Chapter 8
EZRA
Scarlett comfortably leans against the counter, hips tilted just enough for the stance to look accidental.
She gulps her wine, watching me like she’s already gone through my character study and is waiting to confirm her theory.
The overhead light shines down on her, and she glows, looking so damn pretty that I can barely speak.
I pull two plates from the cabinet and put a healthy helping of roasted chicken on one side, spooning garlic Alfredo sauce over it. I pretend not to notice the way she keeps brushing her thumb along the rim of her glass or how her eyes linger on my every movement.
“You can ask me anything,” I finally say, pulling the asparagus and potatoes from the oven and scooping spoonfuls for each of us. “That’s not an offer I make to just anyone.”
“Oh, I feel special, I suppose,” she says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I can’t help but chuckle at her cocky-ass response, and it leaves me wondering if I’ve finally met my match.
Once our plates are loaded, I carry them to the table, then grab the opened bottle of wine. She joins me, picking up her utensils, then placing the cloth napkin on her lap.
“Are you a chef? This presentation looks Michelin,” she says, trying not to sound impressed.
“No, just a foodie. Meals like this are a social thing in the South, and not to mention, my aunt Millie owns a semi-famous bakery in town. Millie always said if I learned how to cook, I’d get all the chicks.” I don’t take my eyes from her as I drink my wine.
“Has it worked for you?” she asks.
“You tell me,” I say, watching her cut into the chicken breast. She seductively blows on it before she puts the bite in her mouth. She moans with satisfaction.
“Wow. Okay, she’s right.” She points at the sauce, then dips her fork in it. “What is this?”
“Roasted garlic Alfredo,” I tell her. “A classic recipe.”
“I think I could eat this every day for the rest of my life.”
“Babe.” I smirk. “If you gave me forever, this would just be the beginning. I have a large repertoire of meals.”
“Keep it up, and I may never leave.” She continues eating.
“I’d consider that a win for both of us,” I say pointedly.
Her cheeks heat. “Do you always do that?”
“Do what?” My brows lift.
“Flirt so much.”
Laughter falls from my lips. “Only when a pretty girl is sitting in my kitchen, moaning with every bite she takes.”
“You’re so…confident.” She glances away from our intense eye contact.
“My mother raised me to communicate and express my feelings openly. Words are powerful, and life is too short,” I admit. I cut into my chicken, and it’s juicy, perfectly cooked with the right amount of garlic and herbs in the sauce. I nailed it from memory. My mom would be proud as hell right now.
A smile touches my lips.
“Words are powerful,” she agrees.
“You should know, Miss Romance Author.”
A grin that I can’t stop staring at touches her pouty lips.
“I’m slowly starting to remember that,” she says.
“I hope it’s not presumptuous of me to expect a well-written review of my cottage.” I shoot her a wink.
“So far, five out of five.” She chuckles, and I like the sound of it. “But then again, I can’t gush too much, or the people who stalk me will rent the cottage until the end of time, and I’ll never be able to stay here again.”
“Ah,” I say. “I’d clear the schedule for you.”
Scarlett smirks. “You really should stop.”
“Stop what?” I ask, playing dumb. I’ll flirt with her as much as I want.
“You know what.”
Silence takes over as we eat, but it’s comfortable.
“You know, I’m wildly impressed. Most of the men I know can’t even prepare toast,” she explains.
“Apologies,” I mutter. “They don’t sound like men. Sounds like boys who suck.”
“Now that I think about it…they are.” She stabs a potato and pops it in her mouth. Her shoulders relax as she settles into her seat. The sound of forks and knives on ceramic fills the brief silence. “Thanks for this, Ezra. I can’t recall the last time I had a home-cooked dinner.”
“You’re welcome. Millie always says a shared meal soothes the soul.”
“She sounds like a smart woman,” Scarlett says.
“Oh, she is. A complete handful. Always prying and bothering me, especially after my mom passed away.”
I don’t know why I shared that. Maybe because I want her to know.
Scarlett swallows, blinking up at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s okay. I forget not everyone knows my entire life story.”
She gives me a small smile. “That’s the most relatable thing you’ve said since I’ve arrived.”
The air shifts between us, and I can’t pretend this time with her doesn’t matter to me. It feels like a new beginning of sorts.
Scarlett licks Alfredo sauce off her thumb like she knows it’ll kill me. Carefully, she cuts the asparagus into slices as I pick one up with my fingers and eat it. Utensils aren’t always required in my kitchen.
