As a single mom in a small town, there's only one thing I want. Another baby. When all the roads to getting what I want lead to dead ends, I turn to one of my best friends for help.
In my mind, Trent Castillo is the perfect baby daddy. He has good g...
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Before I knew what it was like to sleep with Emily, I never had to worry about my behavior around her. Casual touches and close proximity made me think dirty thoughts, but I had those under control—mostly. None of it was ever going to go anywhere, or so I thought.
Now, though, it's like my whole body knows when she's in a room, when she's close enough to catch a hint of lemon or peaches, and there's some subconscious part of me that's become aware of the rhythm of her, beyond the calendar and her technical cycle.
Some nights, I can tell when she's feeling me a little too much. Most of the time, I work really hard to ignore any impulse to push her buttons. I know I could, but doing that is wrong.
Right?
Except, sometimes wrong feels a little too good. That's always been my problem.
So, when I get home from the gym a week before anything physical should happen between us, I notice how she moves through the kitchen, tidying up, as though she's also hyper aware of me, where I am, what I'm doing.
And I should let that sensation go. That's the responsible thing to do. She doesn't want things to get out of hand between us, and I want us to be able to return to friends once my duty is done.
Or I think I do.
I will admit to myself, usually when I've had a drink or two, that the idea of this not ending when my duty is done isn't out the question. At least for me. On those rare days when it feels like what I did in this town is fading into the past, being buried in people's memories, the idea of keeping Emily is more appealing than it should be.
No matter what happens, I definitely get I should be savoring what we have right now. Emily Sullivan is mine.
And I swear to god, or all the aliens in outer space, Emily's sundresses were put on this planet to torture me. When she's in sweats I can almost pretend we're just friends, but when she's still wearing one of the dresses she wore to show a house or film a promo I hold onto my sanity by a thread.
Not only is she wearing a dress tonight, she's wearing my favorite yellow one with these little purple flowers on it. I don't know how she wears it for work because it barely reaches mid-thigh, and it's a wispy material, the kind that would be soft and silky to the touch.
The air around us has heated, in the way I normally only let it when I know it's go-time, but I don't feel like fighting it tonight.
In fact, I might be feeling a little bit of an urge to break the rules.
"There's food in the fridge, if you want it." She's at the sink doing the last of the dishes from dinner, I presume.
"I'm definitely hungry." I let my gaze drag over her, not hiding what I'm thinking about eating at all.
A flush rises to her chest and into her cheeks. "Help yourself," she says.
Instead of going to the fridge, I approach her at the sink, and I trail my fingers along her exposed leg, stopping at the hem of her dress, and then I put my palm on her hip, kiss her on the temple.
