Page 35 of Owning Emma

Chapter 16

SHAW

“Emma, calm down.”I approached her like one would approach a skittish horse, with my hands in the air and excruciatingly slow. “You have three days to prepare yourself.”

“Three days!”

“Emma. It’s just a business meeting,” I explained.

“But, I’m not just cooking and cleaning for you guys any longer, I’m helping you entertain.”

She was so damn cute when she was flustered. She pounded into the hard dough in front of her while her father served customers. “They are like family, it’s hardly entertaining.”

She stopped abusing the dough. “Shaw, I swear to you, whatever words you push through those luscious lips of yours will only make the situation worse, not help it.”

I licked my lips. “You think my lips are luscious?”

She grabbed a handful of flour and tossed it onto the bread dough. “It was an expression.”

I stalked closer, close enough that my chest was against her back. Her posture stiffened as I leaned down. “I feel like having luscious lips allows me to have more fun.”

I heard her breath shake as she took it in, “What exactly do you consider more fun?”

“I’ve heard,” my lips skimmed her ear, “I’ve heard that they are exquisite for tasting things.”

She blinked a few times before elbowing me hard in the stomach. “If you want a cookie, go take one and stop trying to seduce me.”

I laughed, not even thinking about a cookie but following orders anyway. I broke off the unicorn’s horn and stuffed it in my mouth as I leaned again the counter. “These are good.”

“Don’t you have work to do? And it’s what I do for a living, did you expect anything less?”

“Nothing too pressing.” I took another bite, watching her sassy mouth as she spoke. “I’ve had better.”

She froze. “You have not!”

“I have. I’m sorry, Em. But, you can’t win them all.”

I saw the fire light in her eyes and she put her dirty hands on her hip, smearing flour on her dark t-shirt, “Tell me who?”

I shrugged. “My mother. She made damn good sugar cookies.” It was the truth, but actually voicing it sparked a pain in my chest and memories to flourish.

“I doubt it. Call her up, we need to do a side by side.” She walked over to me and stood toe to toe, her hands never leaving her hips as she tilted her head to stare up at me.

“I can’t call her,” I admitted, no longer finding fun in this game and cursing myself for even mentioning how good her cookies were, even if it was the truth.

“Are you afraid your mother might lose?” she taunted.

“No.” I knew if my mother were here, she would win.

“Then call her.”

“No more than two minutes ago you were stressing about meeting someone that’s like family and now you’re begging me to call my mother,” I pointed out.

“That was before the integrity of my cookies was at stake.” She huffed, her cute little nose wrinkled and tempted me to boop it.

I sighed then tossed my cookie in the trashcan a few feet away. “I can’t call my mother Emma. She’s dead; she has been for a long while. My father murdered her and then offed himself.”

Horror crossed her face and like with most people, I expected her to take a step back, put some space between us. Surely the son of a murderer, a spousal abuser no doubt inherited all of the heinous traits. But, instead, tears pooled in her eyes as she looked at me before she blinked, letting one fall.

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