Chapter 7
SCARLETT
The second I set my phone down, I want to pick it back up to make sure I’m not imagining his invite.
I reread his message, confirming it’s real, then click on Hallie’s name.
Scarlett
Update. We kissed.
Hallie
Aah!! And?
Scarlett
It was magical. Omfg. I’m so doomed.
Hallie
I’m jealous! I’ll happily switch places with you. If an attractive guy even looked at me these days, I’d be a puddle.
Scarlett
I’m having dinner with him tonight.
Hallie
You have all the luck.
Scarlett
Just this once, I need a win.
Hallie
You do. I have a feeling he’s going to give you LOTS of inspiration.
Scarlett
Crossing my fingers. I need to finish this book in a week!
Hallie
Keep me updated. I’m invested.
I laugh, flopping back onto the couch and staring at the ceiling fan like it might give me life advice. It just creaks and spins like it’s been through this before.
“It’s not a date,” I say out loud, as if that’ll stop the adrenaline spike. “It’s southern hospitality at its finest.”
I sit up, grab my voice recorder, and click it on out of habit.
I close my eyes and speak freely.
“He doesn’t look at me like a man who wants something. When his eyes meet mine, it’s like he already knows I belong to him. And I—” I pause. “I don’t know how that makes me feel.”
The recorder hums in my hand.
“He brought me a sandwich,” I add. “Wrapped in twine. What the hell kind of man does that? It’s hero energy. He said, ‘Let me take care of you,’ like he meant it.”
I click the recorder off, then click it back on.
“He’s trouble. And I’m sitting here pretending what’s going on between us is absolutely nothing. I’m trying to pretend I didn’t want more of him after he kissed me. Our tongues slid together, and I moaned against him. He’s a really good kisser. Slow and patient and full of passion.”
My throat tightens as I think about how his fingers grazed my cheek. I wait for the panic to come, knowing I could easily fall for this man, but it doesn’t.
I play back the last few minutes.
“Words from the heart,” I whisper.
I save the recording and upload it to my laptop so I don’t lose it.
The second half of the sandwich disappears over the next hour. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
I set the parchment-wrapped bundle aside, now crinkled and torn in the corners, and stare at my laptop. The screen is still glowing, cursor blinking in that impatient way it does. This time, I’m going to make it my bitch.
After an hour of reworking my dictations, the words are edited, and I’m inspired enough to keep going. With my fingers on the keys, I don’t overthink it. I just write my raw truths, knowing it’s the only thing that will save my failing career.
Hours pass without my permission. The light shifts across the floor, gold turning to blue at the edges. I lower the temperature of the air conditioner when it gets stuffy.
I glance out the window as I stretch, noticing Harry outside, plucking at the grass.
My responsibilities fade into the back of my mind, but I don’t dare forget about Ezra and how he kissed me, or the blackberries, or the sandwich. I can’t stop thinking about the look on his face when he volunteered to take care of me.
It shouldn’t matter, but no one has shown an interest in me or my career like this in a long time, not without expecting something or making it about themselves. I’ve known Ezra for three days, but I already know he isn’t like that. I’m usually good at reading people.
At seven fifteen, my alarm buzzes, pulling me out of my writing trance. My heart stutters with anticipation, knowing I’m having dinner with Ezra in fifteen minutes.
I stand, and my back pops from sitting too long.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else.
I should’ve taken a break earlier. I should’ve maybe spent the last hour not lost in the emotional climax of chapter seven, but here we are.
The sun’s already disappearing on the horizon.
The furniture in the cottage casts shadows in the warm light.
I walk over to my suitcase and open it, sorting through the clothes I packed.
“This isn’t a date,” I remind myself, rifling through the options. “It’s just food. He probably invites every woman who rents his cottage to dinner.”
I pause, holding up a blouse I packed for a night on the town.
It’s somewhat sheer in the right light and has always made me feel pretty.
I pull it on, along with a pair of relaxed jeans that sit low on my hips.
I add some mascara and lip stain. Every move is calculated to look effortless.
When I check myself in the mirror, I almost hate how much I care.
“I’m going to eat, then leave. One hour max,” I say.
The moment I slip on my flats and catch my reflection, I know that’s a lie.
The path to the main house isn’t long, but tonight it feels like it’s ten city blocks away.
Somewhere in the trees, cicadas buzz. I wipe my palms on my jeans and keep walking forward.
This morning, when I came for coffee, it didn’t feel like this. There wasn’t a pit in my stomach or a voice in my head whispering not to mess this up.
Now I’m wearing red stain on my lips and pressing them together like I want to feel his mouth on mine again.
I reach the porch steps and hesitate, just for a second. When I lift my hand to knock, the door swings open like he was waiting for me.
Ezra’s barefoot, freshly showered, and wearing a heather gray T-shirt that clings to his shoulders like it was stitched for his body.
Jeans sit low on his hips. My eyes scan back up to damp hair that’s curling at the ends.
He smells like a mountain breeze and whatever he’s cooking—something buttery and garlicky.
I forget how to speak as heat rushes up my neck.
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, tilts his head. His eyes unapologetically slide over me, and when they return to my face, his mouth lifts at one corner.
“You’re late,” he says.
“No way,” I tell him, pulling my phone from my pocket. “You said seven thirty-ish.”
“Oh, right.” He sounds amused, like he’s already enjoying this more than he expected.
Ezra chuckles, stepping to the side to let me in. I move past him, careful not to brush his arm, but fail.
Goose bumps trail over my arm, and I try to rub them away without drawing any attention to it. Another fail.
He closes the door, and the soft click makes everything feel ten degrees warmer.
On the edge of the counter, I see a wine bottle and two empty glasses. A cast-iron pan sits on the stove, steam rising from whatever’s inside.
I follow the rich scent.
He crosses behind me to grab something from the cabinet, and I feel the air shift as he passes me.
“Red wine okay?” he asks, already reaching for a corkscrew.
“Yeah. Perfect. Not a wine snob at all.”
He nods and glances over at me as he opens it and pours me a glass.
“You look nice,” he says, handing it to me.
My breath catches as our fingers brush. That’s all it takes for me to know I’m doomed.
“Thank you.” I lift the glass to my lips as he pours himself one, then returns to the stovetop.
I can’t help but notice a small ceramic bowl tucked beside the oven. It’s misshapen, like it slumped inward before it hardened. A deep blue glaze pools at the bottom, like it was meant to be imperfect.
“Is that Paris Pottery, too?” I ask, pointing at it.
A soft smile touches his lips. “Every piece in this kitchen is.”
“I didn’t see those in the store,” I say, moving closer. “I want a casserole dish.”
“Ah, well, good luck. There were only a few made,” he tells me, and I try not to pout.
“Maybe I’ll just take yours when you’re not looking,” I tease.
I watch his hands—the sure way he moves as he cooks. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess a thing. It makes me feel even more like I’m the only uncertain one in the room.
I take three big gulps of wine, needing it to do its magic and calm my nerves.
“What?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just didn’t expect you to be so domestic.”
This earns me a laugh.
“You don’t know me, Scarlett.”
“Maybe not, but I want to,” I admit.
Ezra smirks as he stirs the sauce in the pan. “I want to get to know you, too.”
We might be strangers, but I don’t think that’s going to last very long.
And whatever this is, I’m aware that it isn’t just dinner.