Page 23 of Crushes to WHAT

Emerson’s lips twitch. “Go clean your face,” he says gently, in direct opposition to his clear amusement. “Then we’ll get you fed, okay? Food will make everything feel better.”

Another tick in the soft and squishy category. Men with visible abs don’t say things like “Food will make everything better.” They say things like “Protein smoothies will make everything feel better, paired with some rigorous exercise.”

“We’ll get you fed,” I correct. “That’s what will make everything feel better.”

He softens with a curse. “Lemon Almond is sweet,” he mutters before nudging me toward the hallway. “Clean up. I want your sweetness in a booth at the Brew, munching on a plate of jalapeño poppers.” He smiles. “I’ll get you a lemon drop—the alcohol kind.”

I heroically hold myself together until I get to the bathroom, where I close the door, lean against it, and freak right on out.

He called me sweet! And he wants to get dinner, and he knows my favorite Brew snack. And he’s fully embracing lemon day, which is just… my goodness, it’s just wonderful, isn’t it? He’s embracing me.

I clasp my hands together tightly, bring them to my face, and use them to cover a squeal.

“As cute as it is that you’re excited,” Emerson’s voice cuts through the door. “And as happy as I am that your mood has improved, you gotta wash your face, baby, so you can get back out here to me. The day only gives me so much break time, and I don’t love missing out on any of the minutes we could be spending together.”

I bump my hip into the counter when I dive for the sink, surely leaving a bruise in my haste. The soap falls with a clang when I reach for it with too much zeal, knocking it to the floor.

On the other side of the door, Emerson chuckles.

It takes two minutes to get the smudged dusting of dirt and grime off my jawline and nose. When I emerge from the bathroom shiny and clean, I find Emerson just outside the door, rolling a small tube between his fingers.

He smiles as I step out of the bathroom. “I almost forgot.” He pulls the lid off the tube and lifts it to my face.

Lemon chapstick.

My heart hammers, and I blush as he brings the soft, citrusy balm to my lips. He slides it over the top lip, then the bottom, before rubbing it in with his thumb. His calloused finger feels rough against the soft, sensitive skin, and I have the inexplicable urge to nibble at it.

I control myself.

Barely.

His eyelids droop, and his thumb presses hard into the center of my lower lip. “I think we should go now,” he rumbles gruffly.

“Yeah,” I agree.

We don’t move.

My breaths shallow. “Emerson?”

“Mm?”

“I… really want to get you fed.” As much as I despair to leave this moment, my desire to care for him far outweighs my desire to never do anything else ever again but stand in my hallway with his finger on my mouth while the air drags heavy with the this he wants to give me.

Reluctantly, he reclaims his hand, frowning as I repress a whimper at the loss.

He sighs.

“Let’s go get you your lemon drop.”

Chapter Twelve

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The bar is bustling.

Almond

Emerson orders six cheeseburger sliders, an eight-count of chicken wings, a plate of fries, sixteen jalapeño poppers, a soft pretzel with cheese, and an order of fried pickles. He says that we’re going to share, and I don’t doubt the honesty of his character, but…