The Crush (13)

It’s also why I refuse to plan surprise birthday parties, no matter how much my clients beg, because you know who won’t be inflicting that kind of trauma on a young kid? Me.

It didn’t take me long once I’d bolted from the art museum to realize that I may have overreacted. Less than two blocks.

But unfortunately for Emmett, the hotel I was staying in was only a few blocks away and the moment the elevator doors at The Heathman closed around me, I sagged against the wall and knew there was no way I was returning to that party.

The moment his head lifted and I saw his face, I got a flash in my head of that picture from my sixteenth birthday party.

And what a face it was. If you weren’t really paying attention to the way someone aged, you wouldn’t think that massive changes happened in a person’s face from twenty-one to twenty-six.

It was subtle, though. The jaw was sharper, his face leaner than it had been in college. His frame might have been lanky when he was drafted from Stanford, but after years of elite physical training, Emmett had gained muscle. He was a lot bigger than he used to be, even if his height hadn’t changed at all.

He looked … well … fucking perfect. And the very last thing I wanted to do was burst into ugly, snot-running tears because this perfect-looking man who I used to have a raging crush on had just surprised the absolute hell out of me.

I ripped the mask off as the elevator opened on my floor and pulled the key out of my small wristlet. Even though the immediate danger of tears had passed, I could hardly draw a full breath from the tight bodice of my dress. I needed it off.

With the hotel door closed and locked behind me, I sank against the wall and tried to process the insanity of the last thirty minutes.

Emmett fucking Ward.

Dancing with me. Whispering to me. Making me imagine all sorts of naughty things with masks and dark corners and whether it was physically possible to maneuver this dress in a way where there was more touching involved.

Because there was that too.

Touching my skin, very casually too, like it was just a normal Friday night and having his hands on me was nothing to be freaking out about.

“Stupid,” I whispered, yanking at the back of my dress.

Not just me. Him, too.

In fact, that was the only certainty I had from the entire evening—Emmett Ward was so attractive that it was stupid.

No one should be that good looking. What made it even worse was that I knew, firsthand, that he didn’t think all that much about his looks. It was a product of his genetics, something he hadn’t been able to control. His dad, a retired player and coach, was probably one of the hottest fiftysomethings I’d ever seen. And his mom—Paige McKinney Ward, one of my very favorite nonfamily members on the planet—was a former supermodel with long-ass legs, big blue eyes, and a rack that should’ve belonged to someone half her age.

We’re all products of our family’s gene pool, right? I had the same dark hair and dark eyes as my biological sister and brother. We got it from our sperm donor. Not that he was good for much—except a nice-looking face—since he left us when Erik was little, and Greer and I weren’t much more than babies.

I hated that we got anything from him, especially the first thing the entire world judged you on in a split second.

And my genetics gave me a lot to work with, don’t get me wrong. I cleaned up well, I had a nice smile, and as the evening at the museum showed, I had spectacular, thousand-dollar-offer-worth boobs when given the right outfit.

Emmett’s gene pool was just … superior to most.

And even with that face, I’d left him standing there in the middle of the dance floor.

I shucked the dress off and left it in a glittering black heap on the hotel room floor. The strapless bra got tossed on top of it, as did the heels.

I slipped into my pajamas, then carefully washed my face. While I did those things, I left my phone firmly tucked away in the wristlet.

It wasn’t until I flopped face-first onto the bed that I allowed myself to wonder what he might be thinking. What he was doing there.

He could’ve reached out to me through a dozen different avenues. Through his family. Through Parker. Through any and all social media channels. But he didn’t. And certainly nothing along the lines of, “Hey, what are you doing this weekend? I might be in town, and I’d love to dance with you.”

I pinched my eyes shut and buried my face into the pillow, trying desperately not to scream into the soft, feathery surface.

I’d danced with Emmett Ward and had no idea.

It was a tragedy. Once upon a time, all I’d thought about was how it would feel if he’d hold me like that.

Well. He’d just held me. It was spectacular. And I hadn’t even known to appreciate every damn second.

From the bedside table, the wristlet—and my phone—beckoned. Slowly, and carefully, I pulled it out of my purse and held my breath when my home screen lit up.

Two texts from my sister, Greer, and one from my mom, both wanting details about my arrival home the next day.

The drive from Portland to Sisters—where I grew up—was just shy of three hours. The plan was to attend the party, crash in Portland for the night, then drive home in the morning. I’d be home by lunch, and I couldn’t wait.

With a couple of taps on the screen, I answered them both and said I’d see them tomorrow.

Greer replied immediately.