Page 11 of Crushes to WHAT

He sighs, but it’s more amused than exasperated. “Yes. As part of our this and that and more, we are finding a groove together.”

“I don’t think I understand what you mean by any of that,” I admit. “Like… at all.”

He hums an acknowledgement, but doesn’t jump to enlighten me.

“Maybe you could share with me what you mean?” I prompt.

“I’m thinking,” he says slowly. “That I… don’t think I will. I’m kind of enjoying watching you figure it out. And as important as communication is for this and that and more…” He trails off and sighs again, this time dreamily. “I just can’t resist temptation, can I? The temptation to be here with you. The temptation to spend minutes watching you sleep before waking you up. The temptation to play with you, just a little, in making you figure it out on your own…” He shakes his head, and I startle when his nose brushes mine. I didn’t realize I’d pulled him so close—that he’d let me pull him so close. “I will be honest with you, always. In everything. I will protect you. I will keep you safe. I will tell you how I’m feeling, and what I’m thinking, and I will do so with and without prompting, depending on what the situation calls for. But, I don’t think I’ll expand on what, specifically, is happening here. I want to watch you figure it out. I want to watch you blush and stutter, and I want to see your beautiful blue eyes widen as you get a little closer to discovery. I want to watch you take the journey. I want to watch you experience this and that and more. Selfishly, I want to let myself enjoy watching you find the page I’m on and join me there.”

“You’re not selfish,” I say immediately, by rote, because it’s the absolute truth. Emerson Wright is not a selfish man. Not now, and not ever.

When Poem’s house got flooded last spring, his company did all of the repairs free of charge, pulling money from a special fund they have set up specifically to help people in the community when they’re in need like Poem was. They didn’t take a dime from my friend, even though taking money from clients is, like, the entire point of having a job.

And I happen to know that Emerson was the driving force behind creating that fund. He saw the people in our community struggling, and he did what he could to set up a system to lessen their struggle.

Beyond that big, huge, clear act of selflessness are the smaller ones I’ve witnessed in my casual—not creepy—observations of him through the years.

He’s unfailingly kind to everyone he interacts with. He tips generously at the bar. He mows his elderly neighbor’s lawn because her husband died, and the grass started to get high, and he knew she couldn’t do it herself or afford to have it done.

For him to call himself selfish is akin to if he were to call himself a bird, or a mouse, or short. Utterly ridiculous.

And so what if he is being selfish, anyway? Surely a lifetime of selflessness would then earn a man a time or two of taking what he wants just because he wants it, so long as he’s not hurting anyone. And if the one thing he wants—the one thing he’s asking for, after all the good he’s done for everyone around him—if that one thing is a thing I can provide? If it’s as simple as putting on my detective hat instead of asking him to spell out what is probably obvious if I were at all able to think straight in his vicinity?

Then he can have it. I give it freely.

“I’m thinking selfish thoughts,” he says, tugging at the corner of my frown with his thumb.

“I’m okay with what you want,” I reply, and my breath hitches when my lips catch on his finger.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Even if you don’t know exactly what that is?”

“I know that you want to serve me dinner,” I reply. “I know that you want to keep me safe. I know that you want to treat me with respect and care. I know that you’re not the sort of man to have nefarious intentions. I know that I believe you when you say you won’t tell my mom that I failed in my host duties when you were here.” I maintain eye contact, even when it feels like I might fall right into the chestnut depths of his gentle gaze. “I know that I trust you,” I murmur. “And that’s good enough for me.”

He drops his forehead to mine, and his hand slides back, away from my mouth and into my hair. The callouses on his fingers and palm scrape my scalp pleasurably when they travel around my head to settle on the back of it, holding me in place as his face tilts minutely toward me. His approach ends only when the tips of our noses press softly against each other.

My knees buckle, and he catches me with an arm around my waist.

“Oh. My. Freaking. Gosh.”

“You’re perfect,” he says. “I knew you were perfect, but…” He curses. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m gonna pass out,” I wheeze.

“Go ahead.” His arm tightens at my waist, fingers pressing in to support me. “Swoon for me, baby. I’ll catch you.” Another cuss falls from his lips. “But you know that, don’t you? Because you trust me. Trust me so much you’ll let me play with you—let me have my fun watching you catch up.” He shudders. “It’s heady, the power you’re giving me.”

“You might have to catch me,” I breathe. Barely. “Or you’ll have to stop being so…” Hot. So freaking, freaking hot. “I don’t think the candles are the only fire risk in this house tonight.”

He drags his nose up and pushes my head down, pressing it flat against his chest so he can nuzzle my hair. “Do you normally fall asleep with candles burning? Or the oven on?”

I inhale, grateful for the reprieve that makes it possible. “No,” I answer. “I’m usually a nervous wreck anytime a candle is lit. I rarely even light this many. I’ve read way too many regency romances with stray candles lighting up curtains and houses and, once, a man’s underclothes. I can’t afford to lose my house to a fire. I’d have nowhere to work on top of being homeless. I’m careful with the oven, too. I swear. I’m not normally so stupid about these things. I just…”

He finishes for me, smugly satisfied. “You knew I would keep you safe.”

“Yeah,” I agree, hesitantly wrapping my arms around his torso so they aren’t awkwardly dangling at my side, begging for something to do.

He sighs, a sound of contentment, and I count the beats of his heart in my ear. I wonder if mine is beating in the same rhythm. It’s a fanciful notion—one born of years of romance reading and decades of daydreaming—but it’s one I like, and I decide that if my heart isn’t beating with his, I will simply train it up until it is. Hearts are, after all, supremely cooperative organs. As we all know.

Louder than the beat of his heart, his stomach rumbles.