“Are you an only child?” She swipes her chicken around the plate, not missing a drop of sauce.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Fun fact. I actually grew up in this very house.”
“Really?” she asks, looking around like she’s seeing it for the first time. “I bet it was incredible living here. Lots of places to play hide-and-seek.”
“It was great, but lonely,” I continue. “Did you feel that way being an only child? Like you missed out on life experiences?”
She meets my eyes. “Not really. I had many cousins my age who would often stay at my house, especially during the summers. My parents were great; they always planned vacations and activities for us to do together. I never felt lonely as a kid, but I was a loner. I wanted to write in my diary about my fictional life without interruptions and read dirty romance books nonstop. The real loneliness set in for me when I became an adult and chose the wrong men to be with.” She leans back in her chair and drinks more wine.
“I don’t know why I shared that,” she mutters.
“Because you wanted to. So, you’ve always wanted to be a writer?” I ask, needing to change the subject away from anything too deep.
“That’s not the question you wanted to ask,” she says.
“You’re right, but I don’t give two shits about your exes unless you’re still seeing them,” I tell her.
She studies me. “I never go back once I’ve written The End, not on books or relationships. I personally don’t believe in second chances after someone cheats.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with a lowered voice. “Also, fuck him.”
“Yeah. But I’m glad it happened before I married him.” She pauses. “I wouldn’t have this moment with you if he didn’t screw around.”
Scarlett lifts her glass, and I lift mine; we tink the edges together and then drink. I notice how she chugs a little faster.
I’m curious, but I’m also patient, even if she’s leaving in a week. I don’t want her to leave yet. Not when we’re tearing down each other’s walls, brick by brick.
Scarlett clears her plate, which is the best compliment she could ever give me.
“To answer your question, I wanted to be an author from the moment I could write sentences. My parents used to take me to the bookstore, and I’d dream about my words living inside there,” she says, smiling like she’s reminiscing.
“Seems like you made your dreams come true,” I say, completely fucking enamored by her. “Not everyone can make money from their art. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“It is. I’ve worked hard, but I also know how lucky I am. I don’t take a day of it for granted, even though some people might say I do.” She sighs. “Enough about me. What did you want to be when you grew up?”
“A husband. A dad,” I say without missing a beat. “And strangely, a corn farmer. Their tractors are cool as fuck.”
She snorts and blinks up at me. “Really? About the husband thing?”
“Really. I wanted to get married before I turned thirty and have several kids before thirty-five. Providing and protecting is my kink, Scarlett.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine, but I see her growing flustered. “What did you put in that chicken?”
I lick my lips. “Mm. Your cheeks are red.”
She places her hands on them. “We can thank the wine for that.”
“Ah,” I say, seeing how her breathing slightly increases.
After both of our plates are empty, I stand, and so does she.
“I’ve got this,” I tell her.
“Let me help you,” she nearly begs. “Please. You cooked.”
I allow it, even if I’d usually insist. She needs this, and I’ll let her have it.
Scarlett rinses the dishes in the sink as I put the rest of the food in the fridge.
I try not to touch her when I move past, but fail when I reach over, and our arms brush together.
Being with her like this is comfortable in a way that almost catches me off guard.
She glances out the window. “Do you ever light the firepit?”
“Sometimes,” I say, standing beside her as I look out toward it. Overhead, the string lights are still hanging, but I haven’t turned them on in months. “The mood usually has to be right.”
“Is it now?”
“Yeah.” I lift my hand and brush it against her cheek. “I think it is.”
I smile, then break away from her, grabbing some matches from my junk drawer close to the door.
Scarlett follows me outside and sits in one of the Adirondack chairs.
I stack the kindling in a tight pyramid with the center open and strike a match.
Seconds later, the dry wood catches and the flame crackles to life, eating straight through the dry cedar.
I move my chair close enough for our knees to touch, and then I sit.
“You’re good at this,” she says, noticing.
“I’m actually rusty.”
We’re angled toward the fire like it might explain what’s going on between us.
Scarlett removes her shoes and wiggles her toes.
“I can’t explain this feeling,” I say, staring at the fire. “You know what I’m talking about.”
Crickets surround us as the warm salt breeze brushes against my skin.
“Yeah,” she admits. “I do. You’ve awoken a beast inside me.”
This makes me laugh. “Me? I did nothing of the sort.”