The Crush (60)

My hand flew to the top of my head, but honestly, what was the point?

With a disgruntled sigh, I dropped my hands to my side and sank against the doorframe. “Is there some cosmic conspiracy going on?” I asked. “Masquerades and girls’ night and my parents’ house and now this? Seriously, Emmett. Are you incapable of telling me when you’re going to pop up somewhere?”

“I like seeing your face when you’re not expecting me.” He tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet. “Can I come into my family’s house, please?”

“Not yet. What do you mean by that?” I crossed my arms. “What does my face do?”

With those mile-long legs of his, it only took a couple of steps, and he was standing over me.

“You’re doing it right now,” he said quietly. “Your eyes, they go all soft. And your cheeks…” He traced a fingertip over my cheekbones. “They turn this sweet pink color. Makes me wonder what you’re thinking about.”

“I’m thinking about plumbing.”

He grinned. “Liar.”

It was sort of true. I was thinking about how I’d have to shower later, knowing Emmett and I were alone in this big house. His eyes stayed locked on mine like he was waiting for me to back away.

I didn’t concede an inch.

Because he smelled good.

And looked like he wanted to eat me alive.

And he was here—yet again—when I least expected him. When I missed him most.

A dangerous stretch of time unfolded in front of us, no interruptions, no need for locked doors or quiet.

Emmett liked to surprise me because of what he saw on my face. If I looked at him for the same kinds of clues, they were all there.

His eyes weren’t soft, though. They blazed with something more than heat—brimming with searing intensity. His chest heaved on deep, steady breaths, and the muscles in his arms twitched from the effort to hold still.

There was a perfectly reasonable excuse why Emmett was standing on that porch, two hours away from anyone we knew. But that was not why he came.

Stamped on his face was a truth I couldn’t avoid—no matter what complications stood between us.

Emmett was there for me, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to dissuade him anymore. I definitely didn’t have the energy to fight myself.

He saw that in my face too, when a pleased, anticipatory smile curled at the edges of his lips.

I stepped back, and instead of brushing past me into the house, he took one more measured step and dropped his bag with a thud on the floor. His hand ghosted over the length of my arm until his fingers curled through mine.

My breath was coming in sharp pants. I couldn’t even be embarrassed about it.

He was holding my hand, and I was ready to strip to my fricken skivvies right there in the hallway. They weren’t even nice ones, and I didn’t care. That was another truth that was easy to accept. Emmett wanted me any way he could have me. No pretense, no lies, and no excuses of what would come next.

“You going to put me to work?” he said, mouth brushing the top of my head.

I felt drunk when I blinked up at him. “What?”

He smiled. His fingers worked into the stray, flyaway hairs at my temples. “You’ve got a house to get ready, right?”

“Oh. That.” I exhaled heavily. “Yes.”

“Where do you want me?”

I quirked an eyebrow, and Emmett’s deep laugh did all sorts of warm, tingly things to my body.

Goose bumps everywhere.

“Maybe you could fix that water heater first,” I said.

Or kiss me.

Or tell me what we were going to do about all this confusing shit.

How to manage these big, big things I was feeling for him.

“I can do that.” He dropped a featherlight kiss onto my forehead and pulled away.

It was astonishing how many conflicting tugs one person could feel in their gut.

Desire. It would’ve been so easy to melt in a puddle right there by the door because of how much I wanted him.

Confusion. There was no clear path out of this weekend for either of us.

Fear. I’d never figured out how to let go of him easily. And this would only make it worse.

Love. It was too soon to say it out loud, but it beat fiercely underneath all the other things fighting for the top spot.

If he felt any of them half as much as me, I wanted to do something to fix this thing for us. And there was no clear way to do it. Not without some sort of unbalanced sacrifice.

And in a relationship with someone like him—it would be me doing the sacrificing. We both knew it.

That helpless feeling followed me as I finished cutting the flowers and arranged them into the vases for each room. He emerged from downstairs, wiping his hands on a garage towel.

“Should be good,” he said. He flipped on the faucet for the kitchen sink and nodded when he stuck his hand underneath the water. “Not hot yet, but it’ll get there.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “That didn’t take long.”

“Nope. My dad has been saying for years that he’s going to replace the control panel because the reset button gets stuck.” Emmett slung the garage towel over his shoulder. “I’m glad he didn’t.”

There went all those feelings again, a giant arm-wrestling match in my jumbled brain.