Second Helpings: A Steamy Cozy Domestic Romance by Scarlett Hawthorne

A cozy, intimate night in the Victorian Quarter where comfort food leads to a very different kind of hunger. Scarlett learns that sometimes, the best part of dinner is asking for seconds… in the bedroom.

— Scarlett Hawthorne —

The Literary Bean smelled like dark roast and old paper, which was exactly why I’d claimed the armchair by the fireplace as mine three years ago. Morning light filtered through the tall windows, catching dust motes and turning them gold, and I had my laptop open on my knees even though I’d written maybe two sentences in the past hour.

James was there again.

He’d been there every morning for two weeks now, always at the same table near the window, always with a battered leather notebook and a cup of black coffee that Nora never had to ask about anymore. I’d noticed him the first day—hard not to, the way he moved through space like he was taking up exactly the amount of room he needed and not an inch more. Tall, lean in the way runners are lean, dark hair starting to gray at the temples even though he couldn’t be more than thirty-four. He had writer’s calluses on his fingers and a quiet warmth in his eyes, the kind that made you want to tell him things.

I’d introduced myself on day three, because that’s what you do in the Literary Bean. It’s not Starbucks. You don’t hide behind headphones and pretend other people don’t exist.

“Scarlett,” I’d said, and held out my hand.

“James.” His handshake was warm, gentle, lasted just long enough to feel genuine. “I’ve been wanting to introduce myself but you always look so focused. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You can always interrupt,” I said, and meant it. “Writing is just procrastination with extra steps most days.”

He’d smiled at that—a real smile that reached his eyes. “Same. I spend half my time staring at blank pages and convincing myself it’s ‘thinking.'”

I’d liked him immediately, which was dangerous. I liked most people immediately, which meant I usually ended up carrying more weight than I’d planned to.

But James was different.

Over two weeks, we’d fallen into an easy rhythm. Morning coffee, conversations that wandered from books to weather to the small absurdities of daily life. He asked about my work but never pushed when I deflected. He told me about his novel—something about loss and learning to want things again—and the way he talked about it was vulnerable without being heavy, honest without demanding comfort.

“How’s your story going?” he’d asked yesterday, stirring sugar into his coffee.

“Slowly,” I’d admitted. “I’m stuck on this character who doesn’t know what she wants anymore. She’s spent so long taking care of everyone else that she’s forgotten how to want things for herself.”

“That sounds lonely,” he’d said quietly. Then: “Do you relate to her?”

The question was gentle, genuinely curious, and I’d found myself answering honestly. “Maybe. Sometimes.”

He’d nodded, didn’t push. Just said, “I hope she figures it out. She deserves to.”

The way he’d said it—like he meant me, not just the character—had stayed with me all day.

This morning, he looked up when I walked in, and his face brightened in a way that made warmth bloom in my chest.

“Morning, Scarlett.”

“Morning.” I got my oat milk cappuccino from Nora, who winked at me in a way that suggested she’d noticed the way James and I gravitated toward each other, and settled into my chair.

“Can I ask you something?” James said, closing his notebook. “And you can tell me if I’m overstepping.”

“Sure.”

“You always ask about other people,” he said, voice gentle. “What they’re working on, how they’re doing. I’ve never heard you talk about yourself for more than a sentence or two before you redirect. Is that just writer humility, or something else?”

I felt my cheeks warm. “I don’t know. Habit, I guess.”

“Mm.” He took a sip of his coffee, considering. “I do the same thing sometimes. Spent the year after my wife died deflecting every conversation away from myself. Easier than admitting how not-okay I was.”

The vulnerability in his admission made something in my chest ease.

“Your wife?” I asked softly.

“Sarah. She died two years ago. Car accident.” He said it simply, matter-of-fact, the way you talk about old pain that’s been worn smooth. “For a long time after, I couldn’t talk about myself without it becoming about grief. So I just… stopped. Asked about everyone else instead.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Thank you.” He smiled, a little sad but genuine. “I’m better now. Mostly. But I still catch myself doing it—hiding behind questions about other people. So when I see someone else doing the same thing…” He paused. “I recognize it.”

I felt seen in a way that should have been uncomfortable but wasn’t.

“What made you stop?” I asked. “Deflecting, I mean.”

“Therapy, mostly.” He laughed softly. “And realizing that the people who really cared about me wanted to know how I was doing. Not because they needed to fix me, but because they actually cared. That was hard to accept.”

“That people could care without needing you to be okay?”

