Page 32 of Crushes to WHAT

“You’ll have to show me how you did that sometime!”

“Your total is four-sixty eighty-two,” he deadpans. “Will that be cash or credit?”

I wince, then sigh. “Credit.”

Chapter Seventeen

▲

What a mean old lady.

Almond

A commotion in the parking lot halts me, dragging my attention away from the trunk of my silver seen-better-days hatchback. When my eyes land on the drama unfolding a mere twenty feet away, my jaw drops, and I blink rapidly.

My first instinct is to dive behind my car so the six-foot-six gorgeous behemoth doesn’t see me. I’m nearly kissing pavement when I remember the behemoth is my boyfriend, and I probably shouldn’t be diving for cover at the sight of him.

I stand, dust specks of gravel off my elbows, and clear my throat. I turn, walk super gracefully around my car, and approach the spot where Emerson stands before an irritated little old lady chastising him.

“And another thing!” the grandma huffs. “You’re too tall! You could give a girl a fright. It’s not right. It’s not natural. You can’t go around being that tall and scaring people. My Edgar would be rolling over in his normal-sized grave if he could see you now. What were you thinking?”

Emerson catches sight of me over the white-haired woman’s head and smiles. He waves low as he replies to the elderly woman. “I was just trying to see if you needed help with those water bottles, ma’am. They can be a bit heavy.”

She scoffs. “I’ll just bet you were. And then you were going to steal my purse! I know about boys like you. They used to warn us about you when we’d go into the city. To think! Now you’re in the little places, too!” She shivers, a full body affair. “What has the world come to!”

“Excuse me,” I call, side-stepping the woman—Mrs. Spate, I see—to stand next to Emerson. Or, more accurately, slightly in front of him. I smile pleasantly. “Ma’am, where is your caretaker?”

She gasps, stumbling backward with a hand to her chest. “My what?”

“Your caretaker?” I repeat. I make a show of looking around the parking lot. “Are they around here somewhere? I don’t think they’d be very happy to hear that you’re bullying nice young men in the lot outside Rory’s. I know Mr. Roger at the home, and I can’t imagine he’d ever be comfortable with his residents treating people like that. He’s a nice man, Mr. Roger. Respectable. If you’re going to be out with your group, you should stay with them and represent him well. Otherwise, you might end up at–” I pause, look around to make sure no baddies are about, then lean forward to whisper, “Mr. Hutch’s!” Now I full body shiver. What a nightmare. “A terrible thought, I’m sure you agree.”

She sputters, “I-I’m not with a home!”

I frown, significantly more worried. “You’re houseless? Do you need resources? They have some pamphlets inside. If you’ll come with me, I’ll make sure you get some help…” I gesture to the building, brows pulling together.

“I don’t need help!” she screeches in outrage. “I live on my own!”

I drop my arm. “Oh.” My face clears. “So you’re just being a witch because you find it fun? The hag life suits you?”

Mildly, I wonder if the blood vessel in her wrinkly forehead is going to burst. Mildly, I kind of hope it does.

“I have never been treated so horribly!” she explodes. “Name calling and all manner of terrible behavior. What is wrong with you?”

My nose scrunches, and I step closer to her. “My problem?” I ask as Emerson’s hand catches my wrist. He doesn’t pull me back, but he’s there, and it’s clear he’s not about to let me assault an elderly woman. He doesn’t interrupt me, though, so I continue with his fingers warm against my skin. “My problem is that you’re being mean to my boyfriend for no reason, Mrs. Spate. My problem is that you got startled by his size and decided to start spouting off freaking nonsense, making him out to be some freak when it’s not his fault you’re all of five feet tall. My problem is that he was only trying to help and you tried to make him feel bad for it. My problem is you, you ungrateful, miserable, old, b–”

“Alright!” Emerson speaks over me, tugging gently as he steps forward to stand at my side. “Mrs. Spate. It was, as ever, a displeasure to see you.” He lets go of my wrist long enough to snatch her pack of water bottles out of her cart and toss them into her trunk for her, much to her protest. “I’ll see you next week. Same time.” He tips his head to her and reclaims my wrist. He starts to take me into the store, but I pull against him and point to my car, pouting mulishly.

He pivots and marches me quickly past Mrs. Spate toward my car. I flip a rude finger up at her back as we pass.

“Baby,” Emerson murmurs, amusement and admonishment playing on his tongue.

“I hate her,” I tell him. “She’s lucky I don’t do her hair, because if I did, I’d fry it all off.”

“Baby,” he repeats, almost laughing.

“She can’t talk to you like that,” I declare, loudly, turning my head in the direction of her car. I can’t see it through Emerson’s shoulder, but I know it’s there, and I know she can hear me, so I go on, louder, “She’s a total B-I-”

“Almond,” Emerson interrupts, chest shaking.