Page 47 of Make Me Love You

She could do this job. She could even be great at it.

She wanted to be great at it. She would be, some day.

She just had to beat Eli first.

Chapter Thirteen

Is sometime now?

Eli wiped the condensation from the screen and stared at his phone for several long moments. Leave it to Emma to text now. She could have texted him during any of the five hundred times he had checked his phone that day, but of course she hadn’t. He had been distracted all day, still buzzing from the orgasm from the night before, afraid he would miss whatever small window of opportunity she was willing to give him if he set his phone down for even a second. But the text never came.

Not that he had really expected it to. They had just had sex yesterday, after all, and parted this morning. She wasn’t needy like him. He had figured she could probably go at least forty-eight hours without wanting him again. Maybe even a week—although for the sake of his balls, he truly hoped not.

Around nine he had finally given up. He had jumped in the shower, carefully placing his phone on the sink—because even though he told himself to give up, he clung to a tiny sliver of hope.

And now, when his hair was full of shampoo, she had texted.

Is this a booty call, Ms. Andrews? he replied. And held his breath.

Three dots appeared, wavering, then disappearing altogether. Shit. He shouldn’t have pushed it with calling her Ms. Andrews. He started typing an apology when the dots appeared again. He stared at those dots, his torso hanging out of the shower curtain, soap dripping down his neck, as though they were the answer to the universe. What the hell was she typing, the next great American novel?

The dots disappeared again. He groaned.

And then—

Yes.

One word, but it was the only word he needed.

I’ll be there in twenty, he typed back. He wasn’t giving her a chance to change her mind by letting her come to him. No way. If she drove there, every red light would give her a reason to come to her senses.

He was out of the shower and halfway dressed before he remembered there was still shampoo in his hair. Annoyed, he shucked his jeans and turned the water back on. It was cold now, but maybe that was a good thing. He felt like he was burning up. If he didn’t get a hold of himself, it was going to be embarrassing.

Seventeen minutes later he fully dressed, hair still wet, and on her front porch. He lifted his hand to hit the doorbell when his phone buzzed. His heart stuttered. For a moment he considered ignoring it and ringing the bell anyway. If she wanted to call it off, she could damn well do it to his face.

But no. He wasn’t going to do that. He should. But he wouldn’t. He peeked at his phone from the corner of his eye, like it was a snake that might bite him.

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