Page 33 of Crushes to WHAT

“Oh, let me curse at her,” I grump, stomping up to my trunk.

He crowds me, blocking the path between me and her as I huffily return to moving things from my cart to my trunk. He reaches over my shoulder, chest to my back, and helps me transfer things.

“You don’t need to waste your breath or your energy,” he rumbles into my ear, raising goosebumps on my neck. “It’s just how grief presents for her. She knows she can’t get the bottles by herself, and it feels like an affront to her husband to let someone else do it, even though he passed over ten years ago now. She misses him. It hurts her that he’s gone, and it hurts her that she has to rely on other people when she was supposed to have him for the rest of her life.” He sighs, twisting his face into my hair so that his puff of air rustles the pink strands. “She comes at the same time every week, so Rory makes sure she has a cart already prepped with the bottles, and I make sure I’m out here to pop them in her car. Some weeks are worse than others for her. Most of the time, she just ignores me. Pretends I’m not even there. On weeks she misses him more than most, though…” He shrugs. “I think it’s good you checked her, because you’re right, it’s not nice behavior, and even grief is no excuse for treating people unwell for so long, but I don’t think we need to take it too far. It’s important to find the balance between accountability and grace.”

My nose scrunches. “I don’t want to be a good person right now,” I inform him. “She was mean to you.”

He wraps his arms around my waist and squeezes, hugging me tight. “She was hurting.”

Ugh.

Ugh.

Emerson has more compassion in his fingernails than I do in my entire body, and I hate that he’s right for it. I wish that I didn’t have to sympathize with a mean old lady. I wish that I could just blatantly hate her because she was rude to my boyfriend, even if he isn’t my real boyfriend.

I wish that people weren’t so darned understandable.

“I won’t call her any expletives,” I compromise oh-so-graciously. “But I’m not taking back calling her a hag. Or a witch. Those two things aren’t even that bad if you know the lore.”

“Right.” His chest shakes suspiciously, though his tone betrays no laughter. “I appreciate your sacrifice.”

I nod succinctly. “As you should.”

He hums and nuzzles my hair.

I realize, quite suddenly and quite violently, that I am being held by Emerson Wright. Closely held. Absolutely-counts-as-egregious-PDA held. By Emerson Wright.

My next breath comes out in a wheeze.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “So you’ve noticed.”

I have most definitely noticed. Now that I’m not overcome by indignation, I can do nothing but notice.

His breaths warm the sensitive skin behind my ear, and his chest lies flat against my back as we lean over my trunk. His arms, tight around my middle, press with just enough pressure to tell me that he has no intention of letting me go anytime soon. His fingertips dip ever-so-slightly in, not in a way that would leave a mark, but in a way that lets me know they’re there, and he could leave his fingerprints on my skin if he wanted to.

My heart stutters over itself when I think about how much I would like for him to want to.

“I had a dream that started like this once,” I blurt.

My eyes widen, huge, and I squeak in distress, immediately pushing against Emerson’s arms to get away. Far, far away. The farthest away that exists, preferably. That kingdom in Shrek, maybe. Or farther!

“You did?” Emerson asks, voice low and dark. His arms, like steel, give no leeway. “What happened next?”

I squeak, again. Then, for good measure, I squawk.

Emerson chuckles. “That’s okay. I can use my imagination.”

I. Just. Die.

“The ice cream is melting!” And, thankfully, it actually is. Saved by the dairy disaster.

Emerson releases me immediately, only leaving his hands on me long enough to grab my hips and twist them, encouraging me to face him. He says my name, soft and without levity.

I fight through the mortification to meet his eyes.

“Thank you for sticking up for me,” he says. Sincerity and gratefulness coat his words, and I’m useless against them.

I melt like ice cream into his arms.