The Crush (12)

And she’d just done that—quite effectively too.

But the night wasn’t over, and until she looked me in the eye, fully aware of who I was, then I still had a chance.

“Can I guess what would impress you?” I said, maintaining the slightly lower pitch to my voice.

The hand settled on her back slid higher, until the edge of my thumb danced along the line of her dress. Warm skin met the tip of my finger, and I risked the ghost of a touch for another, rewarded by a slight shiver in her frame.

“Go for it.”

If she recognized my voice, I could imagine the hourglass in my mind, tipped over and the time slowly running out on this dance.

I tilted my head down, aiming my words closer to her ear. “Honesty,” I said. “For starters.”

“The sexiest of all the virtues, to be sure.”

I smiled, settling my cheek against the top of her hair. Finally, her fingertips moved from the collar of my shirt and whispered along the back of my neck. I closed my eyes at the way she tickled the ends of my hair. The only thing saving me from being a complete jackass pressing his hard-on against her was the absolute mass of her skirt.

She had no idea—how I’d been thinking of her, how I’d forced myself to be patient for moments exactly like this. In that waiting, I found something bigger than any of the nerves I’d experienced before my first game.

Patience, I reminded myself.

The music swelled, I tugged on her hand, turning her in a gentle spin out and then back in. It made her laugh, and I felt an awful lot like I’d just hit a Hail Mary into the end zone at the end of a big game. The perfect landing.

Adaline settled naturally back into my arms, and we swayed like that, even though the music changed to a different pace. With the spin and the turn, I’d maneuvered us closer to a dark corner, and when I glanced around, no one seemed to be paying us much attention. It felt important to reveal myself before she pieced it together.

“What else impresses me, mystery man?”

I could’ve listed off a dozen things. A giant cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Through an IV if someone had it available for her.

Brightly colored sneakers. She had dozens of pairs.

Baked goods in all shapes and sizes. She had a bigger sweet tooth than anyone I’d ever met.

Clear organization bins. It was a whole thing, apparently, but once I learned how to watch the daily little videos that she posted, I discovered Adaline had a deep, abiding love for transferring her food from the packaging to more packaging, and for some reason, that brought her joy.

Who was I to judge, though? I thought football leather was one of the best smells in the world.

Tonight, however, mango shampoo was climbing up the list at a pretty rapid pace.

“Romance,” I told her quietly.

Her movements slowed, and her chest rose and fell on rapid breaths.

“No woman should accept a life free of big romantic gestures,” I said. “Especially you, Adaline.”

Adaline went from slow swaying to a full stop. She pulled back, her eyes searching mine. My throat was bone-dry, my fingers sliding up the smooth, warm skin of her back before I pulled my hand away.

Letting go of a deep, fortifying breath, I reached that hand up, ducking my head down slightly so I could pull the mask off.

Before I could remove it fully, Adaline slid her hand out of mine, where they’d been tucked against my chest.

When I lifted my head, face free of the mask, her mouth fell open.

“Holy shit,” she whispered. The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered wildly underneath the surface of her skin. “Emmett?”

I gave her a lopsided smile. “Hey.”

She took a step back, eyes wide.

There was no flinging of her arms. No teasing smile. No excitement anywhere on her face.

My brow furrowed.

Okay. This was … not what I expected to happen.

“What is this?” she asked. “Is Parker here? Is he like, screwing with me or something?”

“What?” I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

Adaline’s shaking hand rose to briefly cover her mouth. Under her mask, her face had gone pale. “Excuse me,” she whispered, then brushed past me.

“Adaline,” I called out. An older couple wearing bright purple and black masks swayed in front of me, and I grimaced, darting to the side to avoid a collision.

But it was too late. Once she was clear of the dance floor, Adaline picked up the front of her dress with both hands and ran.





Adaline



When I turned sixteen, my family threw a surprise birthday party. It was the first and only one I’ve ever had because we learned a valuable lesson that day when the lights in our house turned on, and fifty people screamed Surprise! at my unsuspecting face.

I burst into tears.

Not pretty tears either. Something about a mass of people yelling at me when I didn’t expect it unleashed a torrent of ugly, face-reddening, eye-puffing tears that I struggled to stop for a solid fifteen minutes. My asshole brothers (I have four of them) took the picture from the exact moment those tears hit me—the ugliest picture of me that has ever existed—blew it up to a 16x20 and duct-taped it to my bedroom door the following week.

To this day, the tape residue remains on my childhood door.

I’m telling you, when you’ve experienced a moment like that, where your fight-or-flight instinct kicks you in the face, you learn really, really fast to bail from any situations that might cause it.