Chapter 3
SCARLETT
He kisses her softly, brushing his thumb along her cheek.
When she releases a hungry, desperate moan, he slides his tongue in deeper.
Helena arches her back, and Jordan wraps his arms around her waist, pressing her body tighter against his.
She feels his growing erection against her flesh and can no longer resist the temptation to touch him.
It’s like she’s been waiting years for this moment with him, even though they just met.
The blinking cursor on my laptop has the nerve to be judgmental.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
I stare at it, fingers hovering over the keys, trying to summon a sentence that doesn’t suck. No such luck. I reread the last paragraph and wonder how I’ll ever write eighty thousand more words. This book will be the biggest struggle of my life if every single syllable I write is like this.
I groan and collapse backward onto the bed, my laptop tilting beside me. The ceiling fan creaks with each slow rotation, like even it is tired of my bullshit. I rub my temples, trying to predict if this is the end of my career.
It was a good run. I accomplished a lot.
Writing sex scenes used to be easy for me. I’ve built a career on them, but lately, even the most basic kissing scene reads like a legal deposition. The harder I try, the worse it gets.
“Ugh!” I huff.
I should check in with Hallie, my best friend and personal assistant.
She works for several number one New York Times best-selling, high-profile authors, and then there’s me.
Right now, I feel like a fraud, like I’m pretending to be an author even though I’ve released several books over the past decade.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and reread her last text.
Hallie
Safe travels! You can do this! I believe in you! Remember: starting is the hardest part.
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 a thank you.
There’s music playing somewhere, a saxophone, maybe, and it’s followed by the scent of something sweet.
I walk on the uneven stone 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 she lives for customer service.
“How ya doin’ today, sugar?”
“Fine,” I say, caught off guard. “Thank you. Your shop is beautiful. Eclectic. I love it.”
Her smile widens. “Why, thank you kindly. It’s my mama’s store—my sister Cherise and I run it now, mostly. Mom still comes in on Fridays to supervise, but she’s been talkin’ about retiring for over a decade.”
I give her a nod as I glance at the colorful scarves on a rack.
“Now, these here? My aunt Jeannie washes all the fabric in her secret softener before she sews ’em. Then she steams everything in distilled water—only distilled, mind you—and finishes with a mist of essential oils she mixes herself. Swears it makes ’em feel like butter. And she’s not wrong.”
I run my fingers across one, and it’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt. “Amazing,” I say, meaning it.
She beams and follows me as I wander deeper into the store.
For every item I pause over, I get a story: earrings designed by her cousin in Savannah, sunglasses they import from a family friend in Italy, a bracelet reworked by her cousin.
Though she’s a stranger, she’s kind and friendly.
I’ve missed human interaction like this in the city and have stayed isolated and to myself for far too long.
By the time I reach the counter with a scarf and a pair of leaf-shaped gold earrings I don’t need, I know the name of her dog, that her favorite ice cream is strawberry, and her opinion on the upcoming Labor Day parade. They moved it to a Saturday, bless their hearts.
Cherry rings me up with a wink. “Now, what brings you to our neck of the woods? Girls’ trip? Romantic getaway?”
“Work,” I say, inserting my card into the reader. “I’m a writer. Just trying to meet a deadline.”
“Ooh, how exciting! What do you write, sweetheart?”
“Romance, mostly.”
She gasps as if I told her I was a fairy godmother.
“Like Nicholas Sparks? I love him. My girls and I went to see The Notebook in theaters six times. I sobbed every single time.”
I don’t dare explain that Nicolas completely rejects being labeled as a lowly romance author. “A little less tragedy, a lot more steam and naughty words. All the four-letter ones. Happily ever after required.”
She claps. “Oh, I like those dirty books even better. What’s your name? I’d love to look you up.”
Cherry hands me my receipt, and I take it with another thank you.
“Scarlett Collins,” I say.
