Chapter 10
EZRA
Itoss and turn most of the night.
Harry starts his shit right before six. “Ca-ca-kaaa. Ca-ca-kaaa!”
It’s the kind of crow a rooster would give who’s half-assing it.
He’s never really tried, because trying isn’t necessary.
He does it from his favorite spot in the middle of the garden as he stretches his neck toward my bedroom window.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s personally offended that I’m sleeping at this hour and am not up feeding him.
I groan and roll onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow like that will somehow make the sound stop.
It doesn’t.
He crows again, this time with a dramatic pitch change at the end, like he’s trying out a new note.
“Jeez, Harry.”
I throw the covers off and sit up. My head feels foggy, and my muscles are tight as I reach over to turn on the bedside lamp. The fan overhead is doing little to circulate the heavy late-summer air. I scrub a hand over my face and place my feet on the floor.
My brain hasn’t caught up to my body yet, and my body…well, it hasn’t forgotten anything.
Our kiss is playing on repeat in my mind, along with how the firelight caught in her hair. Scarlett moved in without hesitation and parted her red-stained lips. She was so turned on, she had to take care of things.
My jaw tightens.
I get dressed in some joggers and a T-shirt, then make my way downstairs, hoping the coffee will jolt my thoughts into a different dimension.
As soon as my feet hit the bottom stair, I see Willow staring out the windows overlooking the backyard.
She turns her head like she’s surprised to see me, but then hops down to greet me with a lazy meow.
Sometimes, it feels like she and Harry are in cahoots.
When she’s hungry, she sends the cat signal, and he crows like an asshole.
I feed her, then start my everyday routine.
The familiar hiss and sputter from the coffee maker fills the space, but it doesn’t cut the tension bubbling beneath my skin.
I lean against the counter, staring out at the garden, as the machine gurgles through the last of the brew.
The cottage is dark, and the curtains are drawn.
The moon is still up, even though the sun will rise in an hour.
I wonder how late she stayed up last night, and if she did any writing after she touched herself while thinking of me. Today, I choose a yellow mug and fill it midway before I add a splash of milk to cool it down.
As I take several gulps, three knocks tap on the back door.
I don’t need to check to know it’s her. Still, I take my time crossing the kitchen, and a smirk instantly touches my lips.
When I open the door, Scarlett’s standing there, barefoot in pajama bottoms and a Nirvana T-shirt that looks like it’s seen better days.
Her hair is pulled up in that intentional mess she tries to pass off as effortless.
When I glance down at her hands, I see she’s holding her new mug, fingers wrapped tightly around the curve.
“I come begging for caffeine,” she says, lifting the cup a little. “Pretty, pretty please?”
I glance down at the mug, then back up at her. “You never have to beg.”
“Great.” Her green eyes are bright as she steps past me.
“Did Harry wake you up?” I ask.
“Actually, yes,” she says, and it makes me grin. I’ll have to feed him extra scratch later.
Our arms brush, and I know it’s too damn early for this teasing.
“You were right, though. His crow really is fucked up.”
She fills her mug.
“Careful, I made it extra strong,” I warn.
The sweet scent of her skin envelops me.
“That’s perfect. I need a boost after last night,” she says, blowing on the liquid. I refill my cup, knowing what she was doing after we went our separate ways.
Her gaze drifts away from me, like she’s trying to stop herself from eye fucking me. I think we both know it’s too late for that.
Whatever is going on between us is a runaway train.
“Would you like to join me for breakfast?”
She looks up, surprised by the offer. “That’s a lot of trouble.”
“I was gonna make eggs, and maybe some cheesy grits.”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “I’m honestly not a breakfast person. Coffee is enough. Usually.”
Before she can protest, I grab two slices of sourdough and slide them into the toaster. She eyes me but doesn’t say anything.
When the slices pop up, I slather them with soft butter and the last of the strawberry jam I made in late spring. It’s rich, tart, and sweet.
“Eat this. You need more than coffee.” I place the slices on a plate and hand it to her.
“You spoil me, Ezra.”
“I will,” I tell her. “If you let me.”
She smiles as she steps toward the door, coffee in one hand, toast in the other. “I can’t fall for you.”
“Good luck with that.” I hold the door open for her.
“Let me know if you need more inspiration,” I mutter.
“Cocky.”
“Confident,” I say.
Her laughter echoes off the house as she takes the trail back to the cottage.
“Happy writing,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she says to me over her shoulder.
I shut the door behind me, and I’m grinning wide.
Scarlett does something to me, and right now, I’m feeling more inspired than I have in a while.
For the past five years, I’ve lost myself in my work with one goal: to make my mother proud.
Vacations never happen; it’s just work, work, work.
It’s one of the reasons I’m painfully single, or at least that’s what Millie says.
After trying to find love and failing, I don’t try anymore. Whatever happens, will happen.
I grab my coffee and move to the tower room. The sun is beginning to rise over the horizon, and the sky is in that weird limbo between night and day. I open the window to inhale the fresh salty sea air, before it gets too humid.
A minute later, Willow opens the door, then leaps onto the window and begins grooming herself like she can’t be bothered. This is the feline version of micromanaging.
“What?” I ask when she pauses to glare at me. “I’m not dealing with your cattitude today.”
I sit at the edge of the bench, rubbing my palm absently over the top of my thigh, trying to quiet the restlessness that’s overtaken me. As I’m scanning over the things I need to do, I hear my name being called from the front of the house.
My aunt Millie’s familiar voice floats up through the open window. “Ezra. You awake?”
I stand quickly and move to the window, catching her just as she’s shutting the car door and smoothing down her floral button-up like she’s marching into battle.
