Page 6 of Crushes to WHAT

I deal with my shame and propriety the only way I know how—by bartering.

“We can trade for it,” I offer. “You can do as much free labor as you like, and in exchange, I’ll give you free haircuts for life and…” My face screws up as I grasp for something of equal value to his work, then alights when I find it. “Free drinks at the Brew! Also for life, obviously. And food!” My eyes drop to his body, and I rethink that one. “Or… sorry, not food. Fox would kill me. But definitely drinks. Drinks and haircuts, forever and ever, in exchange for whatever portion of free labor you wish to gift me.”

Emerson tugs the strand of hair he’s commandeered, then drops it. “I have to charge for the cost of materials,” he says. “We have the pro bono fund that we used for Poem, but that’s meant to be for emergencies. I can’t offer company line items for free. I can, however, offer myself. I’ll have to work during my off hours, and you’ll have to pay for materials, but it will be a whole lot cheaper.” He pauses in a way that suggests he might say more, but he doesn’t.

I consider his offer. For half a millisecond. “Deal.”

He huffs an amused exhale. “Baby, don’t jump in. Think about it first. I’d be working from around 4:00 to 8:00 PM. You’d save money, but I’ll be here during odd hours, and I won’t be particularly quiet. And because it’s only four hours a day, it’ll take me longer, so you won’t be able to relax after work for at least six weeks. Maybe more depending on if I find anything hinky under the tiles or in the walls—and I always find something hinky under the tiles or in the walls. Hinkiness is a line item in all our jobs.”

I would like it acknowledged and on the record that I listened to all of his words after “baby,” because I am a grown-up adult businesswoman who can do hard things.

“I have thought about it,” I say. “And what I thought was that the offer wasn’t in need of any thought. You being here after work means you’re also here after my work, which means I can work in the studio during the day, which means I don’t have to rent a booth somewhere else while you get things fixed up here. You being here after work also means that’s four less hours a day when I’m alone in the house. October is a safe town. The safest, really, but I am still aware of my position as a woman living alone without so much as a dog for protection. It’s comforting to know that someone I trust—someone that no sane person would mess with—will be around at a time when I am arguably most vulnerable. I’ll be able to make dinner in peace. I’ll be able to blast my music as loud as I want without worrying that I’m going to get snuck up on by some psychopath coming through town for the sole purpose of murdering me. All that, plus I save a whole load of money. I like saving money. Saving money on this fixer-upper studio means I might be able to afford the blow-drying chairs I’ve been coveting for months.” I sigh dreamily. “They’re butter yellow, and they’d fit perfectly in that corner.” I point to the corner in question. Currently, it sits empty save for a medium-sized bump in the drywall where I careened a little too wildly to a stop in my rolling saddle chair.

Emerson does not look at the corner. Emerson, instead, looks at me.

My breath hitches.

Freaking freak, he’s attractive when he’s… existing. Doing anything. Looking at me like that, with his eyes lazy and penetrating and oh-so-confident that not only is he allowed to look at me, but it’s his right. My kitchen and me, we have loads in common these days.

“You feel safe with me?” he mutters. It’s a question as much as it is a statement. He’s not asking because he thinks I’ll refute him. He’s asking because he wants to hear me say it again.

“I-” choke on my words under the heat of his gaze, clear my throat and avert my eyes. Then, I try again. “I feel safe with you,” I confirm. “How could I not? You’re so…” I trail off, flicking my eyes back to him—to his large, broad frame. He’s bigger than anyone I’ve ever seen, and stronger, and more capable of using his size and strength for the good of those around him. He could probably protect me with nothing but his pinky, he’s so fit, and kind, and perfect.

“You feel safe with me, even though I’m huge,” he says. “You feel safe with me even though, objectively, I’m an easy man to be scared of. Samantha won’t get within twenty feet of me when I’m at the bar. Absolutely shakes in her boots. When I go to the grocery store, men and women I’ve known my entire life—since I was barely two feet tall—abandon their carts and flee the store because they don’t want to be trapped in there with me. I can’t be the first one on a jobsite because there’s always a chance the client will see me and cancel the job altogether. It’s happened often enough, we don’t even let them see me at all until Warren’s secured the work and been there a minimum of an hour. Not unless it’s someone who knows me—me.” He shakes his shoulders loose, throwing off tension I didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You Blackwoods know me, though, don’t you,” he nearly whispers. “You trust me. You see me, and you think of how much safer you are with me. You’re not afraid.”

It means a lot to him, me feeling safe with him. I didn’t realize… I wouldn’t have thought that people here would treat him like that. I know that I’ve never seen anyone treat him like that, but then, when Emerson is around, I’m not usually paying attention to anyone else. Why would I? How could I? When he is so him, and the him that he is is so big, and wide, and sweet, and kind, and freaking, freaking perfect, and freaking, freaking, freaking safe.

Even if some absolute morons think otherwise.

“You’re the safest man I’ve ever met,” I tell him honestly. I keep my face sincere—if blushy—as he searches it for what most would apparently assume is the obvious deception in my words. I have an amazing father, two wonderful brothers, and plenty of found-family type men in my life, all of which I would consider extremely safe to be around, both physically and emotionally. Still, they don’t hold a candle to what Emerson makes me feel.

None of them are as big, or as strong. None of them could lift a wall and move it if the occasion called for it, and we’ve all seen Emerson do exactly that with ease, more than once. None of them would find the just right balance of interacting with me so that my crush doesn’t feel too embarrassing. None of them are as gentle, or as thoughtful, or as considerate, or as generous.

None of them make me feel like I don’t have to think when they’re around, or watch out for myself, or worry about the big and small stressors life provides.

None of them are Emerson Wright.

I try to convey as much with my eyes and the tilt of my head and the tip of my mouth. I try to make him see the veracity of my declaration.

It takes a long time—seconds and minutes, and a lot of both—but eventually the line between his brows softens, and his large hand lands on his large chest, just above his heart. He clutches the material of the Big Ron’s Contracting logo on his dark t-shirt. “You mean that,” he says.

“I mean that with every cell in my body,” I assure him, stumbling over the words but forcing them out anyway. He deserves to know. He may be monster-sized, but he is no monster, and I won’t have him feeling like one in my home. “You are safe,” I tell him. Safe to me. Safe for me. Safe here. Safe to be who he is, and especially the parts that he can’t control.

His free hand clenches, and his breaths heave.

I give him as many moments as I can before I can’t bear the air between us any longer, and I have to fill it. “So it’s settled,” I announce shakily, forcibly banishing the emotionally charged electricity dancing across my skin and threatening to set me aflame. “You’ll work here in the evenings for as long as it takes to get everything all fixed up, and I’ll give you free drinks and cuts for the rest of forever.”

He shifts minutely, and the vibe shifts with him. “It’s settled,” he agrees, eyes sparking as he casts off the last vestiges of vulnerability in his frame. “I can start Thursday.”

Thursday. Three days from now.

I will have three days to become one with the knowledge that Emerson Wright will be in my house five days a week every week for who knows how long.

“Thursday is perfect.”

Chapter Four

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