“Good luck, Scarlett Collins! It was really lovely to meet you,” she tells me with a wave.
As I step out into the sunshine, the weight that was on my shoulders has almost dissipated. Retail therapy always makes me feel better when I’m struggling.
I can’t say I’m inspired, but I feel lighter, like maybe I remember how to have conversations with people.
Across the street from the boutique, another storefront catches my eye. The company name is written across the glass in simple gold.
“Paris Pottery & Studio.”
I recognize the logo from the bottom of the mug I drank from at Ezra’s this morning. I cross the street before I can talk myself out of it.
The moment I step inside, the air changes.
It’s cooler, but full of excitement. The building smells of clay and clean earth after a heavy summer rain.
Wooden shelves line navy walls and are stacked with handmade mugs, bowls, and shallow dishes in soft matte glazes.
The deep blues, charcoals, and sea glass greens pull my attention.
Not one item in here is mass-produced. Everything is made with intention.
My fingers trail along the rim of a mug the color of rain clouds. It’s gray with a swirling white drip edge. The weight feels good in my hand. It’s balanced, but not heavy. I can tell it was made to be treasured.
A soft voice behind me speaks. “Those are our bestsellers.”
I turn and find a woman, older with effortless curls, wearing overalls and a name tag that reads “Paula.”
“They’re stunning,” I admit.
“Each one’s a little different,” she explains, joining me beside the shelf. “Many are thrown and glazed here in the back. It started with just one potter and exploded. Now we help keep the shelves full while he works on custom orders or special projects.”
I don’t ask more questions, even though I want to.
“I’m renting a place just outside of town, and they had several of these in their cabinet,” I tell her. “It kept my coffee warm until I finished it.”
Paula smiles. “Once you experience a Paris mug, it’s hard to go back to drinking hot beverages from anything else. Not to mention, they’re very addicting to collect because each one is so different.”
I pick up another one. It’s a rich forest green with a speckled glaze. It feels different in my hand from the first one. It’s rougher around a rim that’s not exactly even, and it’s a little heavier.
“I feel like I’m choosing a wand,” I mutter to myself.
Paula laughs. “Honestly, yeah. The mug chooses the owner.”
That earns a genuine smile from me. I cradle the gray one, then grab a second, it’s pale blue with a faint ivory drip that I’m going to ship to Hallie.
At the checkout, Paula wraps them both in paper and tucks them gently into a canvas bag stamped with the familiar logo.
“Enjoy,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll see you again. No one only visits once.”
“Thank you for everything. I really needed this today.”
She doesn’t ask why, but smiles like she gets it.
As soon as I step outside, my alarm buzzes. It’s time to go home.
By the time I make it back to the cottage, the sun is higher in the sky. Everything looks golden, like the world has been filtered through a glass of sweet tea. The gate creaks when I open it, and my hand tightens around my boutique finds.
After I unlock the cottage, I walk into the small kitchen and set my Paris tote on the counter. I pull my mugs out of the bag and unwrap the first one.
I rinse my pretty gray mug in the sink, then fill the kettle. Ezra stocked the cottage with different teas, which I appreciate.
As the water heats, I grab my laptop and open a new blank document. This time, when I place my fingers on the keys, I don’t overthink. The blinking cursor greets me like a challenge.
I write a single sentence, and another follows it. They may not be good, but they’re mine, and that’s what matters the most.
Right now, I’m not trying to impress anyone. Not my agent, not my readers, not the version of myself everyone expects me to be.
I just write.
It’s freeing, even if there’s no big breakthrough or euphoric high.
The kettle begins to whistle, and I know the water is ready, but I don’t pull away.
As I type, something different settles inside me. It’s a confidence I thought I’d lost.
Outside the window, I can see the edge of Ezra’s back porch, and I wonder what he’s doing.
I don’t know what tomorrow will look like or how many words I’ll get out today, but I’m not dreading the future quite as much as I was this morning.
That’s progress.