Chapter 23
SCARLETT
After several more kisses, I refill my coffee, then Ezra shoos me away with a soft pat on the ass.
“Have dinner with me?” he asks.
“Of course. I’d love that.”
“Maybe you’ll be able to finally spend that O-coin,” he tells me with a wink. “Happy writing.”
I stride back toward the cottage, my brain feeling like spaghetti. The first hour of the day has been eventful.
Waking up in Ezra’s arms, meeting Millie, learning more about who Ezra is, and then having his ex waltz into his house like she still belonged there has my mind reeling.
I keep replaying that awkward moment. She just showed up on his doorstep at seven in the morning with donuts. Who even does that?
I open the cottage door and drop into my desk chair, spinning it around once, twice, until dizziness reminds me that adults in their thirties should probably handle things differently.
“Grow up,” I grumble, knowing I’m stalling.
I straighten my shoulders and wake my laptop, then I open a web browser, searching Ezra like he asked me to do.
I type his name into the search bar, and I’m flooded with results.
My mouth falls open. Article after article details Ezra’s dating history, bold-faced names and glossy magazine covers splashing across the screen. My breath catches at the familiar face that grins confidently from one thumbnail.
Ezra’s father, Ryder Reed, the legendary guitarist from Midnight Riot. Of course, he is. Because why wouldn’t Ezra be the product of rock royalty with his bad boy vibe?
Clicking deeper, my eyes widen at the endless string of gossip about Ezra’s relationships, each breakup and new fling meticulously documented and analyzed. The internet is shamelessly fascinated by his love life, and I can’t help the twist in my stomach as I read speculative headlines.
Is this how he felt about me? Did he search me online? If he hasn’t, he should.
A viral video pops up—Ezra shirtless, hands deftly shaping wet clay into elegant mugs.
The clip has millions of views, and the comments are a blur of admiration, thirsty comments, and emoji-filled proposals.
My cheeks heat, my pulse skittering under my skin as I watch his muscles flex and ripple with each smooth, confident movement.
Then my heart sinks as I find the engagement announcement: Ezra and Sara. The perfect couple, the glamorous pair everyone expected would last forever. The pictures show an effortlessly happy Ezra, completely oblivious to the heartbreak that would eventually follow.
I click to the next article, heart softening instantly. Paris Pottery’s grand opening—named lovingly after his late mother’s middle name—was covered extensively, praised as an artistic tribute. Photos capture Ezra smiling sadly but proudly, a quiet grief visible even beneath his charming facade.
I read over articles about Ezra’s breakup, speculation running wild about what happened, until suddenly, he disappears.
No statements, no explanations. Just radio silence.
My chest tightens as I lean back in my chair, absorbing it all.
In that silence, I recognize myself. We both vanished, both choosing to disappear from a world that seemed too much to handle.
I switch tabs, curiosity drawing me to his social media, where he has millions of followers. Far more than I’ve ever had, even at my peak. Each post is carefully curated yet genuine, reflecting his passion. He’s famous, adored, and desired—and yet, he’s here with me.
We’re just two people who found each other after putting ourselves back together.
Ezra’s been through storms as devastating as mine, and he’s still standing.
He understands the cost of being known and what it means to lose yourself under the harsh glare of the spotlight. If anyone can handle my life, it’s him.
Taking a shaky breath, I stare at the ceiling. This only reiterates what my heart has been saying all this time—Ezra Reed is exactly who I’ve been searching for all along.
With a steadying breath, I click deeper into the results about Ellie.
Ezra’s mom’s pottery career wasn’t just successful—she’s a legend.
Photos from an old gallery event shows elegant sculptures on marble pedestals, perfectly lit beneath gallery spotlights.
I study her face in a black-and-white portrait, noticing Ezra’s smile in hers, their matching dimples, and thoughtful eyes.
My fingers scroll downward, a headline catching my eye: Ellie’s Love Affair with Ryder Reed.
A grainy photo appears, taken in some dark, smoky bar decades ago. The faces are blurred, but the man standing beside Ezra’s mother unmistakably carries a familiar swagger. My heartbeat kicks up, a quick rhythm of excitement and disbelief.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
I quickly skim the gossip column beneath it, detailing rumors of secret meetups.
I click on another picture of his dad when he was around the same age as Ezra.
There is no doubt who his father is; they look so much alike.
I close out of the article and find myself wandering back to photos of him and Sara.
They look perfect together. I remind myself they weren’t.
