Page 47 of Crushes to WHAT

I eye him. “Not even if I asked really nicely?” Enemy Emerson has starred in my daydreams more than once. Surely if I say please, he’ll let me have a little bit of enemies…

Emerson groans, tipping his head back as he shoves mine into his neck. “Don’t look at me like that,” he rumbles. “I’m powerless to resist.”

“It won’t be real,” I speak into his skin. “It’ll be for fun—like fake dating, except a different trope. A brand new trope for us to play with.” I quiet, shy in my bold request. “You’ll play with me, won’t you?”

He groans again, and his fingertips dig into my scalp. “I’ll play anything you want to, baby. Any way you want to. So long as you know what’s real is this—me wanting you near me, with me, all mine, always. I can pretend to be your enemy if it’ll make you happy, but you have to swear to me that you know it’s play, and only play.”

The very fact that he’d be willing to pretend for me shows just how he feels about me, and a surge of emotion rises so strong it brings tears to my eyes. “Only play,” I agree. Unable to find the courage to say the words to express how grateful I am that he would play with me for the rest of our lives, I kiss his throat, right over his pounding heartbeat.

He squishes me to him, then pokes at my phone in my hand. “Call your parents. I want to be one step closer to having you as my wife.”

Unsure if he means having me or having me, but entirely sure I’m all in for either, I tilt my head away from his neck and dial my mom. She answers quickly, jumping right into a tale of woe regarding a morning walk and a bad batch of cinnamon rolls.

“Mom,” I interrupt. “As sympathetic as I am to your morning pastry plight, I didn’t call you to gab.”

She quiets before asking solemnly, “Honey, did someone… die?”

I roll my eyes. “Me not wanting to gossip doesn’t mean someone died. You’re so dramatic.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to think?” she asks, so genuinely. “My morning cinnamon roll was a disaster large enough to be considered an omen, then you call acting weird. How many other options are there?”

“A million?” I offer. “A trillion?”

She replies in some way, but my attention flutters to Emerson’s arm, which tightens around me, and his chest, which shakes in silent laughter.

I blink.

How… did I forget that he was there, beneath me, when the whole reason I’m making this phone call is because he’s there, beneath me?

Grimacing, I interrupt my mother again. “I’m getting married.”

The line goes so silent, I worry I’ve somehow hung up on her.

Then, she screams, and I worry my eardrum will burst.

I pull the phone away from my ear while she does her thing and wince.

“Are those happy screams?” Emerson asks.

I shrug. “Probably. She’s not much of a yeller when she’s upset. She’s more likely to grab you by your ear and drag you around while she lectures you.”

He grins, amused, but only because he’s never experienced a Belinda Blackwood ear-grab-lecture combo. His ignorance is blissful.

“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh!” Mom gushes through the phone. Her volume decreases marginally, and I set the device against my ear. “Oh my gosh!”

“Can we do family dinner the day after tomorrow? We can’t get married until we’ve done Meet The Parents, and we have dinner with his family tomorrow.”

“Oh my gosh,” she squeals. “You’re marrying Emerson? Finally?”

My brows furrow. “What do you mean ‘finally’? We’ve been dating for two seconds.” If anything, as my mother, she should be discouraging me from a shotgun wedding.

Except, I forgot. My mother is a reader, just like me, but she reads historical as her main form of entertainment. Her books are chock-full of quick, whirlwind romances ending with couples eloping to Gretna Green. She once described a book where I know the main characters meet, fall in love, and get married all within the span of two weeks as “slow burn.” To her, I probably should’ve gotten married the first night Emerson showed up at my house.

“You two have been together for ages, in your hearts,” she says. “At this point dating is a formality and a waste of time for everyone.” She warms to her cause. “In fact! Why don’t you invite the Wrights to the bar for family dinner, and we can have one big meal together. Then you and Emerson won’t have to wait any extra days.”

My eyes bug out of my head. “Mom, I can’t meet his parents with my entire family watching.”

But Emerson hums, thoughtful. “It would speed up the process,” he muses.