3. Emma
Emma
How long does a kiss hangover last? I think my genetic makeup underwent a complete change Saturday night at the bar in Burlington.
I got loopy drunk off Carson Price, and now I’m reeling.
He infused me with every warm Cinderella fantasy I’ve dreamed up over the last five hundred romance novels I’ve read, then disappeared at midnight like an enchanted pumpkin.
But it was worth it. Now, back in my prim librarian clothes and sensible shoes, the memory of that kiss will sustain me. I’m almost afraid to run into his mom, because I’m certain she’ll be able to see right through me the moment we make eye contact.
Which is going to happen soon, because I’m the idiot who slept in yesterday and forgot to feed Sour Dan.
Now he’s struggling and I’m totally out of flour.
I’m due at work in twenty minutes, and I’m not about to sacrifice the best sourdough starter I’ve ever had just because I can’t bear to see Sharon after mauling her son this weekend.
Okay, that’s not a fair representation. Who mauled whom? I pulled him closer first, yeah, but he was giving me those come-hither eyes all freaking night, and it was my fairy tale hour.
The dress dissolved into sweats once I got everyone home safely and my car turned back into a pumpkin when I pulled into my driveway. But I wouldn’t trade anything for that hour of living like a completely different person.
I pull out the heating mat and turn it on low, then set my jar on top.
It takes less than a minute to get ready for work, tossing a granola bar and my water into the canvas bag with my book.
I throw all of it onto the front seat of my car and carry my measuring cup to the road.
We live on a small country lane right outside of Autumn Ridge, close enough to walk into town if I really needed some steps, but far enough out to see rolling green hills laced with fog beneath the explosion of fall leaves and orange and yellow trees.
The crisp air is fresh and cool, making me pull my sweater tighter while I hurry up the steps to Sharon’s house.
My knock goes unanswered, so I twist the knob and push the door open. “Hi, Sharon,” I call out. She’s home or the door would be locked. “I’m taking a cup of flour.”
There’s no response, which is normal. She’s probably sleeping off a late night at the hospital. I don’t know anyone who works as hard as Sharon does, and now that she’s working toward becoming a nurse practitioner, she’s twice as busy.
The sound of silverware hitting a bowl comes from the kitchen, so I close the door and head toward the open doorway. “Sour Dan needs to be fed, and I’m all out—”
My words die swiftly when I step into the kitchen and come face to face with a child. Her round, green eyes blink at me as her cereal spoon hovers over a bowl full of Cheerios. She’s in pajamas, and her long, blonde hair is tangled like she got in a fight with a racoon.
“Hi,” I say, dragging the word out. My heart is going a thousand beats a minute.
It doesn’t take a PhD to figure out that this is probably Sharon’s only grandchild.
I’ve seen enough photos of her on the fridge over the past few years to know generally what she looks like.
I also know Maven doesn’t have any kids.
Which leaves Carson. The man who made out with me Saturday night and told me he was leaving town so it couldn’t go anywhere.
“Who are you?” she asks.
I clear my throat. “Emma. I live across the street.”
“I’m Penny.”
“You must be Sharon’s granddaughter.”
Her smile reveals a missing tooth on the bottom, a couple spots to the right of her front teeth. “Why did you walk into the house without knocking?”
I knocked, but I’m also not going to argue with a child. “I wanted to borrow some flour from—”
A door shuts down the hall, making me jump.
“You ready, Pen?” a man calls. “We need to leave soon.”
Ohmigosh ohmigosh ohmigosh. That voice. I’m not prepared to face him. His footsteps grow louder as he approaches the kitchen, and I search frantically for somewhere to hide, but he’s about to occupy the only escape route.
The pantry. I can hide in the pantry.
I’m halfway there when Carson steps into the sunny, pale yellow kitchen, a beam of light pouring through the window and highlighting his bare chest and well defined six pack.
The man is gleaming with sweat and wearing nothing but socks and athletic shorts.
Every small ridge I felt through his shirt is now on full display, proving he’s as cut as he felt.
Where’s an inhaler when I need one?
“Emma?” His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape. “What are you—? How do you know where I live?”
Hold on…live? As in present tense? What the actual? “I don’t. I didn’t.” My words are a jumble as I wave my measuring cup. “This is Sharon’s house. I live across the street.”
His mouth closes as he absorbs this information, eyes cutting to the wall like it would magically open and show him my house to corroborate my claim. Yeah, he’s a good kisser, but does he seriously think he’s good enough to turn me into a stalker?
