Page 51 of Make Me Love You

“Is that an offer or a demand? Because if it’s a demand, then don’t let the door hit you on the way out. But if it’s an offer, then...maybe.”

“I was thinking we could make them together.”

Her head tilted, causing her hair to spell over her still-naked shoulder in a somewhat mussed curtain of gold. He twisted a lock of it around his index finger and examined it. She didn’t stop him. It seemed like a small miracle that she didn’t stop him. Even before the mess was made, when they had been the best of friends, he wouldn’t have dared to touch her like this. Of course, back then he wouldn’t have woken up naked in her bed after a night that included two rounds of mind-bogglingly good sex, either.

He wouldn’t go so far as to say the eight-year Emma drought was worth it, but his cock in her mouth and her hair twisted around his finger were certainly important points to consider.

“Pancakes sound amazing, especially since I don’t recall ever getting around to dinner last night, but I probably shouldn’t,” she said.

He could hear the regret in her voice. She wasn’t just trying to get rid of him nicely. Though, that could have been because she really wanted those pancakes.

He released her hair and it unspiraled from his finger like a pinwheel. “Why is that?”

“Oh, you know. That fun little thing called work?” She bumped her shoulder playfully against his. Another small miracle. “What about you? Aren’t you on duty today?”

“It’s my day off.”

“Oh,” she said wistfully.

It wasn’t his place to tell her how to run her life. They weren’t friends. They were...well, it didn’t matter what they were, because it still wasn’t his place—

“Take the day off,” he blurted, because apparently his brain wasn’t in charge of his mouth anymore.

She gave a shocked laugh. “I can’t take the day off.”

He wasn’t going to argue with her. She knew her own life better than he did. Except, of course he was.

“Why not?” he asked. “Does Cesar need you at the food truck?”

She shook her head. “Not today. He has his grandson helping him out. Marcus is taking my hours three days a week so I can get the bed and breakfast ready.” Her eyebrows pushed together, causing a worry line to form between them. He could guess her thoughts. Fewer hours worked meant fewer dollars earned. “So, no, I’m not making burritos today, but that doesn’t mean I’m not working. I have the whole upstairs to paint.”

He thought about that. There was no doubt in his mind that Emma was exhausted, mentally and physically, from having what amounted to three jobs. And this wasn’t anything new for her. In high school, it was school and taking care of her mom. In college it was school and waiting tables at Dreamer’s Cafe. She probably hadn’t had a day off—really and truly off, without care or worry—since she was fifteen.

She deserved a day to relax, and someday he was going to make sure she got it, come hell or high water. But today was not that day. Still, he could help.

“Okay,” he said. “So we’ll make pancakes and then we’ll paint.”

“We?” she echoed. “You’re going to help me paint? It’s four bedrooms, plus the hallway. Just so we’re clear on what you’re signing up for.”

“I remember.” He gave her bare hip a light smack. “Get dressed, Ms. Andrews. We have work to do.”

“Why is that so hot?” she complained. She pushed back the covers and stood, apparently unconcerned with her nudity. He liked that, that she was comfortable enough with herself, and with him, to let him see her fully. “I’m supposed to hate it when you call me Ms. Andrews and boss me around. It shouldn’t be hot.”

He shrugged. “I’m only telling you what you want to hear.” He watched her shimmy into a clean pair of underwear. “I might be giving the orders, but you’re the one calling the shots. You’re in control, when it comes to me. You always have been.”

She froze in the act of rifling through her dresser for clean clothes. Her eyes met his in the mirror. For a fleeting moment, she looked lost. Fear skated across her features, there and gone again before he could fully decipher it. She looked away.

“Or maybe it’s Pavlovian,” he suggested. “I’ve called you Ms. Andrews with my mouth between your legs enough that now you’re trained. I say Ms. Andrews, and you get wet.”

“Hey!” she yelled. “Did you just compare me to a dog?”

She grabbed a T-shirt from the drawer, twisted it, and whipped it at him, hitting him right in the gut. “I am not a dog, Eli. You can’t train me.”

She snapped the shirt at him again. He was laughing too hard to adequately defend himself, but it didn’t hurt anyway.

“Are you sure about that? Let’s find out.” He dodged her next attack and, before she could try again, grabbed her wrists, holding her captive. He kept his grip light at first, then slowly tightened his hold, watching her reaction closely. Her eyes flared with heat. She liked it. Interesting. “Underwear off, Ms. Andrews.”

He could feel her pulse pick up speed against his fingertips. She was turned on, but he knew she wasn’t about to concede. Emma hated to lose.

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