Page 34 of Crushes to WHAT

He dips his head, nestling his nose next to mine. “Did you buy all this food for me, or are you a secret hoarder?”

“You need a lot of calories to stay healthy,” I mutter.

He hums an agreement. “You taking care of me, baby? Feeding me. Making people treat me right.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, a soft peck.

I whimper.

He kisses again, catching a little bit more of my mouth.

My breath hitches.

“Strawberry day,” he murmurs.

“Strawberry kiwi,” I correct on a breath. “But I only had strawberry lip balm.”

“Tastes good. Tastes like summer, even though it’s past.” He hums. “You gonna have fall themed days, too? If I taste you in a week, will it be cinnamon on my tongue?”

“Tongue?” I wheeze.

His tongue sneaks out to poke my lower lip, then disappears before I can recover. It surprises me in its playfulness.

“Oh my gosh.”

“My favorite fall flavor is pumpkin,” he informs me. “The first time I kiss you—really kiss you—that’s what you’ll taste like. Pumpkin and Almond. Fall and beauty.” He pecks that same spot, not quite cheek, not quite lip. “It’ll be loads better than that ice cream melting in your trunk.”

I curse. Loudly.

Chapter Eighteen

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Well, if it’s what a boyfriend would do…

Almond

We don’t eat ice cream Monday night. Or Tuesday night, or Wednesday night, or any night the entire week, because when I went back into the store with my melted ice cream tubs, the high school boy wouldn’t let me buy more. He said I was bad for their shrinkage rates, which reflects poorly on the store. He refused the return and made me take my sticky, dripping cardboard cylinders with me.

It’s just as well. Emerson, I’ve learned, likes nearly everything, especially when it comes to desserts. The lemon cake from the diner didn’t stand a chance, nor did the chocolate bundt cake, pecan pie, apple tart, or hazelnut brownies I made. It was gratifying, to say the least, watching him giddily inhale every new treat I presented, and perhaps more gratifying to watch his face fall upon realizing there wasn’t any left after he devoured them.

“I’ll make you something new tomorrow,” I told him every day, and every day I followed through on that promise. My kitchen might need a renovation next with how often I’m using it. I do not have enough counterspace for this level of work. It’s not just the desserts, but the dinners, too. My countertops constantly overflow with serving dishes, and my poor dishwasher suffers.

Alas, in every war there must be a few casualties. And I’m told that love is war. Or… something. And what we’re doing is love, definitely. Sort of. I mean, it’s fake love, but still. Well, okay, fake love on his part, real infatuation that I believe is love but it’s probably too early in my actually interacting with him to call it that on my part.

Either way, my dishwasher is totally toast.

My toaster is fine, though, thanks for asking.

My phone buzzes, and I blink away from the craft scattered across my coffee table to check it.

Emerson (!!!): A boyfriend would take his girlfriend out on a date on a Saturday night.

I blush and wiggle deep into my plush couch as my thumbs hover over my phone’s keyboard. I wasn’t expecting to hear from Emerson this weekend, even if he did seem as reluctant as I was to say goodbye last night. Also, the last time I texted him…

I scroll up and cringe at my complete lack of chill. I vow to do better this time.

Almond: His girlfriend would surely love that.

Almond: And wonder where they’re going.