Page 40 of Crushes to WHAT

When his laughter dies down, he shocks me by saying, “I used to think you were more scared of me than anyone.”

I rear back. “What?”

His eyes crinkle at the edges, and his hand finds its way back to my face, only to slide into my hair. “Every time I saw you, you seemed petrified. It took me a long time to figure out that you weren’t scared, but something else entirely.”

I sputter, unsure how to reply. On the one hand, how dare anyone ever be scared of him? He’s a marshmallow. A teddy bear. Sure, he could rip your head off with his bare hands, but he wouldn’t, and that’s clear as day. On the other hand, he’s just alluded to my crush and all of the many ways it’s mortified me over the years, and I really would rather not get into that at all despite what Poem would have me do. For reasons that are obvious.

He grins, a self-satisfied, smug thing. “Now I know that not only are you not scared of me, at all, but I make you feel safe enough to risk burning your entire house down.” His grin darkens. “You even sleep when I’m around.”

I blush. It seems my near-daily late afternoon naps have not gone unnoticed. It also seems he’s done taking pity on me, because the hot is back in full force.

When faced with the familiar emotions that Emerson brings forth—namely nervousness, longing, desperation, and terrified euphora—I default to a familiar response.

Panic and retreat.

“I think I need to be done with heart-to-heart time,” I squeak. “Quickly, preferably, because you’re doing the I’m-Emerson-and-I’m-hot-enough-to-light-your-hair-on-fire thing again, and while I would happily risk burning my house down with you around, I’m a bit less willing to risk my hair. Also a heart-to-heart usually requires two functioning hearts and I’m pretty sure mine is out of commission due to hot-Emerson related incidents. It might have stopped. Or exploded. Or, you know, caught on fire, if we’re staying on theme. I don’t know. I only know that it’s unavailable for more of this conversation, and all I have left is my brain, but my brain without my heart is kind of useless. She just wants stalker romance, and you’re kind of giving…” Do not tell Emerson Wright that he’s bringing forth visions of stalker romance featuring him and me. “Nevermind. Brain can’t handle the heat, either. Brain thinks we should move on to books, where there is safe-to-consume stalker romance.”

Emerson’s hand flexes in my hair, fingertips digging into my scalp before they slide away. “I see your heart,” he says. “And you don’t need to worry. I’m keeping her plenty safe. Your brain, however…” The corner of his lip tilts, hotly. “Let’s go get her some stalker smut.”

I squeak. “That’s not what I said.”

“Yeah, but it’s what you meant.”

Chapter Twenty-One

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Semi-secluded corners are easy to find when you don’t have a corporate loser telling you you can’t.

Almond

What Emerson didn’t mention about the additional dark romance shelf is that it’s huge. Floor to ceiling and at least six feet wide, I’m pretty sure they had to take a chunk out of the paranormal section to fit this monstrosity here.

Wait. No. The paranormals bleed into the teen section, which has been shifted ever-so-slightly into the children’s section, which has gained no less than three free-standing shelves where there used to be floor space.

“Screw them kids,” I mutter while I peruse the beautiful new selection of books. “This bookstore has its priorities in order.” Everyone knows it goes stalker romance, then, several dozen spots lower, children’s bookstore floor space play area. Why do they need to play in a bookstore, anyway? Literacy rates in this country are abysmal. They should be reading.

“This one looks promising,” Emerson says, holding up a book with a particularly salacious cover depicting the main male character as being, at minimum, the height of a small bus. He has bedroom eyes, a phoenix tattoo, and a serious lack of shirt.

“That looks like it lacks plot,” I observe.

Emerson grins and adds it to the growing stack in his arms.

I eye the collection warily. He’s been steadily piling up books, showing me some, making decisions on his own for others. The higher the stack gets, the more warily I eye it.

When he plops another tome onto the stack, I nervously address the situation. “Are all those books for you?” Based on the selection and the varying levels of my approval he’s sought, I have a theory they’re not, but if they’re all options for me…

“They’re your books,” he replies, eyes narrowing on a blood-red spine sticking out on the shelf. He pulls it out with his free hand, scrunches his nose at the short man on the front, and puts it back.

I wince. “I hate to say it, because a stack of Emerson-selected books is definitely tempting, but I fear we need to discuss my budget.” As in, tiny. Even if I’m getting the salon work done for nearly free, I can’t blow the entirety of my savings on books. I need to blow it on more responsible things. Like dryer chairs and old-school magazines so I can recreate the vibe from that one scene in the movie Grease.

Emerson’s attention slides off the bookshelf and fully onto me. His brows draw together. “You don’t have a budget,” he says. “I have a budget, and that budget is however much it takes. I wouldn’t bring you on a date and expect you to pay.”

I gulp.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Then we need to discuss your budget a little more in depth, and probably discuss what level of gift I’m willing to accept when you’re already giving me the gift of your time and expertise, plus you’re letting me live out my fake dating dreams. The scales are being tipped quite a lot, and I’m unsure I can balance them if we add you buying me half a bookstore.”

Emerson’s nose scrunches. “Balance isn’t something you need to worry about. There are no scales here.”