Page 59 of The One Night Dash
I groan, drop my phone onto the bed, then pick it back up because, apparently, I’ve lost all willpower.
Me
My family’s here. I’m staying until Sunday night.
Dash
Joel will be available when needed.
I roll my eyes so hard they nearly stick.
Me
Dash, let Joel have a break. I’m a big girl. I can handle my own travel.
And then … nothing.
No dots. No reply. Just silence.
I toss my phone aside and flop back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Does he think he’s proving he’s not clingy?
I realize immediately that I don’t like it, not one bit.
Does that make me clingy, too? Or crazy?
Nope. No way I’m going down a self-realization rabbit hole on the writer’s block express.
I grab my laptop instead, shove a pillow behind me, and pull it onto my knees.
Something’s missing. Hemingway.
I look at the time, and it’s far too early to call and get a kitty update, so I look at the last photo Angie sent me with Earnest and Hemingway in a death stare-off that she tries to sell as them starting to be friends.
Well, it has to work, I think as I open my laptop.
When last we saw Emmett and Sandra, they were tangled up in the back of the café, steam fogging the windows, every line blurred between workplace banter and something much, much dirtier.
My fingers hover over the keys then start moving.
Emmett doesn’t lether retreat. Not after what they just did. He leans against the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grinning like he’s the one in control when they both know she could set him on fire with a look.
“You’re thinking too much again,” he murmurs, brushing a hand across her jaw, tilting her face up so she has no choice but to meet his gaze.
“I am not.”
“You are. I can hear it.” His thumb skims her lower lip, his smile edged with mischief. “But don’t worry; I’ve got enough confidence for both of us.”
Sandra’s heart kicks harder, because it’s true—he does. He fills the room with it, easy charm and steady heat, like he knows the world bends a little to his will and he’s only just now deciding to use it on her.
And she hates that it works. That she melts under it, even as she rolls her eyes and says, “Cocky much?”
“Cocksure.” He wags his thick brows, leaning closer until she feels the whisper of his breath against her ear. “But I also know exactly what I want.”
I glanceat my phone to see if he’s messaged. He hasn’t.
If Dash Sterling wants silence, fine. I’ll drown myself in sugar-sweet words until I forget. I grab the pastries and settle deeper into the pillows, fingers flying, between bites.
Emmett leans closer,his eyes as dark and rich as a double-shot espresso. “You’re sweeter than tiramisu, Sandra. And I’m done pretending I don’t want the whole damn dessert tray.”
