Page 46 of Make You Mine

When did he have the time?“Better yet, how long was I in that shower?” I ask the empty kitchen, my eyes pinging from one end to the other, cataloging themelt-me-like-buttersight in front of me. And for the first time in months, I’m not being drowned by my fear—I’m excited.

Every day and with each interaction, my desires for him grow. My feelings morph.

Before this is over, these flip-flopping emotions are going to give me a mental breakdown.

Doesn’t this man realize that every smile or touch and the way he simply listens to me breaks down my walls and decimates the rationale that knows this is wrong? That we can’t start something while he’s my police-issued bodyguard? I can’t afford to let my guard down, and neither can he, but then he does things like this and…

It’s bad and oh-so-good but dangerous to my psyche.

It could be fatal for me. For Eli.

“I fell for him.” Even as I say the words out loud, the truth behind them is undeniable. This screams romance-book fast, and it makes no sense, but I did. I walk to the island and pick up the note, reading the quick lines in his penmanship. They’re simple and sweet, and that butterfly fluttering in my belly takes off at a rapid pace, causing my smile to go from small to cheesy.

Go nuts, sweetheart. Have fun.

AND most importantly, I like all things chocolate.

Yours, Eli

“He’s freaking adorable,” I whisper to myself and then turn on my heels toward his office. After my failure at avoidance and our truce, Elijah offered me the use of his laptop anytime I needed it.

Well, today I need it.

I have a Google folder full of recipes, and one in particular is calling my name. It’s a chocolate and hazelnut torte with a hint of spiced rum that is to die for. My mother came up with this recipe when I was twelve, but over the years I’ve tweaked it—made it my own with an alcohol glaze each of the seven layers gets bathed in.

His personal laptop sits on his desk; however, I notice the files from earlier and his work computer are now gone.Don’t think about that. Don’t ruin the moment.

“Right. Get the recipe, and for the rest of the day pretend that everything is perfect. Enjoy his generosity and gift.” Or as best I can. And I plan to, but my curiosity is also tingling, and instead, I take the opportunity to snoop a tiny bit.

See more of who Elijah is.

The room is a decent size and decorated with a warm sandy color on the wall and a white trim. A desk sits in the middle of the room with a wall of bookcases behind it, both in a dark and rich wood finish. On the left is a small table that holds what looks to be a signed basketball and a football helmet: teams from the state of California.

There’s also a rug and a large picture of some sort of mechanical item that I can’t identify.

Other than that, he has a lot of books:

On his shelf. The left side of his desk. Stacked high on the chair opposite his work area.

I love it.

My feet carry me to his bookcase, and I inspect the titles there, noticing that he owns a few of my favorite classics. There are also a few mystery and psychological thrillers. The one that catches my eye, though, is a very worn copy of theArt of War.

Taking it in my hands, I open to the first few pages and notice his notes within. From a favorite line to his interpretation, he’s made it a mission to decipher each word in a way that aligns with his perspective.

It’s endearing and as I read a few, I find myself smiling.

“Definitely too cute.” Putting it back, I take notice of a picture on the next shelf. There’s no denying the younger version of himself wearing a graduation cap from his high school, and the woman beside him has to be his mother. They look so much alike—black hair and hazel eyes with wide, infectious smiles. She looks so proud, and he’s letting her have her moment.

He really is perfect.

I move on to another picture, and this one is from his academy graduation. Still a younger version, but more of a man—bulkier and with less of a baby face. Here, he has a well-defined jawline and kissable lips, strong arms, and sexy eyes.

You came here for a recipe, not to drool over his pictures.

“Right. Recipe.” Taking a few steps back, I turn around and sit down in his chair. There’s no password, so I’m inside and typing my email information within seconds. The very moment it opens, things change for me, and the happiness I’ve felt since walking into his kitchen evaporates. There are hundreds of unopened emails, all from the same address.

Each subject line is more desperate—angrier than the next as my eyes skim down the page.

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