After my shower, I catch up on a few emails and watch ESPN until it’s time to leave. I hit the local bagel shop and grab us a couple of bagels with cream cheese, and two large coffees. I don’t know how she takes hers and for some unexplained reason, that irks me. So I have them add cream and sugar to the bag just in case.
I pull up to her house at ten minutes before eight. I see the curtain move, and that small gesture inflates my chest. She’s watching… waiting for me. I don’t try to contain my smile as I grab the bag of bagels and the carrier that holds our two cups of coffee. Miss Emma is about to share her second meal with me. Juggling it all to one hand, I knock on the door. I know she’s close because she was just at the window, but it takes a long damn time to open.
The breath leaves my lungs as soon as the door opens. Emma stands before me in a polo shirt that fits her nicely, showing off her slender frame and those incredible breasts, with the shelter’s logo on the chest. She’s in a pair of khaki shorts that in no way are sexy, but on her, they are. I can imagine those toned tan legs of hers wrapped around me. Her hair is bunched up on top of her head, her curls wild yet on her, they’re perfect. Her face is void of any makeup, and just like last night, the soft dusting of freckles on her cheeks are on display. It was a war I waged with myself to not pull her into my arms last night and trace them with my tongue. That urge is still there today, stronger than ever.
“Landon?” she prompts, and I shake myself out of my mental fog.
“Morning, freckles,” I say, the nickname slipping past my lips before I can stop it. A frown appears as her forehead scrunches up. I fight the urge to reach out and smooth the lines with my thumb. “I brought breakfast,” I say instead.
“Come on in.” She steps back.
“How’s the ankle?”
“Sore, but I can put weight on it today.”
“Can you keep it propped up at your desk today?”
“For the most part. After cleaning cages, feeding, baths, things like that.”
“How about I come by after practice and help with those things?”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine. I can’t baby it.”
“You need to rest it. Give it time to heal.”
“Oh, really, tell me, Mr. QB, how many times have you played injured? How many times have you been out on that field when you wanted to be at home propped up in bed? Or on the couch with a cold beer nursing your wounds?”
“That’s different. That’s my job. I get paid a lot of money to be on that field.”
“This is my job, Landon. I might not make millions, but it’s my job. I love what I do, and I love those animals that depend on me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, hearing the hurt in her voice. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” She turns to walk away. “Em.” I reach out and gently grip her elbow. She stops and turns to look at me. “I’m sorry.”
She nods. “I need to finish getting ready.” She pulls away and I let her.
“Can you eat first?” She stops but doesn’t turn around. “Please?” Her shoulders deflate and I know that I have her. Who knew one simple word could have her agreeing so easily?
“Nothing fancy,” I say, following her into the kitchen. “Just bagels and coffee. I didn’t know how you took yours, so I had them add cream and sugar to the bag.”
“Thank you.” Her reply is polite and formal. I want the teasing Emma back.
“So, how do you take it?” I ask when she doesn’t volunteer the information.
“Black, two sugars.”
I nod. “Good to know.” I hand her a bagel and unwrap my own. We eat in silence, and it’s not as uncomfortable as I would have thought. I find that I just like being near her. Crumbling my wrapper and tossing it in the bag, I finish off my coffee.
“There’s more in the pot if you need it,” she says before taking another bite of her bagel. She wraps up the remaining half and stands.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t want to make you late for practice. Besides, I ate a piece of toast when I took Advil this morning.”
“Well, take it with you. You can eat it later.”
“Okay.”
Just like that, she stands and hobbles down the hall to finish getting ready. I fight the urge to follow her. Instead, I call out to her. “Hey, Emma.”
“Yeah?”
“You need help?”
“I’m good.”
Damn, is that disappointment that she doesn’t need my help? I take care of my trash, and although another cup would be nice to make up for my lack of sleep, I forgo another and instead grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Ready,” she says.
She’s got makeup on now, covering her freckles, and I hate that she’s covering them up. “Why’d you cover them?” I ask, pointing to her face.
“What are you talking about?” She pretends like she doesn’t understand the question, but by the set of her shoulders, I know she does.
My feet carry me to stand in front of her. My hand rises as if it has a mind of its own, and my thumb lightly skims across her cheek. “Your freckles, why did you cover them?”
“I’d prefer to not look like sixteen-year-old me.” Her green eyes stare up at me.
“Sixteen-year-old you must have been gorgeous because, you now… with freckles exposed… you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” I didn’t mean to lay that out there, but I’ll be damned if she thinks of herself as anything but a knockout.
A blush coats her cheeks. Even under
