Page 40 of Blitzing Emily

“I always thought so.” His eyes held hers again.

She swallowed hard and quickly changed the subject. “Want to watch a movie?”

“Nope. Not right now. I’d like to spend some more time talking, if you’re not too tired.”

She wanted to get out of this conversation, and he’d presented her with the best opportunity possible. “I’m pretty wiped out,” she said.

He shoved himself off the bed. “Time to get some sleep, then. I’ll make a wardrobe change.”

“You don’t need to stay here. You have your own place. I’m fine. I don’t need anyone to watch me. I can sleep on my—”

He laid his fingertips over her mouth. “You’re going to wear yourself out with all that arguing. Come on.” He reached out for her hand. “Don’t you want to put on one of those virginal white nighties?”

She wasn’t giving in to his charm again. Even if he’d deliberately dribbled hoisin sauce on his shirt, bought her a ring that must have cost a staggering amount of money, and generally been wonderful, she could resist him. Even if every time he smiled, her heart skipped a beat.

He probably smiled that way at every woman who crossed his path. She wasn’t special. The sooner she realized that, the better off she’d be.

“Don’t I get an opinion here? It’s my house.”

“Of course you do. You told me that you’re fine by yourself, and I disagree.” His eyes twinkled again. “Get changed, and we’ll discuss it further.”

She heaved a frustrated sigh. “You’re—you’re just—oooh.”

Emily hurried into the bathroom and shut the door only to hear his laughter. She put on another billowing white cotton nightgown, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and thought about what she should do. She could order him to leave. That was best. The scariest thing about Brandon was that he saw behind her defenses. He knew, somehow, she really didn’t want him to leave.

This had to stop.

She emerged from the bathroom to find Brandon snuggled into the blankets of her bed. He gave her a sleepy grin.

“If you’re staying here, you need to sleep in the living room or in the guest room. This is not working,” Emily informed him in her firmest tone. If she averted her eyes from his bare chest, she could do this—as long as she didn’t remember how uncomfortable he looked curled up in her bedroom chair, or how he had stayed to make sure she was okay.

“You don’t have a bed in your guest room. The living room’s cold.” On any other man, it would have been whining. In Brandon’s accent, it was a crime against humanity.

“What’s the matter? The big football player doesn’t know how to turn up a thermostat? Too bad.” She pointed toward the bedroom door. “Out.”

“You don’t really mean that, sugar,” he said.

“Yes, I do. We still hardly know each other.”

He let out a snort. “I know that you snore.”

“I do not,” Emily said.

“You also make the cutest little whimpering noises in your sleep,” he said softly.

She threw the smallest pillow from her bed at him. “Goodnight, Brandon.”

The door shut behind him. She breathed a sigh as she crawled into bed, ignoring the twinges of guilt. God’s gift to the NFL could take the couch, and she might get some rest.

BRANDON STROLLED INTOEmily’s room a few hours later. He’d made a few phone calls, watched all the game film he could stand, and fixed himself a midnight snack. He’d slept in the chair in her room before, but the only way he was going to get any meaningful sleep at all was to stretch out next to her.

She was right; he could have slept at home. But he kept thinking about the expression on her face when she had pushed herself out of his arms earlier. Obviously, that was a physical response to spending the last forty-eight hours or so with someone he found attractive. He wanted to kiss her. Even more, he knew she wanted to kiss him, but she wouldn’t. She was stubborn to the tenth power. While he delighted in doing and saying stuff that worked her last nerve, he realized he really enjoyed watching the relaxation that spread through her entire body when she laughed. It would be slow going, but oddly, he wanted to gain Emily’s trust.

His long-term plan had been to avoid anything that lasted longer than a New York minute. He didn’t want anything permanent, and when things got sticky he made a quick exit. He’d never had any intention of settling down until his football days were at an end, and then he’d take time to find the right woman. These days, though, flavor-of-the month females meant more annoyance and heartache than fun—women like Anastasia, for instance. She was the last straw.

For now, though, Emily the pint-sized ball of fire—with vulnerability she did her very best to hide—intrigued him.

The moonlight draped Emily’s bed like netting, and he watched her sleep for a few minutes. He knew she smelled like peaches and freshly cut grass. He wasn’t kidding about the little noises she made in her sleep. He heard a soft whimper, even now.

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