Sweet Little Nothing

"All done," Emmalyn says, breaking me from my thoughts.

I reach out to take the paper from her, intentionally brushing my fingers against hers. As clear as day, I can see the jolt of pleasure travel through her. And from such a simple touch. Immediately, my mind is brimming with ideas of other ways I could touch her.

Jesus. Christ. What is wrong with me?

She pulls her hand away first. "Thanks for the shirt."

I look back in time to see her shrugging out of it, the smooth skin of her shoulders on display.

Desire pools in my gut. “Let me take you to lunch again?”

“What?” Her question echoes my own thoughts. Because, seriously, what?

“When? Now?” she asks.

“Now.”

“Really?” She swipes her tongue over her bottom lip, in a move that’s far sexier than it has any right to be.

I shove back from the desk, planting my palms on the wooden top. I lean into her space and am instantly taken by her scent mingling with mine. “Say yes,” I croak, wondering, again, what it is about her that knocks me so off course. “Say yes and let me spend time with you, let me be in your space, let me prove to you that I’m trying. Trying to be better, to learn, to see. Please?”

My plea seems to shock her as much as it does me. But I think it’s working; she’s going to give in, because I think she wants me every bit as much as I want her.

We’re both just smart enough not to admit it out loud.

“Okay, yeah. That sounds... great.”

I grin, victorious. “Let’s go.”

As we fall into step with one another, I instinctually bring my hand to the small of her back. There’s something about touching her that calms the raging seas in my mind.

“So, where are we going?” she asks as I open the car door for her.

I wait until she’s buckled before joining her on the driver’s side. “You’ll see.”

The drive is quiet, with Emmalyn staring at the passing scenery and me lost in my thoughts of... well, her. Until we roll through the main town square without stopping at any of the eateries.

“Where did you say we were going again?” Her voice wobbles with the slightest hint of nerves.

Grinning, I drum my fingers on the wheel. “I didn’t.” This whole idea is most likely going to explode in my face, and yet I press my foot down more firmly on the accelerator.

“Sterling.” Two syllables have never been more full of frustration. I’m delighted.

“Emmalyn,” I volley back, keeping my tone light. Jovial, even.

“Please tell me where you’re taking me.”

“Or...” I drag the word out as I flip my blinker on. “I could just show you.”

“This is where you live?” she asks as I key in the gate code.

“Yup.” The wrought iron monstrosity swings open, allowing us entry.

“You brought me to your house?”

“That does, in fact, seem to be the case.” My voice is rife with humor.

“Why?” Hers is not. If anything, my little mouse sounds about zero-point-two seconds from flinging herself from my car.

She’s even edging her right hand ever so slowly toward the door handle, as if she’s contemplating bolting at any moment.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Run.” I nod to her white-knuckled fingers. “Not only would I catch you, but you’d hurt yourself.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’m just taking you to lunch, Emmalyn.” I guide the car into my designated parking space and kill the engine. “I know we had a rocky start, but not everything I do has nefarious motives.”

She casts me a doubtful look, so I shoot her my most charming smile.

“Fine. But don’t make me regret this, Sterling.”

“I won’t,” I say, all the while thinking, I’ll make you regret so much more than this. I’ll make you regret ever crossing my best friend. I’ll make you regret it all.

In sync, we unbuckle and exit my car. “Which is yours?” she asks, eyeing the row of two-story luxury townhomes curiously.

I guide her to the end unit and swipe my fob over the sensor. I give her one last look before swinging the door open and letting her inside.

For the first time in a long time, I take in the space I call home with fresh eyes. From the high ceilings with exposed ductwork and dark stained concrete floors to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall making up the back of my living room, this place is pure masculine splendor.

With a chef’s kitchen full of top-of-the-line appliances, three spacious bedrooms, each with their own en suite, and a deck that nearly doubles my living space, there’s not a single amenity missing.

And thanks to my designer, it looks lived in. Welcoming, even, if Emmalyn’s slack-jawed expression is anything to go by.

“Whoa,” she breathes out as she takes in the view beyond the wall of windows. “You live here?”