Page 2 of Crushes to WHAT

Great. Freaking, freaking, great.

I clear my throat. “Hello!”

Gently, and no less amused, Emerson Wright says, “Do you need my help with something? Or did you call just for pleasantries?” He does not sound like he cares much either way. He sounds, in fact, like he’d nearly prefer the latter.

I. Just. Die.

“I didn’t mean to hang up on you,” I blurt. “It’s just, the phone was ringing, and then you answered, and then you–” said my name. I grimace and whimper, “Sorry!”

His tone melts like velvet, dark and soft. “You like it when I say your name.” An observation. Not a question.

Freaking. Freaking. Freak.

“I need to hire you,” I wheeze through the hot sensation of every drop of blood in my body rushing to my face and chest.

“What job would you like me to fulfill, Almond?” he practically purrs.

Unfortunately for me, I find that I can do nothing more than breathe in response, and I’m not doing it very well. Every inhale is a gasp, and every exhale a gust of frantic air.

He hums, and my lungs squeeze until I cannot even produce my gasps and gusts. “Don’t worry, baby,” he mutters. “I’ll come to you, and you can show me what you need.”

My eyes bug out of my head.

Then Emerson Wright—the most attractive, caring, sweet, thoughtful, strong, breath-stealing, freaking hot man I have ever met—hangs up the phone.

I collapse, winded.

Oh. My. Freaking. Freak.

“He called me baby,” I whisper when air returns to my lungs. “Emerson Wright called me baby.”

I whimper, then I wheeze, then I squeal.

“Oh my freaking freak.”

Chapter Two

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We love this.

Almond

I melt into the hardwood floor of my living room, glossy-eyed. Pale yellow walls blur before me as I replay Emerson’s baby in my head some thousand-odd times. I hear it on repeat, and it renders me a puddle, yearning and useless and oh my freaking freak, he called me baby.

And oh my freaking freak I’ve been puddling for so long that he’s literally at my house now.

Or, I assume that’s him ringing my doorbell. For the sake of making it possible for me to breathe, I tell myself that it could, theoretically, be any number of people. It’s not exactly unusual for me to get an unexpected visitor. One of my older brothers might be out there, or my mom, or my dad, or my niece, or my best friend, or one of my clients I’ve forgotten has an appointment, or one of my clients in a state of hair emergency, or, or, or…

The doorbell rings again, startling me. I curse as I drag myself up off the floor with the help of my coffee table—a curvy, mid-century thing that I’m constantly surprised can hold my weight when its legs are akin to toothpicks and my body is not akin to something a toothpick could normally hold up.

I bet Emerson could hold my weight, too.

I squeak at the unbidden thought.

“Almond,” Emerson’s rumbling timbre calls through the door, jacking my heart rate right up. “Open up for me.”

Mortified and fairly well wishing I could disappear, I round the coffee table, take three big steps through my soft, floral, sixties-inspired living room, and fumble with the lock. Eventually, it turns in the right direction, and I open the door.