Page 35 of Tasting Fire
Please don’t put your arms around me because I might shatter.
Just like the window last night.
He skimmed her forearm and eased the notebook from her hand. Emmy knew by heart what he’d find on page one printed in handwriting that was much too neat to be a doctor’s.
Emerson McKay’s Strategic Plan for Fun Development.
Pa. The. Tic.
What normal human needed a Roman numeral-ed outline for enjoying life?
Obviously, she wasn’t normal.
“You…um…only have five things on this list.”
Even more pathetic. She had way more Roman numerals than she did fun ideas.
She whirled around and snatched the notebook from his hand. Maybe she’d contracted caffeine poisoning. Only explanation for losing her mind and showing this to Cash.
“Hey,” he protested. “I wasn’t done with that.”
“As you so kindly pointed out, it wasn’t exactly a tome. More like a short story.” With a quick sidestep, she tried to duck around him, but he held out his arms to stop her.
Somehow those strong arms found their way around her and pulled her into his chest. Fine, she could bury her face here as well as anywhere else. And the scent of rosemary and woodsmoke that clung to his skin cruised through her body like heroin.
“Why are you like catnip?” And if he was catnip, she was a Siamese with a drug problem. Line him up, baby, and she would snort him.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” she mumbled against him, taking perverse enjoyment in feeling his pectorals against her moving lips. It felt good—so good—to lean against someone who didn’t expect her to perform either a medical miracle or hostess duties.
“So you want to have more fun, huh?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. Damn the man. He was laughing just as she’d been afraid he would. Her head snapped up, but instead of finding amusement in his expression, she discovered he was gazing at her with a straight face. “Why aren’t you laughing?”
“Because this is serious stuff right here. Having fun is the most serious occupation in the world.”
Emmy snorted. “You’re so full of it.”
He stepped back and his mouth turned down at the corners. Sharply. “Which is the reason I have to tell you that I’m disappointed in you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You used to be a more diligent student.” Next came the disapproving head shake that made Emmy feel as if she was back in elementary school. “This outline is painfully incomplete. In fact, if I were grading it right now, you wouldn’t get a passing mark.”
“But—”
“I mean, there’s a reason these notebooks have fifty pages in them. The outline should fill up the whole thing.”
“That’s a lot of fun.”
“And that,” he said, “is absolutely the point.”
