“Run, run!” she yelled.
I adored Luna, but the girl was crazy, and “horsey”’ was a game we played almost every single day until my shoulders and arms ached constantly.
“You must be Adaline,” he said.
“I … yes.” My hands were full of grocery bags, and I clutched them to my chest like they’d protect me from sounding like an idiot. “I’m Adaline.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” He swung Luna down into his arms and blew a raspberry into her belly. “Mainly from this little monster, and she’s never wrong about people.”
I smiled at Luna, who was breathless with laughter.
“Horsey, run,” she yelled, scrambling for his shoulders again.
Emmett looked at me with a wide grin on his stupidly perfect face, winked, and then took off around the house, making shockingly accurate horse sounds and flinging her around like she weighed nothing.
What was it about hot men who were good with kids?
It shouldn’t have been such a foundational aspect to whether he was a good guy or not because I’m sure there were nice guys in the world who hated kids, but all I’m saying is that I’d never met one.
He was smart, and nerdy about buildings, which somehow made him hotter, and good with his family and respected women like it was his job—and when a guy like that knows how to treat a woman—his above-average physical prowess actually becomes the least interesting thing about him.
Emmett Ward lived up to the hype.
It wasn’t like I’d forgotten, but my brain probably blocked it out as some defense mechanism, and it only took half a day watching him interact with my family to remember exactly how much I liked him, exactly how much he lived up to his own hype.
He helped my mom in the kitchen without being asked, assembling sandwiches with his shower-wet hair slicked back off his forehead.
He asked thoughtful questions about our family history while we ate, laughing heartily at stories of what it was like when Mom and Tim got married and had to combine a household of six kids ages ten and under.
Not once did he dominate the conversation or steer it toward himself.
He was interested in Wilder Homes, asking Tim about how he started the business and his favorite part of building someone a home.
They briefly talked about trusses or supports, and my mind glazed over, but Emmett leaned forward with bright-eyed interest.
When someone answered one of his questions, he kept his focus on them, never a doubt that he was giving them his undivided attention.
Only in the moments when conversation happened separate from him did Emmett allow his gaze to settle back onto me.
I tried not to notice when it happened. But I was physically incapable.
As everyone dispersed, Tim and my mom settling onto the couch, I watched him out of the corner of my eye.
“Why are you glaring at him?” Greer whispered.
We were clearing the table, setting the plates and silverware on the kitchen island, because Emmett was washing the dishes so my mom could relax.
I know.
“I’m not glaring.”
Greer snorted. I was glaring a little.
“He’s got to have a flaw,” I hissed. “I mean, statistically, he has to, right?”
She nodded resolutely. “Yes.”
Emmett’s gaze snagged on mine, and his lips curled up in a slight smile when I fumbled the pile of plates in my hand.
“Steady there,” Parker said from the other side of me. “He’ll sense your fear.”