“Yeah. Exactly.” His eyes met mine, warm and knowing. “Anyway. That’s my oversharing for the morning. But I meant what I said—you don’t have to redirect with me. I’m genuinely curious about your writing, your day, whatever you want to talk about. No pressure, though.”

I smiled, feeling something unfurl in my chest that I hadn’t realized was tight.

“Thanks, James.”

“Anytime.”

We walked together that evening.

It wasn’t planned—we’d both left the Bean at the same time, and the autumn air was crisp enough to make walking feel good, and somehow we’d ended up on the path through Crescent Green Park, where gaslamps were starting to flicker on and the last golden light was catching the Victorian houses in a way that made them look like paintings.

“I love this time of year,” James said, hands in his pockets. “Everything’s dying but it’s so beautiful.”

“Morbid.”

“Little bit.” He grinned. “Occupational hazard. Writers and death, you know.”

“What’s your novel about? Really about, I mean. Not the elevator pitch.”

He was quiet for a moment, considering. “It’s about learning to want things again after loss. How grief can make you afraid to reach for anything because you know how much it hurts to lose it. And how you have to do it anyway, or you’re not really living.”

“That’s beautiful,” I said softly.

“Thanks. It’s also terrifying to write.” He glanced at me. “What about yours? The one with the woman who doesn’t know what she wants?”

“She’s spent her whole life being useful,” I said, surprising myself with the honesty. “Being the person people come to when they need something. And somewhere along the way she forgot that she’s allowed to need things too. To want things just for herself.”

“Do you think she’ll figure it out?”

“I don’t know how to write that ending yet. I’m not sure what it looks like.”

James stopped walking, turned to face me. The lamplight caught his face, made the gray in his hair look silver.

“Can I tell you what I think?” he asked gently.

“Please.”

“I think maybe she needs someone who wants her just because. Not because of what she can give them. Not because she makes their life easier. Just because of who she is.” He paused. “And I think she probably deserves that, even if she doesn’t believe it yet.”

My throat felt tight. “That’s a good ending.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

We started walking again, and when we reached the corner where he’d turn toward his building and I’d head toward mine, he touched my arm lightly.

“Would you want to have dinner sometime?” he asked. “My place, maybe? I make a decent pasta, and I’d really like to keep talking to you. No agenda, just… company.”

The way he asked—hopeful but not presumptuous, genuinely wanting my company—made my answer easy.

“I’d like that.”

“Tomorrow? Seven?”

“Perfect.”

He smiled, and I felt it in my chest.

“See you tomorrow, Scarlett.”

I arrived at seven-fifteen with a ceramic dish of baked ziti.

I’d told myself I wasn’t going to bring anything, that James had invited me just for company, but the habit was so ingrained I’d found myself cooking anyway. Something warm and comforting, because that’s what I did. I took care of people.

His apartment was on the third floor of a restored Victorian on the edge of the Quarter, the kind of building that had original hardwood floors and crown molding and windows that rattled slightly when the wind picked up. He opened the door in jeans and a soft gray henley with the sleeves pushed up, and his face lit up when he saw me.

Then his eyes dropped to the dish in my hands, and he laughed—warm, delighted.

“You brought food.”

“I know, I know, you said you were cooking, but I couldn’t help myself.” I felt my cheeks heat. “Old habits.”

“It’s sweet.” He took the dish from me, and when our fingers brushed I felt the contact like electricity. “Really. Thank you. We’ll have leftovers for days now.”

He set it on the counter and turned back to me, and there was something soft in his expression that made my breath catch.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply.

“Me too.”

The apartment smelled like garlic and tomatoes, warm and inviting. Books everywhere—on shelves, stacked on the coffee table, piled next to the couch. A writer’s space, lived-in and loved, the kind of place that felt like someone actually used it for thinking.

“Wine?” he offered, already reaching for a bottle.

“Please.”

He poured two glasses and handed me one, then gestured to the small kitchen table where he’d already set two places. Candles, even. Simple white ones that flickered softly in the dimming light.

“This is lovely,” I said.

“I wanted it to be nice.” He seemed almost shy about it. “You can sit, or you can keep me company while I finish cooking. Whatever feels comfortable.”

I sat, watching him move around the kitchen with easy competence. He stirred sauce, tasted it, added a pinch of something. The way he moved was unhurried, present, like he was enjoying the process.

“Can I ask you something?” I said after a moment.

“Always.”

