Page 9 of Crushes to WHAT

I shake my head. “Nothing more than what I’ve told you. It’s just… I had this dream…”

Leora, Muse, and Sonnet all lean in as Poem cackles.

“Tell us more,” Leora croons.

Skin burning and a smile on my face, I do tell them more—in detail, until Sonnet covers her flushing face and even Muse stares wide-eyed with scandal.

“Almond,” Poem says, the you go girl implied.

“That was much better than Muse’s book,” Leora murmurs, fanning her face.

“Totally,” Poem agrees.

Muse picks up her copy of this month’s book and tosses it at the trash can. She misses, but the sentiment is there. “I’m not picking anymore,” she says. “When it’s my turn, we’ll just have Almond relay another dream.”

Chapter Five

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Who cares about fire safety? This isn’t Sterne’s book.

Almond

I wasn’t lying to Emerson when I told him that he makes me feel safe, and I think I prove that to him when, on his first night of work, I fall asleep on my couch with candles lit and the oven on.

Or maybe I only proved that I could, under certain circumstances, burn my house down.

“Do you do this often,” he asks, broad shoulders bunching as he leans over my prone form on the couch.

“Sleep?” I ask groggily, instinctively moving to rise but stopping when Emerson doesn’t move back to give me the space to do so. Instead, he presses me into the cushions with his hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t get up,” he orders. “You look pretty there.”

I- do?

“I got dinner out of the oven. Lasagna’ll need a few minutes to cool before you cut it, so you might as well stay here and let me look at you while we wait.”

“Oh my gosh,” I whisper hoarsely, sleep coating the words in gravel.

Wisps of his hair fall out of his carelessly tied up bun, reaching for my heart and tying it in knots. He bends farther over me, and my breath catches when his short beard scratches the sensitive skin of my neck as he aligns his mouth with my ear. “I saw you made a lot,” he says. “You planning to feed me, Almond?”

I stammer, wheeze, and ultimately decide that nodding is a perfectly acceptable way to answer a question.

He pulls back, eyelids heavy with satisfaction. “Sweet,” he murmurs. “You’re so sweet, I can’t hardly stand it. It makes me want to…” His gaze drops to my mouth.

“Please,” I whisper before sanity has a chance to take hold of my groggy, sleep-addled, Emerson-addled brain.

Still, Emerson doesn’t kiss me like I want him to—like I think he wants to. He shakes his head, sighs, and falls to his knees beside the couch.

I blink. “You’re on your knees.”

“I am always on my knees for you,” he replies casually, almost carelessly. “Is that salad in your fridge for the lasagna?”

I nod, but my mind is not on lasagna.

I am always on my knees for you.

“What’s going on?” I ask. Belatedly, maybe.