Page 25 of Crushes to WHAT

He laughs. “If I run you over, I’ll never get to see you in your super spy gear again, and I’ll never know what you smell and taste like on days that aren’t lemon days.”

I whimper.

He stretches his arm across the table and grips my chin, pulling up until I’m forced to follow with my body. He eases when I’m fully back on my bench. “Eat,” he orders.

I decide that eating is an excellent idea, actually, because if I’m focusing on my food, I’m not focusing on how freaking embarrassing it is that Emerson saw me taunting Sterne like a child while wearing an all-black outfit—complete with black paint strips beneath my eyes—for a clandestine (depending on who you ask) mission to snatch an adult woman.

I bite into an ooey, gooey, cheesy jalapeño and groan. De-lish, and exactly as most vegetables should be consumed—drenched in cheese and bacon.

Emerson curses.

I don’t get to ask why because we get another visitor at our booth—a much more pleasant guest than my grumpy brother, thankfully.

“Emerson,” his sister, Eris Wright, greets before scowling at me. “Almond.”

Um. Maybe I take back that much more pleasant. Usually, I can count on Eris to be good company, and a good client, too. Although…

Her roots are grown out, by a lot, and the stark line between her natural hazelnut brown and what is supposed to be a bright, nearly primary blue jars me. That her bright, nearly primary blue has faded all the way to a pale, dead-seaweed green is even more jarring.

I’m not judging, not at all, but I am noticing, and it’s bringing to my attention that I haven’t actually seen Eris in quite some time. That, combined with her current attitude brings a sour question to my mind.

Is she… mad at me?

I squirm under her glower as I face the increasing probability that she is mad at me. So mad that she’s willing to walk around with her hair looking like that when she knows I always have space available for her, even if my online booking doesn’t show it. I’ve fit her in on weekends and evenings loads of times to work around her schedule. It’s never bothered me, and it’s certainly never bothered her to ask. That’s one of the things I like most about her—that she asks for what she wants and doesn’t get weird whether you say yes or no. She’s not rude, and she’s not ingratiating. She’s just her, Eris, my blue-haired client that I have to remember not to gush about my crush to, because most women don’t want to listen to someone pining for their brother while trapped in a chair with bleach on their hair and no way to escape.

“Eris,” Emerson greets, a warning in his tone.

Eris’ chin lifts haughtily.

“Hi, Eris.” My voice comes out tinny, and I clear my throat. She’s so intimidating, and that’s at the best of times. At the now of times, she’s downright scaring me. Any minute, she’s going to whip out a voodoo doll of me and start stabbing. I just know it.

“What are you two doing?” She narrows her eyes. “It’s not enough that you have him doing slave labor for you? Now you’re taking him out to dinner so you can string him along more?”

I blink rapidly. “I’m… what?” She thinks that I’m… taking advantage of Emerson?

I mean, technically, I kind of am. I’m aware that his work isn’t quite equal to free drinks or haircuts for life. Maybe if he were a raging alcoholic, it would be, but he’s not, so it’s not.

But still.

I was going to pay him. I had planned to hire him the normal way and pay him the normal amount. He is the one who offered free services. And he didn’t even ask for anything in return! I offered, and he accepted because I wouldn’t let him not. How could that be construed into me stringing him along or accepting slave labor? I’m not dangling money in his face with the intent to stiff him later.

Maybe she doesn’t know all that? Maybe he didn’t tell her? I know they’re close, but I’m close with my brothers, too, and they definitely don’t tell me everything. From her point of view, it might really look like I’m being a jerk, in which case I probably need to clear that up. I like Eris. I don’t want her putting curses on me or skipping hair appointments because of a misunderstanding.

“Stringing him along,” she repeats with acid in her tone, a mere step away from calling on her ancestors so that they, too, can wish ill upon me.

“Eris,” Emerson grits. “I’d thank you to stop speaking on things you don’t know anything about, and I’d thank you further if you’d leave so I can enjoy my date with my girlfriend.”

Eris’ jaw drops.

My jaw drops.

Emerson’s jaw clenches.

“Girlfriend?” Eris breathes. She turns to me. “You’re his girlfriend?”

Of course I’m not his girlfriend. I think I’d know if I were his girlfriend. That’s, like, the number one thing I’d know of all the things I have knowledge of.

“Yes,” I declare, snapping my jaw shut. “Girlfriend. Me. To him. That’s the facts as they are right now, like Emerson said.” I nod, quick ups and downs that jostle my hair and my brain cells. If Emerson wants his sister to think I’m his girlfriend, then Emerson will have his sister thinking I’m his girlfriend. “Very girlfriend.”