Page 34 of Just This Once

My head tipped back, and I audibly groaned to the ceiling. Nothing made me feel more pathetic than being twenty-five years old and relying on my mother to resuscitate my love life. “I really wish you’d stop trying to find me a boyfriend, Mom.”

Her eyes softened as she stepped closer. “I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy,” I insisted. “If I get a full-time job here, I’ll be even happier.” I swallowed hard, giving voice to the words I’d rehearsed over and over in my mind. “That’s what I need to focus on. There are goals that I have every intention of achieving. I can do this.”

My mom’s arm settled across my shoulder as she pulled me into a side hug. Her soft, floral perfume filled my nose, and I sank into her hug. “You can do anything. I only know how deeply you feel, but that you’re afraid to show it. I just hate that he took that from you.”

Emotion clogged in my throat. Feelings were something that could be used against you. It was the most important lesson Craig had ever taught me. “It has nothing to do with him.”

I hated lying to my mother, but she let the small untruth go without an argument. “Sometimes I think you’re all action and you forget to remember that the best parts of life aren’t line items to be checked off, but moments you can onlyfeelyour way through.”

“That sounds awful,” I deadpanned as my mother squeezed.

Her bubbling laughter broke the tension, and I touched my head to hers. I knew she meant well, no matter how misguided her matchmaking attempts were. “Just... try leaning into your feelings. For me,” she pleaded.

I pouted. “Fine. But only because I’m going to steal a brownie before dinner!” With a laugh, I escaped her hug just as I took off like a shot toward the kitchen.

“You better not!” She whipped a dish towel in my direction and chased me into the next room.

My laughter died a slow, squawking death, and my feet came up short. My mother’s body propelled me forward from behind as I stared at Whip, standing in my parents’ kitchen.

“There are my girls.” My father beamed at us as he shoved the remainder of a brownie into his mouth.

“Joseph Martin. I told you those were for dessert. I swear, you and Emily are cut from the same cloth.”

Dad wiped his hands as I continued to stare at Whip. Heat prickled along my hairline, and Whip’s eyes stayed locked with mine.

Mom moved past me in one graceful motion, opening her arms wide. “William, it’s so good to see you.”

My jaw came unhinged as I watched Whip envelop my mother in a comfortable, familiar embrace. His eyes stayed on me as he hugged her. Clearly she’d left out a few detailsregardingWilliam—specifically that she had a soft spot for him and that outside of her and my father, everyone seemed to call him Whip.

Her hands came to his biceps. “I hope you’re hungry. Joe bought far too many hamburgers, as usual. I’m afraid you’ll have to carry the leftovers to the firehouse.”

Whip’s laugh was warm and laced with familiar affection. “I doubt anyone is going to complain about that. Especially if there are any of your famous black-and-white brownies left.”

“That will be up to these two.” She laughed, gesturing between her husband and me.

“Mom . . .”

Mom turned to me. “What? Why are you standing there?” She motioned toward Whip. “Come on over here and say hello.”

I took one wooden step forward. He was dressed casually in dark denim and a white T-shirt. My stomach flipped at how his shirtsleeves strained against his muscles.

“William, meet my daughter, Emily. Emily, this is William.”

Whip held out his wide palm. “Emily.”

Manners took over as I slipped my hand into his.“William.”I tipped my eyebrow up, acknowledging his name with my steely gaze.

The corner of his mouth hooked up as he squeezed my hand. Heat unfurled in slow waves up my arm, liquefying my bones under his touch. I snatched my hand back.

“Can I give you a hand outside, sir?” Whip turned his attention to my dad, who held up a platter of thin round hamburger patties to be grilled.

Dad smiled. “Grab a few beers and meet me outside.”

Sir. What a kiss-ass.

An image of me bent over Whip’s bed, bare ass in the air as he burned a path of hot, wet kisses up the back of my thigh flashed through my mind.

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