Page 44 of Crushes to WHAT

My stomach flutters with a million trillion butterflies. “That’s not it,” I reply, face warming as he adopts the same hate-filled scowl he had when he pulled his truck into the parking lot of the hardware-lumber-outdoor-furniture store and declared, “As much as I love that you made that loser build you a library before dumping him, I can’t stand the thought of you sitting down among shelves crafted by another man’s hands while you relax. He shouldn’t get even a spare thought in your life, and it’s within my power to make sure he doesn’t. I’m going to make that man obsolete. You’re going to sit among shelves crafted by me while you read books that make you blush the way that I make you blush. When you walk into your library, you’re going to think of nothing but books and me. And while I’m at it, you’re getting shelves in your living room, too. Because screw that guy.”

I said one thing about me paying for this endeavor, and he shut it down soundly. I didn’t fight him on it. I was too busy trying not to jump him, to be quite honest. All of my mental faculties were used up on keeping my lips—and hands—to myself. Not everyone would like the possessive, jealousy-driven decision to spend thousands of dollars redoing a perfectly serviceable home library, but I most certainly do. A lot. Significantly. Much. Very.

It’s freaking hot.

So hot that I fist my fingers in the purple fabric of my skirt and find the courage to explain myself, even if sharing my feelings creates a knot in my chest I can hardly breathe through. “They’re too far away from you.”

Emerson twitches like I’ve shocked him, then his entire being softens. His shoulders fall back, and his eyelids lower. “Baby,” he murmurs.

My heart beats a hard rhythm in my chest. “I don’t want to be that far away,” I whisper. My hands hit my cheeks in a vain attempt to hide their scarlet hue. “I want to be with you, where it’s safe and cozy and maybe I’ll get a kiss even though I told you we shouldn’t, or maybe you’ll look at me and your pretty brown eyes will shine in a way that I wouldn’t be able to see from way over there.” My breaths quicken. “Or maybe you’ll hold my hand, or run your fingers through my hair, or call me baby, like that, and I’ll need to be close to hear the inflection you give it—to hear the syllables wrap around your tongue like you love the taste of them. I don’t want to be over there, where I can’t experience you. I want to be here.” My hands creep up, nearly covering my eyes. I want him to look at me, so I can see him looking—so I can watch his face as the harsh lines melt for me. I want to hide, invisible from his sight, because I’ve opened up so much, and he’s seeing further than he has before, and I feel so exposed.

“Baby,” he repeats, the endearment a rumble torn from his chest. “Come here.”

Shaking, I take a step closer to him.

That’s all he needs. He reaches for me, arm going around my waist as he pulls my body the rest of the way to him. His fingers dig into my hip, and his other hand dives into my hair. He tugs until my face aligns with his, then he kisses me, hard and fast and claiming.

When he releases my lips, it’s with a curse. “We can’t get kicked out of the hardware store,” he groans, pressing me hard against his chest. “But I need you to know that I would love nothing more than to do things with you that would get us kicked out of the hardware store right now.”

I whimper.

He curses again, and then his tongue is in my mouth, and my hands are on his shoulders, and—

“You can’t do that here,” a high-pitched, tinny voice squawks behind me.

Emerson disengages with a sigh.

I whimper. Again. Because I am nothing if not pathetically desperate for this man.

But I’m starting to think that maybe—maybe—he might be a little pathetically desperate for me, too.

Chapter Twenty-Three

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I don’t know, girlie, I think a first date should be exactly like this.

Almond

I don’t think that dates are supposed to last this long or be this… charged.

Being totally honest, I’m not sure if what we’re doing counts as a date anymore at all. When we got back to my house, Emerson all but shoved me onto the couch, set my new stack(s!) of books on the coffee table, turned on my favorite faux fireplace on the TV, lit a candle, and ordered me to Stay right there.

Unable and unwilling to do anything else, I stayed put as he disappeared, then reappeared carrying a massive toolbox, a condensating can of soda, and a pink silly straw in the shape of a heart. He set the toolbox on the hardwood floor near the TV stand and placed the soda and straw delicately on a flower-shaped coaster on the coffee table.

He then, without warning or aplomb, took everything out of my TV stand, pushed the entire thing out of the room, and went to work measuring the now-empty space. When he caught me gawking, he paused to open my soda, turn the tab around to hold the straw in it, and then tap it an inch closer to me. I took the hint and sipped some of the fizzy drink. Not quite satisfied, he grabbed a book from the stack of them and opened it to page one before putting it directly into my hands.

“Alright,” I’d muttered. “I suppose I’ll read and drink and laze about while you do a project in my living room to make me feel seen and adored. If I have to.”

“Good,” he’d rumbled before getting really, really close and… not kissing me. His eyes sparked, and the tip of his nose grazed the tip of mine before he backed off. He took a deep breath, shook his hands out, and tipped his chin out to my book. “Read,” he bossed gruffly. “I want to look up from my project and be tempted to interrupt you, but unable to because what we have isn’t real, no matter how badly I wish it could be. Fake dating only works if there’s secret pining, my research shows, and I can’t secretly pine if you’re staring at me.”

I’d hidden my blush behind the particularly salacious book he’d given me, and he’d gone back to work.

True to his word, as I gasped and laughed and squealed at the pages of a particularly enticing paranormal romcom, I felt his eyes on me several times, boring into the side of my face with an intensity that had me skipping lines and jumbling words more than I’d care to admit. At one point, I had to backtrack an entire three pages.

It’s a miracle he’s made any progress on the short bookcase he’s building, considering how much time he’s spent on “unrequited” pining.

It’s a miracle my heart and lungs haven’t fully collapsed under the heady weight of his attention and desire, too.