“Me,” all three guys said simultaneously.
There was a lot of jostling and elbow jabbing going on as they all stood at the same time. Emmitt’s palms began to sweat as if he were fifteen again and the prettiest girl in the room had asked him to dance.
“Good thing it’s a fast song,” she said, kissing Levi on the cheek, then taking Gray and Emmitt by the hand. “I bet I’ll be the only girl on the dance floor lucky enough to dance with three dads.”
* * *
Standing at the counter covered in a light dusting of flour and a worn Boston University shirt she’d borrowed from Emmitt, Annie kneaded a batch of egg noodles for Grandma Hannah’s farmhouse chicken soup recipe. It was her fifth batch and third change of clothes of the night.
Her mom had told her to buy the egg noodles, but Annie was determined to make it just like her grandma had when Annie was little. The next Pho Shizzle potluck was a little over a week away and, with some serious kitchen time, she actually had a shot at nailing this. Plus, the kneading brought up warm memories of the summers she’d spent in her grandparents’ kitchen, Grandma Hannah whisking up one of her many recipes with Annie standing on a wooden chair in pigtails and an oversized apron, with flour down her front, acting as sous chef.
She hadn’t quite mastered the noodles, but she knew she was close to figuring out the perfect balance of working and resting time. It was more than she could say for her personal life.
She glanced at the sticky notes on the fridge that had been waiting for her when she came home from work, and her heart did a seriousbaa boombefore rolling all the way over.
She didn’t know which part was sweeter—the big red line through the word “don’t” or that he loved her scrubs.
Oh yes, she was in trouble. It was becoming more than apparent—no matter how much resting time she gave herself between kisses, she didn’t think her need for Emmitt would ever go away. And it wasn’t the physical need that frightened her.
She’d left home on a journey of self-discovery for one, vowing to figure out who she was on her own before inviting a man to the table. What she hadn’t anticipated was just how long and lonely that journey could be. Nor had she imagined how much she would grow to like the person she was around Emmitt.
She’d never been around someone who affected her the way he did, but the changes he inspired didn’t happen in a smothering or all-consuming way, like relationships of the past. His impact was gentle and nurturing and, when she let herself admit it, loving. He awakened parts of her personality she’d thought had taken a permanent sabbatical.
And she could see the subtle changes in him as well. Changes that were more a result of her shutting off what people said about him and seeing him for the man he really was. It was no surprise she’d fallen for him.
Which she had. Totally, completely, and irreversibly. She’d fallen hard for a guy who considered the world his home.
They had agreed—no fake promises and no secrets. While the good girl part demanded that she live up to the agreement and come clean, the other part of her, who remembered exactly how painful it was to be rejected, warned her that all being honest would do was effectively ruin the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Because being honest meant coming clean about everything. Love and trust were both vital parts of a relationship.
And if she were being honest with herself, it wasn’t her fear of taking things too fast that had her stalling. She couldn’t make love to Emmitt again—because they’d blown right past casual sex—until she came clean about Les’s cancer.
Professionally, it wasn’t her secret to share. But the feelings Annie had developed for Emmitt were anything but professional. So when she’d run into Les in the infusion center yesterday, she’d told him that he had to come clean with Emmitt. Or she would set up an accidental “run-in” for the two of them to get reacquainted. Which wasn’t exactly breaking her medical oath, but in her heart she knew it would be breaking an ethical one.
She looked down at the tough and rubbery ball of dough and sighed. Another contribution to the garbage, she thought, as she chucked it into the trash bin she’d dragged to the end of the island. At least her shooting skills were improving.
She knocked the cutting board against the side of the sink to get the remaining flour and dough off, then set it back on the counter, swaying to the music coming from her phone. The ingredients were already lined up, so she added the flour and salt to a clean bowl and was whisking them together when her cell vibrated.
She carefully picked the phone up between the palms of her hands, so as not to gum it up any further with dough. After blowing some stray hairs out of her face, she lifted the cell high enough to swipe right with the only part of her body not covered in flour—her nose. A text popped up.
Annie took in the disaster of a kitchen and laughed. Based on the mess, she should have a nine-course meal prepared. She used her knuckle to text back.
And just like that, a million butterflies took flight in her stomach. She glanced at her reflection in the polished stainless-steel refrigerator door and gasped. Lord, was she ever a mess.
Only Emmitt could make her laugh and horny with a single text. It was another one of the many things she loved about being around him. She’d laughed more with him than she’d laughed in all her years with Clark.
“You left out that it’s my shirt and you’re not wearing pants,” a very amused and very masculine voice said from the general direction of the front of the house.
Startled, Annie dropped the phone and it landed with a muted thud, followed by a cloud of flour. Her heart was doing some thudding of its own. The longer she looked at Emmitt, dressed in a suit and tie fit for the red carpet with a leather jacket that added a touch of bad boy to the GQ vibe he had going on, the louder the thumping became, until she was certain he could hear it.
“My T-shirts and jeans are in the wash,” she explained, then reached into the bowl for her phone. But her hands were wet, which caused the flour to stick to them.
“Lucky me,” he said, coming up behind her until his front was pressed against her back and his arms came around. “Let me help.”
He took her phone and set it on the dish towel next to the cutting board, then brushed her hair to the side so he could kiss the curve where her neck met her shoulder. And kiss and kiss, until her head dropped back against his chest.
“As good as I remembered,” he whispered.
