Page 12 of Crushes to WHAT

I wince.

Yikes.

I tear myself away and apologize. “The food!” I declare. “You’ve been working all day. You need to eat.” Then, I… stand there. Doing nothing. Because he wants to serve the food, and all I can contribute to making that happen more speedily is to anxiously gesture toward the counter, where the lasagna sits cooling.

Emerson nods, and—before he prepares our plates, before he gets our drinks, before he scours my drawers for silverware—he takes my hand, leads me to my dining room table, and guides me into a pink velvet seat.

Before he cares for me, he considers me.

My heart trips over itself at the notion, and I clutch it tightly. We’re nowhere close to his rhythm now, I know for sure.

But that’s okay. We’ll get there eventually.

Or maybe we won’t.

Maybe it doesn’t matter, because my heart knows who it belongs to regardless of the time it keeps.

Chapter Six

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Lasagna, the favorite of large men and orange cats alike.

Almond

Over the course of our meal together, I learn that Emerson can eat, and that he’s not shy about making it clear when he likes what he’s eating.

“This is delicious,” he says, adding a third helping of lasagna to his plate. The quickly emptying vintage casserole dish sits in the middle of my dining room table beside a massive bowl of salad and a steaming basketful of soft breadsticks. The serving spoon hovers over the pasta as he eyes my nearly empty plate. “Do you want more?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think I could eat more if my life depended on it.” Emerson’s portions are huge, and I already said yes to more the first time he asked, when I couldn’t quite resist the illicit butterflies him serving me in secret set off in my belly.

He frowns at my plate, but accepts my answer. The spoon drops into the empty portion of the dish.

“Is this a family recipe?”

“No,” I answer. “I found it in a cookbook I got at a thrift shop a few years ago.” The cookbook is titled The Way to a Man’s Heart: Romantic Recipes for Every Occasion. It seemed… appropriate, that I would pick a recipe from its pages for this—an occasion that could fall under the umbrella of “every.”

“I like it,” he says thoughtfully, slicing a piece off the square of lasagna on his plate. “It tastes like something my grandma would’ve made—in a good way.”

“That makes sense to me. The cookbook is themed in an old-timey, 1950s sort of way. I bought it because it matched the old-timey, 1960s sort of vibe I’ve curated in my home. It was a happy surprise that the recipes inside are easy to follow and tasty to eat.”

Emerson hums, then falls into silence while he eats. I don’t mind. It gives me time to study him and to think. Sort of.

It’s hard to think, think when I’m studying him, as I’m sure everyone could understand. When one looks upon perfection, one cannot be expected to have full use of their faculties. It’s simply unrealistic.

I do wonder, briefly, what he’s doing here. Not just the work, or the dinner, but all of the moments in between. What is the this and that and more?

What’s the point?

Emerson’s bicep stretches at the confines of his cotton shirt sleeve, and my mind blanks.

A lock of hair falls out of the messy bun atop his head, and my mind fills, not with theories of what is, but with possibilities of what could be.

If he grew it out a bit longer, I could braid it. Or, alternatively, spend hours running my fingers through the soft strands. I could linger there, among his velvety locks, or I could take my hands lower, to his shoulders, his biceps, his chest… I could feel the gentle strength of his stomach. I could explore the spots on his skin that are callous-rough, and the spots that have been protected from his hard work, leaving them smooth.

I could learn where his freckles are, or if he has any moles. I could memorize the exact slope of his shoulderblade, or the cadence of his heart beneath my palm.

I could learn him.