[I don't want to die, but I'm tired of picking myself up every time I fall. Won't you please carry me?] Emilie is bullied because of her selective mutism. The popular girls at her college think she is a freak who won't survive the real world since she won't speak up for herself. One day, they steal her clothes at a pool party and force her to venture out dressed in only a towel. She knocks on a random door without knowing it's Brandon Brooks's home. He is the most popular guy at her college - rich and attractive - and she is convinced he won't help her. Brandon thinks she is a loser like everyone else, but there is one thing Emilie doesn't know about him: he isn't heartless.
View MoreEmilie
I'm alive, but I wish I were dead.
Are there many freshmen in college who feel the same way?
I pull my towel tighter around my body as I continue my walk down the street with tears in my eyes. There are no clothes to cover my skin or shoes to protect my feet as I walk over the wet asphalt.
I'm close to tears, but I won't let them fall. This isn't anyone's fault but my own. Why did I go to that stupid pool party? How did I, for a second, think things would be different tonight?
I'm so angry at myself! I shouldn't have let my guard down! I shouldn't have smiled when I received an invite to the party hosted by the cool girls. The girls just invited me so they could make fun of me for having selective mutism!
They told me they had a swimsuit to borrow, and after I undressed, they stole my clothes. I didn't know what to do, so I just stood there while they laughed and said, "Isn't she pathetic? No matter how we treat her, she won't fight back! What a freak. Jesus, Emilie. How will you survive in the real world if you can't talk?!"
Laughter followed, and my anxiety grew until I couldn't handle it and ran. Now I'm here, out on the street, while searching for a house with its porchlight on. My student apartment is miles away, and my best chance is to find a home where people are still awake.
I turn my head, freezing when I notice a house with its lights on in the kitchen—this is my chance!
I fasten my pace, running until I'm standing right outside a white, luxurious door with its half-dead Christmas wreath still hanging on it. I'm not sure who lives here, but that doesn't matter. I knock on the door once, wait a full minute, and then knock again...and again.
"I'm coming! Stop it before you knock the fucking door down!"
Uh-uh. I immediately recognize the voice and shrink into my skin when the door opens to reveal Brandon Brooks—the son of Clinton Brooks, the billionaire. The light behind him makes him look like a tattooed angel. His blonde hair and broad shoulders are perfectly caught in the light, but he doesn't look one bit happy...he seems more confused...?
"Hello?" he asks. "Uhh...where are you?"
I clear my throat. "Look down."
"Look, do—" he blinks when he sees me. "Oh... It's you, the loser," it looks like he would rather be anywhere else. There is a frown on his face. "What are you doing here?"
"I...I..." I have no idea what to say. I'm nervous, and due to my selective mutism, it's harder to find words when anxious. I can tell it annoys the crap out of Brandon, who sighs.
"Look, I find it really sweet that you have a crush on me. I'm...flattered. But you're not really my type, so please, turn around and—" He trails off and suddenly cocks his head to the side, eyeing me with widening eyes. "Wait, where the hell are your clothes?! Did you come out here to seduce me? What the actual fuck, man!"
"N-no, that's not—"
"I swear girls are worse than men these days...such manipulative predators, man..." Brandon mutters before grabbing my hand and pulling me inside the hallway.
I'm so stunned that I swear my heart stops beating for a full minute. What is even happening right now? I blink up at Brandon in confusion when he closes the door behind me.
"What? Why are you staring?!" His nostrils flare.
"I...I wasn't staring..."
"Sure you weren't...fuck. I swear you're more dangerous than you look. You came here half-naked and shivering, probably knowing damn well that I wouldn't let you freeze to death out there. Well, are you happy now?!" He shakes his head in disbelief. "It's always the quiet ones that are the secret masterminds..."
Since I'm unsure of what to do, I awkwardly follow Brandon. He mutters to himself, and I slow my pace to keep some distance. I don't think he is going to trick me like the girls did, and neither do I believe he will physically hurt me, but he is still scary.
