Page 13 of Crushes to WHAT

“Is this all of the lasagna?” he asks, breaking my reverie. “There’s not more hiding in the freezer to be baked, is there?”

When I clear my vision of the haze of possibility, I see real-life Emerson gazing longingly at the casserole dish, which lies almost empty between us.

I shake my head. “I only made one, but if you’re still hungry, you can eat the rest. I made it for you.” I hadn’t exactly realized he’d eat this much. I know he’s big, but I’ve never seen him eat a meal start-to-finish before. I had no frame of reference when planning for dinner.

Glancing at the nearly decimated meal, I now have a frame of reference. More. I need to make more.

Emerson frowns. “I was in your fridge earlier. The only thing I saw in there was the salad, which we’ve now eaten, a carton of eggs, a half-gallon of milk, and a host of condiments. I know you work tomorrow and won’t have time to go to the store beforehand. If I eat the rest of this, are you going to have food for lunch?”

I absolutely will not have food for lunch if he eats the rest of this lasagna. As it is, I had planned on having leftovers every lunch this week.

Still. “I’m going to the store after work tomorrow,” I reply. “If I need lunch, I can have someone bring me something from the diner, no biggie. If you’re hungry now, I want you to eat.”

Emerson—thoughtful, sweet, caring Emerson—scowls. “I’m not going to knowingly eat your lunch, Almond. I’ve had plenty. It’s just good. Really, really good. I’m sad that it’s over for me, but I’m not going to waste away if I resist overindulging.”

My skin warms pleasantly. “You really like it?”

“I really love it,” he corrects. “And I’ll stop being sad if you promise me you’ll make it for me again soon.”

I squirm happily. “I can do that,” I answer. “I promise. I can write the recipe down for you, too?”

“Absolutely not,” he replies firmly. “If I cook it myself, I’ll have to eat it alone, and I know in my soul that it won’t taste nearly as good without a pretty woman sitting across from me, eyes glazed while she plays fantasies in her head that make me wish I could see into her thoughts at will.”

My cheeks burn, and I bring my hands up to cover them with a squeak.

Emerson chuckles low and hot. “I like it,” he says roughly, then his voice gentles as he continues. “I like this. Dinner with you. Serving you food you made for me, making secrets for just us. Watching your eyes glass over as you stare at me. Watching you blush when you come back down to reality with me. I like all of it, Almond.” His eyes soften to match his tone. “Thank you for making me dinner, baby, and for giving me the gift of your presence through it.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply breathily as butterflies fly circles in my belly. “I… like this, too. A lot.”

More than I ought to, maybe, but Emerson doesn’t seem to mind.

In fact, when he smiles at me and rises to clear the table—much to my protest—I think that maybe he more than doesn’t mind.

Maybe he likes how much I like the way he gives me this and that and more.

Chapter Seven

▲

What’s better than having two brothers?

Almond

I need a debrief. Or, possibly, several of them. Poem. Leora. My diary. Anonymous crush-themed forums online. I need to tell everyone about my evening with Emerson, and I need to do it now.

Which is why I sit in Sterne Donovan’s car at 1:00 AM, hurtling down the road at—I glance at the spedometer—twenty-five miles-per-hour toward Blackwood Brew, my brother’s bar. Our parents owned the bar all through our childhood and several years past it, when Fox was riding around the country on his motorcycle to avoid the inevitable passing of the torch. Why it was being passed to Fox, who clearly didn’t want the flaming ball of responsibility, I have no idea. I guess Wolfe was already into his tattoo apprenticeship and showing promise, and I’ve always been pretty set on cosmetology, but…

I mean, I could’ve cut hair from the bar, right?

Okay, maybe I’m being obtuse. Our parents didn’t want to rip any of our dreams away, including Fox—not that anyone could tell him that, the stubborn dummy. They would’ve kept working the bar into old age, waiting for a grandchild with a passion for slinging beer to come along, if Fox had just, you know, communicated with them. Unfortunately for us all, Fox isn’t the best communicator, and we lost years with him because of it.

He’s back now, though, and doing loads better at not only speaking what’s on his mind, but asking for help when the darker, self-hatredy bits of his psyche start to take over, and it’s all thanks to the most amazing woman I’ve ever met—Poem Devoe. Not that long ago, she was handed a man on the brink of a scary precipice, and she brought him back from the ledge in her classic Poem way—with loads of bullying. She might have horrible taste in snacks, but she’s the best friend I could have dreamed of having, and the best fianceé my brother could never have dared to wish for.

It brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it.

And now we get to be legally acknowledged sisters!

“Tell me again why you called me in the middle of the night to drive you less than ten minutes down the road,” Sterne interrupts my pleasant Poem thoughts. “On the phone you made it sound like an emergency, but your house seems intact, and your person seems intact, and I don’t know what you’d need Fox or Poem for in an emergency, anyway.”