Page 30 of Crushes to WHAT

Uh huh. Except I know the prices here, and I know that tip is at least thirty percent, if not slightly more.

My skin tingles warmly. “I like how generous you are,” I say, forcing the words past the shy lump in my throat. He should know that he’s seen and appreciated, even if it makes me blush to say so. “In big ways and small.”

He doesn’t reply, but I see the smile as he ducks his head, and I’m happy I spoke up. For even the hint of a smile, it was worth it.

So unbelievably worth it.

“Home,” he says.

“Home,” I agree.

I go home with Emerson Wright, and he helps me clean my kitchen before going back out to my studio to finish up for the day. Once he’s done, he pokes his head into the house to say goodbye.

When his work truck backs out of my driveway, I keep my composure better than after his previous leavings. I don’t melt onto the hardwood floor to stare at the door he walked out of, unable to move for the sheer disbelief that this is my current life.

I melt upstairs, in my bed, to stare at my ceiling wide-eyed, unable to move for sheer disbelief that this is my real, current life.

Progress, I’d say.

Chapter Sixteen

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Feeding a man sure is expensive.

Almond

When you’re one of the only hairdressers in a small town, you tend to know a lot of people. When you’re one of the only hairdressers in a small town, and your parents owned one of the only bars in that small town, and you grew up in that small town, you tend to know a lot of people. Like… a lot, a lot. So many, in fact, that even something as innocuous as going to the grocery store can turn into an hours-long event that has you concerned that your frozen items are going to melt in your cart, including the triple-chocolate-fudge ice cream you bought because it’s your fake boyfriend’s favorite and you’re determined to make his next dinner at your house the best ever, all the way down to dessert, because you realized a full twenty-four hours after he left your house that you forgot about the lemon cake he put in your fridge when he showed up to work.

…no? That’s just me?

“That sure is a lot of food,” Amia, my sweet, beautiful, perfect, well-meaning niece, says as she pokes around in my cart. “Is this ice cream for me?”

“No!” I squawk, frazzled.

I take a deep, calming breath. This is Amia, my beloved. It’s not her fault that I ran into her and her dad, my stinky brother, after running into approximately the entire rest of October’s population, nor is it her fault that Emerson’s ice cream is actively melting. “Sorry,” I say, tone adjusted. I pat her wee head. “That’s not for you, though. It’s for Emerson.”

Wolfe raises an eyebrow at me, and even Amia seems to catch on that this bit of news is Something with a capital S.

“You’re buying ice cream for Emerson?” Wolfe asks.

I lift my chin. “Yes.”

“Is he your boy-friend?” Amia singssongs, rocking back and forth on her heels.

I maintain eye contact with Wolfe, who raises his other brow to meet the first.

“Yes,” I answer. “Actually, he is.”

A huge, freaking scary smile overtakes Wolfe’s face.

I take a step back. “What’s that for?” I point at the offending thing, and a shiver runs through me. “Don’t do that. Stop it.”

“Daddy, you look like you’re scheming,” Amia says. “Which wouldn’t be fair at all. You told me we were having a no-scheming month. I put all my plans on hold for it. I didn’t even make you let me call Almond back the other day, since the first call was ‘scheme-coded’, according to you. You can’t go back on the rule now. It would be a bad example to me, an impressionable youth.”

Wolfe eyes his daughter skeptically. “How many plans did you have brewing?”

Her face blanks, and she blinks, the picture of a girl who has never connived in her life.