“You know it. Early birds get the worm,” I call down. “Come on in.”
By the time I make it to the bottom floor, she’s already halfway through the living room, carrying a brown paper sack in one hand.
“I brought you a loaf of banana bread,” she announces. “It’s fresh out of the oven.”
“Thank you so much,” I say genuinely, taking everything from her hands. “You know you don’t have to keep showing up like this, right?”
She bustles past me like she lives here, and at one point, she did. Millie stayed with my mom, and the two sisters were roommates before I was born and Millie met the love of her life.
My aunt gives me a look that could melt drywall. “I’d never see you otherwise. You haven’t stopped by the shop in months.”
I set the bag on the counter and pull out the bread, inhaling the sweet scent. It’s warm in my hands, just like she said.
“I’ve been busy getting ready for the fundraiser next month,” I say. “It’s not personal. You know I love you more than anyone on the planet.”
“Correct answer,” she says, opening the fridge to judge my inventory. “Oh, you cooked. Did you have a woman over?”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“Who is she?”
“Aunt Millie,” I say with a laugh.
She narrows her eyes, and I swear, nothing gets past her. “Well? I don’t have all mornin’ to be hee-hawing around with ya. I gotta get to the bakery and help open. You look like someone turned you inside out.”
I stiffen.
“What about the woman staying in the cottage? Is it her?”
“She’s only here for six more days,” I explain, but that answer is clearly not good enough for her. “She’s a writer from New York City and is on a very tight deadline.”
Millie raises an eyebrow. “Lord help us all. You’re falling for her.”
She says it like it’s a fact.
“What? Millie, come on. I’ve known her for four days.”
“And?”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “It’s really not like that.”
She plucks a mug from the cabinet and pours herself some coffee.
“Ezra, I’ve known you since you were born. You’ve got that look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” I tell her as she pulls the sugar from the cabinet where my mama always kept it. Same container and all.
She gestures toward me. “You’re in love.”
I scoff. “Four days,” I remind her.
“So? Your mama fell in love with your dad in two,” she says.
“You mean my sperm donor? Millie, I don’t want to talk about this today.” I lean against the counter, watching as she adds a splash of milk from the fridge and stirs it with a butter knife. The sound is soft, repetitive, and familiar.
She freezes me in place with that give-no-fucks expression she’s had perfected since I was a kid.
“Look,” she says, “when you know, you know, okay?”
Her words settle deep, but she doesn’t stop there.
“Tell me about her,” she continues, her tone gentler now.
I hesitate, because saying it out loud makes this feel like something more than it already is.
“She’s smart and snarky,” I say. “Funny, but only when she wants to be. She has this way of looking at me, like she sees more than she should. And she doesn’t let anything slide. Not bullshit or compliments.”
Millie nods, her mouth curving like she’s already figured out the rest. “Pretty?”
“Gorgeous,” I admit. “But not in a way that’s trying too hard. She’s real, like she’s only trying to impress herself.”
Millie takes another sip. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You’ve been careful for a long time,” she replies.
“I have.” I can’t help but glance toward the cottage that’s splashed in sunlight.
“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this before,” she begins.
“Not even with Sara, and you almost married her. So glad you didn’t.
” She folds her arms. “That girl never saw your art as anything more than a phase. She thought you’d grow out of it, like you’d eventually come to your senses and put on a tie. ”
“She wanted stability. I will never blame her for that,” I say.
“No, she wanted to mold you into someone you’re not,” Millie says. “You’re an artist, Ezra. She knew that when you met. That’s who your mother raised you to be.”
I nod, the memory of that last fight with Sara flickering in my mind. She’d stood in this very kitchen, asking me to choose between a life she wanted and a calling I couldn’t let go.
“Does the writer know what you do?” she asks.
“No,” I admit. “She thinks I’m a pottery collector, and I find it so fucking adorable.” My smile spreads. “She’s been to the shop, though, and bought a mug. She’s already a fan, without knowing I’m behind it.”
Millie places her hand on my back. “You know, anyone else would’ve named their pottery line after their truck or their dog. I find it sweet that you picked your mama’s middle name. You’re a sentimental little shit.”
I smile. The name Paris still catches me off guard sometimes. Even now, years later.
“Your mom would be so proud of you,” she says, looking around. “I am. She would’ve loved to see how far you’ve come without compromising who you are.”
I nod once, swallowing the lump that forms in my throat.
“Thank you.” I drink more coffee to give myself something to do before my emotions take over. I’m a pro at tucking them away.
“You seem happy. Haven’t seen that smile in a long time.” Her phone buzzes and steals her attention. She slides it out of her pocket, and her eyes widen. “Oh, honey. I gotta get to the bakery.”
Millie chugs her coffee, then gives me a quick hug. “Let me know when I can meet her.”
“She’s not staying,” I confirm.
Millie shrugs. “Maybe not. But she’s here now. My schedule is conveniently clear.”
“Love you. Time for you to go.”
She lets out a hearty laugh. “You better be glad I have some town gossip to collect this mornin’ or I might be offended that you’re forcing me out. I expect an update.”
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” I singsong as I follow her onto the front porch.
“Yes, you do.” She throws me a glance over her shoulder as she takes the steps. Her Cadillac is parked in the driveway. “Have you unpacked your mama’s boxes upstairs?”
“I haven’t.” I cross my arms over my chest, knowing I’ve been putting it off for way too long.
She gives me a look and a wave. “Bye, honey!”
When Millie backs out onto the street, she gives me two honks, then burns off.
If my aunt noticed the change in me, I’m fucking doomed.
She knows me better than I know myself.