Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(23)
“Overrated appliances. Have you ever had peanut butter?”
I close the front door and take a few slow steps in her direction (aka closer to my bedroom door) so I can slip by her and close it before she notices. At least that’s what I mean to do. Except at the sight of her, I can’t move. I’m frozen here, watching Emily Walker assess my new-old house and I realize that possibly for the first time ever in the history of our acquaintance, we are completely alone. Not only that, but I’m not wearing a shirt and she’s in the flimsiest pajamas I’ve ever seen. The satin is so thin it’s practically sheer. And the bottoms are cut high. Or maybe it’s just that her legs are so long they seem skimpier than the average shorts.
God, if it weren’t for that jean jacket . . .
No. Never mind.
Because I don’t want to be attracted to Emily. I don’t want to find her absurdly beautiful. And I don’t want to know why during my months in Nebraska after Zoe and I split, I kept finding myself wondering what Emily was doing at random moments in the day. Even feeling uncomfortable with the prospect of never seeing her again. I hoped it was just because I was bored without my sparring partner, but now, having that memory paired with the attraction curling around my spine, I’m not so sure anymore. What if it’s because I missed seeing the glint in her poisonous-green eyes and the curve of her cherry-red mouth?
Those eyes slide to the wall where I’ve sledgehammered away the inner drywall down to the studs. “Well, this explains all the noise,” she says, then cocks her head to the side as she inspects the new studs I put in. “I think those are supposed to be standing at a ninety-degree angle.”
“They’ll be fine.”
She whirls around and she’s closer than I realized. She smells good—a fact that’s going to be difficult to forget after this night. “This is a house you’re going to live in, Jackson. It can’t just be fine. What if the roof collapses in on you because you haven’t properly installed the studs in the walls?”
“Then you’ll get your wish.”
Something flashes in her expression. Almost like hurt or regret or worry. It’s gone before I can decide. She blinks several times. “I don’t want . . .” She pauses and takes a breath. “If you can’t hire someone to do this, move out and sell it to someone who can.”
I smile, feeling that warning hum of incoming confrontation build under my skin. In the early days, I used to hate the way Emily made me feel in moments like this: a little unhinged and unpredictable. I am always levelheaded and able to pull anyone out of even the worst of moods. But Emily—she’s always been immune to my kindness. She draws something venomous out of me. And now, I’ve learned to lean into it. To welcome it. With her, I can always say exactly what I’m thinking. “What have I told you about barking orders at me?”
She steps closer, angling her defiant chin up to me. My heart beats firmly against my chest, ready for the fight. “You are not qualified for this renovation. It’s not going to work. And you can’t live on peanut butter sandwiches!”
“Well, now I just have to prove you wrong.” I look at her mouth, trying to see if her fangs have dropped down yet.
And because I’m too distracted by the shape of her bottom lip, I miss the moment her hunter’s nose catches the scent I’ve been trying to hide. As if she were some sort of mind-reading sorceress, her head snaps in the direction of my bedroom door. And there, perfectly visible twelve feet from where we are standing, are the sticky notes, stuck to a corkboard and leaning against my bed. She makes a move in that direction, and knowing I can’t make it around her in time, I do the only thing I can think of. I take her hand.
I don’t just take her hand, though. I accidentally take it gently. Tenderly. The word reverent even crosses my mind. My hand and body are holding on to Emily in a manner that looks and feels worshipful. And an awareness I’ve never known before snaps into place: I have more respect for Emily than I’ve ever had for any other person. What do I do with that?
She feels it in my touch and freezes completely before swinging her gaze to where my fingers are intertwined with hers.
“Don’t go back there,” I say quietly. “Please.”
For three torturous seconds where I wonder if I’ve just handed her ammunition on a silver platter, I study her green eyes. The large freckle at the base of her throat. Her collarbones rising and falling with every breath coming as quickly as my own.
And then she swallows, pivots to face me, and pulls her hand free. She raises it and for a brief second, I wonder if she’s going to slap me. Her index finger taps the rim of my glasses instead. “Are these real?”
I huff a laugh. “Of course they’re real. Why would I wear fake glasses?”
“So when you came back to town you’d look more intelligent than me.”
“I don’t have to wear glasses for that to be true.”
A thrill twists around my ribs as Emily’s hand once again rises, but this time to softly pull the glasses off my face. She tries them on—and although my vision is blurry, I still catch her grimace as she verifies that the lenses are prescription.
Emily holds on to my glasses a beat longer. Her face is still angled up at mine and I wonder if she’s using this opportunity to study me. The back of her hand grazes my bare chest in a touch like a bolt of electricity. It takes me a second to realize she’s signaling for me to take my glasses back from her.