“Why did you move to Blackthorn? You said you needed a change, but…”

“Sarah and I lived in Seattle,” he said, not looking away from the stove. “After she died, everything there reminded me of her. Our apartment, our favorite restaurants, the running trails we used to do together. For a while that was comforting. Then it started to hurt more than it helped.”

He turned to face me, leaning against the counter.

“I needed to be somewhere that was just mine,” he continued. “Somewhere I could figure out who I am without her. Not because I want to forget her—I don’t. But because I need to know I can still be a whole person on my own.”

“And Blackthorn?”

“Seemed quiet. Beautiful. A good place to think.” He smiled. “And the Literary Bean has excellent coffee.”

“It does.”

“Plus,” he added, voice going softer, “I met you. So that was a bonus.”

Heat flooded my chest, my face. “James—”

“Too much?”

“No. Just… unexpected.”

“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”

“Good,” I said quietly. “Definitely good.”

He held my gaze for a long moment, something electric passing between us, then turned back to the stove with a small smile.

“Dinner’s almost ready.”

We ate and talked about everything—books, writing, the ways loss changes you and the ways it doesn’t. James asked questions that felt like genuine curiosity, not interviews, and when I found myself deflecting he didn’t call me out on it. He just waited, patient and warm, until I felt safe enough to answer honestly.

“Tell me about your ex,” he said over the second glass of wine, voice gentle. “If you want to. No pressure.”

I surprised myself by wanting to.

“David. We dated for eight years. I thought—” I stopped, started again. “I thought if I was good enough, supportive enough, if I took care of everything, he’d stay.”

“And he didn’t?”

“He left for someone who didn’t try so hard. Who didn’t make him feel like a project.” I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “The worst part is, I understand why. I must have been exhausting.”

James was quiet for a moment. Then: “Or he was taking advantage of someone who gave more than he deserved.”

“Maybe.”

“Scarlett.” He reached across the table, and when I gave him my hand he held it gently. “From what I can see, you’re someone who cares deeply. Who pays attention to people, who wants to help. That’s not a flaw. That’s a gift.”

“It doesn’t feel like a gift when people leave anyway.”

“Then they weren’t the right people.” He squeezed my hand. “The right person wouldn’t make you feel like caring is too much. They’d know how lucky they were.”

I felt tears prick at my eyes and blinked them back.

“How are you so kind?” I whispered.

“I’m not. I just know what it feels like to be with someone who saw you.” His voice went rough with emotion. “Sarah used to say I gave too much of myself to my writing, that I forgot to save anything for us. She wasn’t wrong. And after she died, I realized I’d give anything to have the chance to be better. To be present. To actually show up.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. I’m telling you because I want you to know—I see how hard you try. How much you care. And I think that’s something to be celebrated, not hidden.”

The tears spilled over then, and I wiped at them with my free hand.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying—”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He stood, came around the table, and crouched beside my chair. “Hey. You’re allowed to feel things.”

“I just—” I took a shaky breath. “I’m so tired of feeling like I’m too much. Like if I just need less, want less, I’ll be easier to love.”

“Scarlett.” His hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing away tears. “What if the problem wasn’t that you were too much? What if they just weren’t enough?”

The words settled into my chest like truth.

“I don’t know how to believe that,” I whispered.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to believe it tonight.” He smiled, gentle and warm. “But maybe eventually.”

I leaned into his touch, and when he stood he pulled me up with him, wrapped his arms around me in a hug that felt like safety. I buried my face in his chest and let myself be held, just for a moment, without having to give anything back.

“Thank you,” I said into his shirt.

“Anytime.”

When I pulled back, we were close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up, a question in them.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.

“Please.”

He kissed me slowly, sweetly, his hand cradling the back of my head like I was something precious. It was gentle at first, tentative, and then I made a small sound and his other hand came to my waist, pulling me closer.

The kiss deepened, turned hungry, and I felt heat flood through my whole body. My hands fisted in his shirt and he groaned into my mouth, the sound sending sparks down my spine.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Wanted to make sure you wanted it too.”

“I do.” My hands slid up his chest. “I really, really do.”

His eyes darkened with want. “Do you want to stay?”

“Yes.”

He took my hand, laced our fingers together, and led me down the hallway to his bedroom—a space full of warm lamplight and books and a bed with rumpled sheets that looked slept-in and real.

When he closed the door behind us, the sound felt like permission.

Like inevitability.

Like everything I’d been trying not to want but couldn’t help wanting anyway.