Also, we went to school together. I’ve known him a long time. If he’d get his head out of his butt, he’d remember that.
“Across the street,” he repeats. “The white house?”
I’d classify it as gray presently, and in need of a good power washing, but he’s not wrong. I nod.
Silence descends on us.
“You’re acting weird, Dad.”
He drops a smile on his daughter, but it’s strained.
“I just came for some flour,” I say weakly. “My sourdough needs it.”
“Let me help you with that.” Carson circles the counter and slips a hand to the small of my back.
He leads me toward the corner of the kitchen.
No, the pantry. He’s pushing me into the pantry.
I’m tempted to tell him I had this exact escape plan mapped out first, but he doesn’t look receptive to a joke.
Now I’m vibrating where he touched me. Like my body remembers how strong and capable those hands felt the other night. Good grief this is not a Danielle Steel novel. This is real life.
The tiny room wasn’t built to hold one full-sized adult, let alone two, but Carson follows me inside and closes the door. He flips a switch and deep yellow light washes over us.
“I have a daughter,” he says in a heated whisper.
“You covered that part Saturday night.”
“So I can’t…” He gestures between us.
Disgust rolls through me. “You still think I stalked you? I really do need flour. I’m here on behalf of Sour Dan.”
“Who?”
“My sourdough starter.”
Carson rubs a hand over his face, fighting a laugh. I can smell his deodorant mixed with sweat, and it’s not terrible. He points between us. “My reputation is important right now. This can’t happen.”
“I’m not sure why you don’t believe me, but I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I believe you.” He doesn’t sound like he’s telling the truth, and his eyes are wary. His harsh whisper rakes over my skin, giving me goosebumps. “We’re actually neighbors?”
“Are you…did you move in?”
“Yeah.”
So much for leaving town. This is the exact opposite of the way he made it sound Saturday, which only pours salt into the open I-only-want-to-make-out-I-don’t-actually-want-to-date-you wound. “Then yeah, we’re neighbors.”
Carson gives one nod. “Just my luck.”
“Ouch.”
“It’s not you.”
I cross my arms over my chest, which pushes my forearms into his bare chest because there’s still no room in here. I quickly put them on my hips instead. “Don’t finish that sentence with ‘it’s me’. We both know better.”
His hand drops to his side. “Saturday night, that behavior? That’s not me. I don’t do that. I’m Penny’s sole parent right now and she’s my priority. I really don’t do that.”
“Neither do I.” Well, not counting Seth and the librarian conference. That turned into a short relationship, so it doesn’t count.
Karaoke and me are a dangerous mix.
He lifts one eyebrow, which only has the effect of pouring heat into my cheeks. My face is so hot, I’m sure my skin is blending into my hair.
“How long are you here for?” I ask.
“The foreseeable future.”
“That’s fine,” I tell us both. “It’s the 2020s. We can be neighbors and nothing else. I’m not going to start leaving notes on your car or watch out the window to see when you come outside, so I can be sure to get the mail at the same time.”
“Those are oddly specific.”
“I read a lot of romance nov—you know what? That’s unimportant.”
“Maybe you should promise not to walk into my house without knocking.”
“I knocked!” I whisper-yell.
“Too softly, apparently.”
“Focus, Carson. Neither of us wanted anything more than what we had at that bar, right? We’ve established I’m not a stalker, and this is a total coincidence.”
“Yes.”
“Then I need to go to work.” I reach for the doorknob when he stops me, gripping my hand and looking into my eyes.
The green in his irises is just as pretty as last night, and I can’t keep my traitorous brain from wondering if the bar and the mood and all of that was to blame for the chemistry I felt with him, or if we could recreate it right now in this pantry. His shirtless situation is a bonus.
“You shouldn’t do that,” he says.
“What?”
“Think about kissing me.”
My face burns hotter. “I wasn’t.”
Carson smirks. “You were. I can tell.”
“How? You can read minds now?”
“No, who said…? That’s random. I’m not giving my methods away.”
I want to turn the handle and get out of here, because the smell of his deodorant or shampoo is overpowering the small room and I’m afraid of what else he’ll be able to pick up on. But he’s holding my hand, and the feeling of large, warm fingers over mine is so hard to walk away from.
I’m a grown woman in the most uncomfortable moment. Retaining my dignity is of the utmost importance. It doesn’t mean anything that last time I saw him, he held me against the wall and kissed me until my legs were Jell-O.
“Truce?” he asks.
“Sure.” My quiet whisper still squeaks. “But that means you have to let me open the door.”