Page 27 of Engulfing Emma

Which he probably doesn’t. And even if he does, it wouldn’t matter.

It’s not that I don’t bring men home. I do. But I don’t ever introduce them to my mother or Evelyn. The rule is strict: in after my daughter’s bedtime and out immediately … well …after.

Mom knows I have them here. Our townhouse is old, and the floorboards creak. I’m just glad Evelyn is a heavy sleeper.

I pick up the bag and move toward the door when Mom’s words stop me. “Something’s different,” she says, eyeing me up and down.

“What are you talking about?”

She studies my face. “Is that mascara?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mom. Women have been wearing it for a hundred years.”

“Hmm,” she mumbles. “And that’s the shirt I got you for your birthday. You said you were saving it for a special occasion.” She glances at the bag. “Who are you taking those to?”

“I’m hoping itisa special occasion today. These are for the summer staff at the front office … if I get there.”

“You wore your new shirt for the summer staff at school?”

“I guess I did.” I look at the clock over her shoulder, not wanting to be late. Brett’s shift ends in ten minutes.

She follows the direction of my eyes. “In a hurry?” she asks suspiciously.

“I want to get this over with, Mom.”

She finally drops the third degree. “Good luck, honey.”

“Thanks. Have a nice day at work.”

I get to the firehouse as the trucks are backing into the garage. They’re busy. Maybe I should come back another time.

“Emma!” a familiar voice shouts as I walk away.

I turn around to see a dirty, sweaty Brett talking to me from the passenger seat of one of the trucks. Our eyes meet and that same feeling I had the other day—the one where butterflies are doing somersaults in my stomach—is back in full force.

I watch his truck retreat into the garage and then he opens the door and jumps down. I can’t look away as he removes his heavy coat, pants, and boots. I have to keep myself from ogling him. Because apparently sweaty, dirty Brett is even more gorgeous than regular Brett.

“Yes!” one of his buddies says, eyeing my bag. “More goodies?”

I hand it to him. “I hope you like croissants.”

“Sweet,” he says. Then he kisses my cheek and takes them inside.

“Sorry about that,” Brett says, approaching me. “Justin has always been a ladies’ man.”

“It’s okay,” I say, laughing. “I’m glad he’s enjoying the food.”

“Everyone raved about the muffins. Did you really make them yourself, or did you stop at a bakery?”

“I made them. I do a lot of baking.”

He looks over my slim figure. “You obviously don’t eat what you bake.”

My face heats up under his perusal. “I didn’t mean to bother you while you were working.”

“Shift’s over. Give me fifteen minutes to clean up. Why don’t you wait for me on our bench?”

Our bench. I’m not sure why those two words affect me so much, but they do. “Okay.”

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