatures, aren’t they?”
There’s something about the way he says it, but I can’t put my finger on it.
He sets the luggage down in the middle of an aesthetically pleasing, country yellow kitchen with tall cabinets that stretch toward the high ceilings.
The shelving is open, and I want to rub my hand across the stained butcher block counters.
The whole place screams artisan. My eyes scan over him as he leans against the counter like he’s part of the decor.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a writer,” he says.
I cross my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean? Do writers look a certain way?”
He gives me the kind of once-over that almost makes me weak in the knees.
“You look like you teach yoga on the weekends.”
I blink. “That’s oddly flattering and insulting all at once. I do yoga several times per week.”
“Writers usually seem…” He waves a hand in the air. “More tortured. Mysterious.”
“Oh, I’m both tortured and mysterious. Just very good at hiding it,” I deadpan.
He laughs, a real one, and I hate how much I like the sound of the deep rumble.
“Can we please skip this?” I wave my hand around and realize I’m being dramatic.
“I’m an introvert, and this is really hard for me,” I explain, keeping my voice level.
“Plus, I’m tired. I smell like recycled airplane air, and I have approximately seven percent of my energy left.
I’d really like to spend it on a hot shower, then go to sleep. ”
He pushes off the counter. “Were you an only child?”
My mouth falls open. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Ahh. You were. That explains a lot.” Ezra’s brow lifts.
“I never said I was or wasn’t.”
He smiles. “The only child never answers. If you had siblings, you’d have mentioned it as soon as I asked. Scarlett, the only child. I bet you were spoiled.” He looks me up and down.
I press my lips together. “You’re absolutely unbearable.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. I try.”
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
“But you could be.” He pulls the key from his pocket and holds it toward me. “You’re gonna regret skipping this conversation.”
It finally drops into my palm.
“But suit yourself.”
He pushes open the back door, pointing toward the walkway leading around the side of the house. “The guesthouse is just down there. Watch your step. And, uh…” He grins again. “Don’t make eye contact with Harry, or else…”
“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.