Page 17 of Make Me Love You

Busted. She didn’t blush, because she wasn’t embarrassed. Why should she be? She hadn’t arrested his dad—who, once upon a time, had a terrible habit of driving drunk, before ultimately dying in a drunk driving crash not of his own making. At the time, Eli had said that at least his dad had waited until his eighteenth birthday to orphan him, unlike his mother. Eli’s sense of humor had always run pretty dark. Technically, though, Eli wasn’t an orphan. He just didn’t know where his mother was.

Or did he? Had she called him in the last eight years? Had she sent him a postcard from God knows where? Maybe dropped by for Christmas dinner?

Emma didn’t know. Suddenly it seemed wrong that she didn’t know.

“Do you need a minute to look at the menu?”

Emma looked up and smiled at the server. “No, thanks. I know what I want.” She glanced at Eli. “Are you ready to order?”

“I had plenty of time with the menu while you were out there on the sidewalk, thanks,” he said drily.

She bit her tongue to keep from sticking it out at him. Eight years ago, she would have done just that. But things were different now. She didn’t want to be fall into their old playfulness. “I’ll have the lamb burger, medium, with the yuca fries. And a glass of water with lemon slices.”

The server nodded. “And you?”

“The same. But a Coke, no water.”

“Great. I’ll put these in and your food will be out soon.”

And then they were alone again. Well, as alone as they could be in a restaurant full of people. Many of whom were sending curious glances their way. Everyone knew their history. Emma pressed her lips together and lifted her chin. She wasn’t about to give them anything to gossip about.

“We should probably get started.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a notebook and pen. “I figured we should make a list of duties pertaining to the Fourth of July celebration and then divide them up.”

“Sounds good.”

She uncapped her pen with a flourish. “Item one, notify all the vendors that the Whittakers have left for California and that we will be handling matters from here on. Mayor Whittaker gave me the list and their contact information, so an email should do it.”

“That sounds like the sort of official notice that should come from the mayor.”

She nodded her agreement and wrote her name down in parenthesis. “Item two, the fireworks. That would include permits and waivers of liability and so forth.”

“I can do the logistics, but my guess is that it will be your official signature that’s still needed.”

She wrote his name down, followed by a slash and her own name. She frowned, staring at their names. Linked and yet separated. She shook her head. “What else?”

“The pie-baking contest. Usually the mayor is one of the three judges. We need to make a change this year, because it can’t be you.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “Why can’t it be me? I like pie. This might be the only task of being mayor that I actually enjoy, and you want to take it away from me? I don’t think so.”

“For the past three years, I’ve been one of the judges. This year I turned down the honor, because I intend to enter myself. Which means you can’t be a judge either, seeing as you’re biased as hell.”

“I am not biased. When it comes to pie, I am completely impartial.”

“You’re biased when it comes to me. Think about it, Ms. Andrews.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes locked onto hers. “Would you really let me win? Are you going to stand there in front of everyone and tell me my pie is the best thing you’ve ever tasted? Shake my hand? Pin that blue ribbon to my shirt?”

She stared at him. Her mouth went dry and heat spread through her. It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, that every word he said was punctuated by a bolt of lust. There was nothing sexual about shaking a man’s hand or pinning a ribbon to his shirt. And yet the thought of doing that, of her palm touching his and his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of her wrists, of feeling the muscles of his chest as she pinned the ribbon...it made her hot and achy. It was ridiculous. And unfair.

“Stop calling me Ms. Andrews,” she said furiously. “It’s weird.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“You know my name.”

He held her gaze for a moment before looking away. He leaned back in his seat, putting more distance between them. “It doesn’t matter what I call you. You won’t ever let me win.”

He was right, though she hated to concede. Not because she was so biased that she couldn’t recognize good pie when she tasted it, but because she knew if she were to shake his hand and touch his chest, she would burst into flames on the spot. Her brain said hell, no, not him. Her heart wailed about betrayal and broken friendship.

But her body? Her traitorous body wanted him. She didn’t know what to do with that. Sure, back when they were friends, it might have crossed her mind once or twice that kissing him might be an interesting experience. But she had never let herself dwell on it. Because they were friends, and friends didn’t think about kissing. Or touching. Or how his hands looked like hands that knew things about pleasure.