Make It Sweet

I understood. Far too well. What-ifs plagued my life. I let her worries sink in and thought about them before answering with measured words. “I have this buddy. He’s a big guy, six-five, solid muscle. No one with any sense wants to mess with him.” My thumb flicked a bit of gravel from the edge of the rock. “He had a girlfriend. They’d been together since high school.”

A frown wrinkled between Emma’s brows. “And he hit her?”

“No. She hit him.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

I shrugged. “She’d get into these rages without provocation. She’d scream and rant, throw shit at his head, slap his face, claw his skin. He’d just take it, simply shut down, and let her rail.”

The memory sank like a stone in my gut. The deadness in Hal’s eyes, how he’d held himself stiff and apart from everyone.

“It was one of those things you wouldn’t believe until you witnessed it,” I said to Emma. “Then you wondered why he stayed. Took him years to leave her. She was all he knew, and she’d somehow convinced him it was all his fault.”

“God.” The empathy in Emma’s voice wrapped its soft hands around my heart. I leaned a hair closer to her.

“Point is. This was a big guy, strong and powerful. One good swat from him, and she’d be out for the count. But he wasn’t about to raise his hand to her or to any woman. Because he knew his strength and wielded it responsibly.”

My gaze met Emma’s deep-blue one. “Of course, there are men who hit, and they get off on using their strength to hurt others. But at the most basic level, abuse isn’t about the physically strong versus the weak. It’s a mindfuck, designed to break down your dignity and confidence.”

Her gaze moved over my face as we stared at each other. And I got the impression that she was working things out in her head. Slowly, like the tide coming in, her expression opened up, and she gave me the smallest of smiles. It rushed into all the dark corners of my heart, and I had to mentally brace myself.

“You’re right,” she said.

I cleared my throat and gave her a solemn nod. “I usually am.”

It took her a second; then she huffed out a breath. “Oh my God, you’re terrible.” She sounded amused, though, as she nudged me with her shoulder.

I nudged her back; it was either that or haul her onto my lap. “That’s no secret, honeybee.”

“Honeybee?” she repeated, a warning in her voice.

I bit back a grin. “If I’m going to be a honey pie, makes sense you’d be the bee.”

The sweep of her brows lowered ominously. “Why? Because I’m after your honey?” She scoffed long and loud, and I had to laugh. If anyone was after honey here, it was me.

“Bees make honey, Em.” I nudged her again, hard enough to rock her and make her squeak with a laugh. “And you seem intent upon making me sweet.”

CHAPTER TEN

Emma

Make Lucian Osmond sweet? I suspected he always was; he simply didn’t know it.

I was in a ridiculously good mood on the drive back to Rosemont. Though prone to long periods of silence, and sometimes gruff, Lucian was good company. I didn’t mind the silences; I tended to daydream and get caught up in my own worlds anyway. And the gruffness, the grumbles, and the huffs were kind of adorable. Not that I’d tell him that. Or maybe I should; he’d probably end up doing it more.

Thing was, I didn’t know what was going on between us. I liked him. Lord knew I wanted him. And if he didn’t know that, at the very least, he knew I found him attractive. I wasn’t completely oblivious. I’d seen him looking as well. Never leering or too lingering. But he seemed to like what he saw as well.

When he let his guard down, he flirted. But it was clear he resisted it. Which was smart. Both of our professional lives were up in the air, he was clearly working through a lot of stress, and I . . . technically, I’d just broken up with my live-in boyfriend. Who I hadn’t thought of for days. Greg was just one in a line of disappointments. Either I had completely crap taste or crap judgment. Regardless, it was for the best to stay clear of relationships for a while. Focus on becoming a better me and all that, and stick to simple friendship with Lucian.

Then I caught a glimpse of his big body in the driver’s seat next to me, a ratty Captain America T-shirt stretched tight across his wide shoulders but hanging loose over his flat belly. He wore cargo shorts that just reached his knees.

Were men’s knees supposed to be sexy? Their calves? One sight of Lucian’s bony knee, delineated muscled thigh, and hard calf, lightly dusted with dark curling hair, made me want to reach out and stroke his leg, creep my hand under those shorts to cup what I knew would be firm and meaty and . . . damn.