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.
Yep. I’m intrigued by the writer.
This is only day one, but I’m already tempted to go over there with a bottle of tequila and ask her to share every secret she has with me. I should stop watching and wondering about her.
She moves closer to the wall of windows, and I take a step back, knowing she didn’t see me. My heart races, and I can’t explain the excitement coursing through my veins.
I exhale, sneaking another peek, but when I glance down, she’s disappeared from my view. My brows furrow, and I step back to try to see farther into the cottage.
A moment later, I hear a knock on the back door. Wearing a cocky as fuck grin and a towel, I take the stairs two at a time, then swing it open.
“Couldn’t get enough of me?” I ask. Her skin glows under the yellow porch light.
She tilts her head, then swats away a mosquito. “How is it that every time I see you, you’re wearing fewer clothes?”
“It’s your impeccable timing, I suppose. Maybe tomorrow, if you’re lucky, I’ll answer naked.”
She cocks her hip and ignores me. “You left a very kind gift in the cottage, but there’s no wine opener.” She lifts the bottle to show me. “Cruel.”
“Apologies, ma’am.” I grab it from her hand, and when our fingers touch, she blushes and glances away.
I like that I have that effect on her.
When I look at her over my shoulder, she’s laser-focused on me.
“You know, it’s not polite to stare.” I twist the screw into the cork and lift it until it pops.
She scoffs. “I wasn’t.”
As I grab a wineglass and fill it, she gives me a playful grin.
“Liar, liar.” I click my tongue, handing it to her.
Scarlett is slow-burn trouble. The type of woman who rolls into town looking for quiet and sets the whole place on fire just by being in it.
She takes a sip, and her eyes widen with delight. “Wow. This is great. First time I’ve ever tried strawberry wine.”
“Be careful. It’ll knock you on your ass.”
She reaches for the bottle and grabs it. “That’s exactly what I want.”
“Well, city girl, if you need anything—anything at all—please let me know. Hospitality is my middle name.”
She glances at me over her shoulder as she moves to push open the screen door with her elbow. “Anything?”
Our eyes lock, and I smile, seeing straight through her. I lower my voice a tad. “I didn’t stutter.”
We’re frozen in time for a brief moment before she clears her throat.
“I cannot let you distract me,” she says, shaking her head. “Tempting, though. Very tempting.”
I burst into laughter as she pushes through the screen door. It screams out in protest and then slams shut. The noise echoes through the backyard.
I try to move, but it’s like her presence turned me to stone.
Or at least that’s what it feels like. I glance out the window over the sink and watch her disappear down the cobblestone path.
I continue to stare in that direction, like maybe Scarlett will come back to flirt with me until the sun rises, but she doesn’t.
I blow out a breath and shut the oak door so my cat, Willow, doesn’t wander away. As I reach up to lock it, I stop myself, wanting Scarlett to have access to the house if she needs something in the middle of the night.
“Already considering her needs,” I whisper to myself. “And you barely know the woman.”
The feeling that’s currently coursing through my veins when I think about her always gets me in trouble with women.
It’s the first time in over a decade I’ve felt an undeniable spark with someone.
I enjoyed how her eyes stopped on my mouth and how she didn’t once look away fast enough when I glanced at her.
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 wakes me 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.
“Pfft. Too messy.” She tightens her robe. “Most people would have provided their guests with a real coffee maker that didn’t become an entire chore to use it.”
I lean against the doorframe, eyebrows shooting upward. Willow tries to run past me, and I bend down to pick her up.
“You know what? Never mind.” She turns to go, but I reach out and catch her wrist before she can escape. Her skin’s warm, soft against my fingers. She goes still, and when she looks up at me, her breath catches.
“Don’t be like that,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I make some of the strongest coffee in the South. I’d be honored to share it with you.”
She narrows her eyes. “You like to push my buttons.”
“You’re just impatient,” I offer, gesturing behind me. “Now, come have a cup or two with me.”
“Okay.”
I step aside and wave her in like a gentleman. She brushes past me and heads straight for the kitchen. I close the door behind us, trying to ignore her citrusy scent. I set Willow down, and she hides under the table.
“Choose your own mug,” I say. “It’s house rules.”
She reaches up and pulls one down, admiring it. “Wow. Are these handmade?”
“Yep. And it’s the only kind of mug anyone should ever drink coffee from. The thickness of the clay keeps the liquid warmer for longer.”
She eyes me, then looks in the cabinet, seeing several shelves of them arranged by color, shape, and size. “You’ve got a collection.”
“You could say that.” I shoot her a wink.
The coffee finishes brewing, and she pours herself a cup like she belongs here. I fill one, too, as she slides onto one of the stools. Scarlett blows on her drink, moving the steam around.
“Do you need cream?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” she admits. “But I like my first cup to be black. It jolts me awake faster.”
Willow, traitor that she is, winds around Scarlett’s ankles like she’s met her soulmate.
“Oh, hello,” Scarlett mutters as she bends down to pet her. “And who are you?”
“That’s Willow,” I explain. “The only female allowed in my bed.”
Scarlett chokes and almost spits coffee across the island.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“I just turned thirty-five in July,” I admit.
Her eyes soften. “Oh, you’re two years older than me.”
She drinks half of her mug, then stands and refills it to the top.
“You interest me, Ezra,” she says, turning toward me.
“Why?” I ask.
“I dunno, there’s just something about you.” She smiles into her mug, and for a second, there’s no snark in it. No shield, either. It’s just her and her truths, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to say something more.
Before I can ask her any questions, she moves toward the door. Scarlett doesn’t let the conversation drift any further. “As fun as this has been, I’ve got to get to work.”
“Already?”
She shrugs. “Deadlines don’t care about first impressions.”
“Well, mine was stellar, so no worries there.”
She smirks. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll bring the mug back in one piece.”
I nod. “You better. Don’t want to have to charge you a fee for stealing it.”
“Oh, please, I’ll find the artist myself and buy my own in my favorite color.”
“Which is?” I ask.
“Purple,” she says with a smile as she opens the door. “Noticed you didn’t have one in that color.”
Just as she steps out, she glances back over her shoulder, eyes dancing over me. “Have a good day.”
“Happy writing, Scarlett. Feel free to join me any time you need some liquid caffeine.”
“Might take you up on that offer,” she says.
The door clicks shut behind her, but I don’t move right away.
The kitchen’s quiet again, but it doesn’t feel the same as before she entered. The smell of her shampoo and body wash fills the air like she’s still standing here.
Willow is sprawled out on the floor now, clearly bored, her tail flicking.
“You’re no help,” I whisper.
I glance out the window toward the cottage, knowing Scarlett Collins is only temporary. Nine more days and she’ll be gone.
However, now I know how she takes her coffee. I know the exact shade of green her eyes are. Somehow, that makes me feel alive.
I bring my mug to my lips and drink, knowing damn well Scarlett Collins will be a problem. And I haven’t had one of those in a long damn time.