Page 90 of The Backup Plan

So the question is, what am I going to do about it?

How do I show Emery that we can have what we both want?

Emery

I’m fresh out of the shower when the knock sounds at my door.

Not a polite knock.

Not a neighborly knock.

More of a slightly off-rhythm knock.

“Ugh,” I say to my reflection. My hair is piled messily on top of my head, my face is scrubbed free of makeup, and I’m wearing mismatched pajamas that consist of an old college T-shirt and sleep shorts that have seen way better days. “I don’t want any,” I mutter to myself.

The neighborhood kids and their beginning-of-school fundraisers are fine and all, but at this hour of night? Like, no. Just no.

The knock comes again, followed by a muffled, “I know you’re in there.”

Lucas.

What is it about his voice that sounds off? Disoriented.

He did something to his shoulder. That’s my first thought. My instinctive thought that has me rushing to the door and throwing it open.

Only to find Lucas standing there, barefoot and swaying just a little with one hand braced against the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hair is damp with waves all over the place like he ran his hands through it too many times. His smile is crooked and bashful and entirely too dangerous. And his eyes—those sapphire blue eyes—hold amusement and so much more as they greet me.

Oh.

That kiss we shared?

Oh no.

The one that knocked me off my feet and has had me avoiding him at all costs? Yeah, it just came back with a vengeance and then some.

So much for keeping my distance.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he says blinking slowly. “You’re home. Doc to the rescue.” He tries to punch his fist across his body like an atta girl and loses balance.

I fight a smile but it breaks through, and then I try to rein it in by sounding professional. “Is there something I can help you with at this hour?” I ask.

He shrugs.

And then giggles.

All six-foot-five inches and two hundred and thirty pounds of him . . . giggles.

I don’t even know what to make of it because of course, a part of me melts at him acting like this and making a sound like that.

A very small part.

“Just wanted to see what you were up to,” he finally says.

“At eleven-thirty at night?”

“Yep.” He gives an exaggerated nod that throws him off balance again.

“I thought you didn’t drink during the season?” I ask.