Needing a distraction, I text my bestie.
Scarlett
You should call me. I have a LOT to catch you up on.
My phone immediately rings.
“Tell me,” she says, her voice bright and teasing.
“Do you have your laptop close by?” I ask.
“Actually, yes, I do,” she says.
“Okay, type in Ezra Reed. R-E-E-D,” I say.
I hear her keys clicking.
There’s a beat of silence, then she lets out a gasp. “Holy shit, Scarlett.”
“I know,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my forehead. “Trust me, I know.”
“No, seriously—holy actual shit,” she repeats, voice full of excitement. “This is the Ezra you’ve been casually spending time with? This Ezra?”
I groan. “Yeah. Apparently.”
“Girl, he’s a big deal. Did you see his follower count? Millions, Scarlett. Literal millions,” she whispers dramatically, as if someone might overhear.
“I saw,” I reply.
She gasps again, higher-pitched this time. “Ryder freaking Reed is his dad? Midnight Riot Ryder Reed? Are you kidding me? How did you not know this before now? He looks exactly like him!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache approaching. “Because clearly, I’ve been living under a rock. And I haven’t exactly been in a state of mind to pay attention to anything except finishing this damn book.”
There’s a pause as keys clatter again. “He was engaged? Oh my God. Who’s this Sara woman? She’s gorgeous. What happened?”
“She wanted him to stop making pottery,” I admit, my voice dropping lower.
“Skank, hate her already.”
Laughter escapes me. “She showed up at his house this morning.”
“She did not!” she says. “Why? They broke up years ago. Like, get over it.”
“She was bringing him donuts,” I say flatly. “At seven in the morning. Like it’s a totally normal thing to do.”
“Do you think she heard about you?” Hallie asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, relieved that someone else understands the absurdity of the entire situation. “She asked him if he was going to marry me.”
She hums thoughtfully. “And what did he say?”
“Possibly,” I whisper.
Hallie squeals so loud that I have to pull the receiver away and put her on speakerphone. She’s busy typing and clicking.
“He seems complicated, especially with the millions of followers he has, a famous rock star dad, and a beautiful ex-fiancée who’s not over him. There are pages upon pages about him, Scarlett. He has his own fan club. I just want you to make sure you can handle this.”
“Complicated is my type,” I admit.
“True story.” Her tone softens. “From everything I see, he’s your type. Deep, creative, intensely private, stupidly attractive. He’s you in male form.”
I release a breath, feeling strangely comforted. “I thought the same thing.”
“Well then,” she declares. “Go claim that pottery prince, girlie. Complicated might just be exactly what you both need. And at least you know he can handle your readers.”
I laugh, the tension in my chest easing for the first time since the morning’s drama. “You always know exactly what to say.”
“That’s literally why you keep me around.”
“Just, please, be my voice of reason if things get out of hand,” I say.
“Oh, Scar. I’ve always been your voice of reason; you just never listen.”
“Touché.”
“You two have a lot in common, and I think it’s a good thing to explore it further. I just wouldn’t make any announcements until you’re sure this is more than just a fling,” she suggests.
“It’s more than just a fling. I know that right now. And that’s what scares me the most about all of it. I see myself falling in love with him,” I admit.
“Then fall, babe. Follow your heart,” she encourages. “And I absolutely want more Ezra photos now.”
“Oh, shut up,” I tell her.
Hallie gets another call. “Shit, I gotta go. You know who is calling me.”
“Meadow?”
“Yes,” she hisses. “Gotta go!”
“Have fun!” I say right before the call ends.
The cottage falls quiet again, only the soft hum of the fridge breaking the silence. A fresh energy flows through me, lifting the heaviness from my chest. Ezra’s story stirs inside my head, mingling warmly with my own, and suddenly my fingers itch to get words on the page.
I spin back toward the desk, determination taking hold.
Opening my manuscript, I dive in, the click-clack of my keys filling the room.
Sentences flow freely, scenes blooming effortlessly.
Every paragraph pulses with a new heartbeat, a fresh sense of purpose.
It’s as if knowing Ezra—truly knowing him—has unlocked something powerful within me, breathing life into my characters in ways I didn’t anticipate.
Time melts away. Paragraph after paragraph appears, my excitement fueling my focus. I can picture Ezra’s smile, feel the confidence he gives me. Hours slip past unnoticed, afternoon light shifting across the floor until the room is swallowed in shadows.