"I'm assuming you want a hot shower," he opens a drawer, takes out a dry towel, and throws it at my chest. My heart flips when I catch it since the towel wrapped around my chest slips down until it lands by my feet.
No! Please don't look at me, please don't—
Brandon follows the motion, staring at my naked body in stunned silence. How embarrassing! I hastily press the dry towel to my chest to hide my breasts and hardened nipples.
Did Brandon see everything?
I lift my chin, freezing when he snorts. "I don't understand why you're blushing. There really wasn't much to see."
Ouch. Brandon's jab hurt, but he isn't wrong: I'm short and skinny, and there isn't a single curve on my body. I wasn't as blessed as the other girls in my school...
I stare down at the floor, praying Brandon won't ask me why I'm not defending myself. The truth? I don't see the point. I'm shy. I hate talking to people, and...he isn't wrong...so why should I answer?
To my surprise, Brandon doesn't comment on my silence and instead opens the bathroom door for me. "Anyway, go take a hot shower. I will set up the couch for you."
Oh my god, is he really going to let me stay over?!
Happiness blooms in my chest, and my sense of logic flies out through the window. It's the only explanation for what happens next: I hug Brandon. I fully wrap my arms around him, the top of my head barely reaching up to his pecs.
"Wh-what are you doing, you psychopath—"
"Thank you," I whisper into his hoodie. He smells like detergent, and I'm actually shocked by how much bigger than me he is. But...I'm not scared. Brandon has saved my life.
"I...uhhh..." He sighs heavily in defeat but doesn't hug me back. Instead, he glances away with a strange expression, muttering, "You're welcome...now, will you please stop hugging me?"
"R-right!"
I immediately back up from him and lift my eyes to his face. He is still refusing eye contact, which probably means I should get inside the bathroom before he throws me out of his home. I don't think he appreciated the hug as much as I did.
"I-I will enter the shower now," I say in a low tone, proud of myself for managing to speak at all. I'm all flustered. "C-cya soon!"
I shut the door before Brandon can respond, my chest heaving with each heavy breath that I take. Why did I hug him? He will probably send a Snap to everyone on his friendlist with the caption, "Hugged by the loser at our school. How do I check myself for diseases?"
It honestly wouldn't surprise me. And since Brandon is the most popular guy on campus, the girls will probably laugh and find another reason to bully me. It wouldn't surprise me. No one treats me kindly...maybe I really am a pathetic loser.
BrandonToday is the day. I have taken Emilie to a luxurious restaurant and now I want to tell her that I love her. I’m not sure when I fell for her, but what I do know is that she is the reason I’m not drowning myself in alcohol. After my mother passed away, Emilie was the sun keeping me alive—my cheerleader.She is special to me, and I want her to know her, but I suck with words. I’m a meathead, and tonight, I seem to have entered extra pussy-territory. Not a single word has left my lips all night. I’m too busy blushing over Emilie’s looks and her smiles, which is odd.This isn’t my first time seeing a pretty woman, but for some reason, Emilie looks even more stunning tonight. But I’m not the only one who has noticed. We have this good-looking waiter that keeps popping up at our table every second, and it’s pissing me off. Can’t a guy seduce his future wife in peace? The waiter is ruining everything!Right on cue, the bloke shows up by our table. He is as unwanted as a pimple in the
EmilieI have no chance of escaping the makeover. Cindy and Laura drag me into the bathroom and force me to sit down on the toilet seat. They are both wearing leers on their faces, but Laura frightens me more than Cindy. “Maybe I don’t need makeup...” I mumble. “Nonsense!” Laura exclaims and picks up a wet wipe. “You need this, Emilie. You’re going out on a date and need to look good...not that you’re ugly or anything.”I pout. “I am ugly...”“That’s not true!” Laura growls. “I’m not pretty, and I’m aware of it,” I grunt. “Sometimes, I wonder why Brandon even dates me since I’m so out of his league.”“Because he isn’t blind,” Laura mutters. “Trust me. You’re pretty, but after I’m done with you, you’re going to look like sex on a stick.”I laugh. “Sex on a stick? Is that a good thing?”“You bet it is! And guess what? I know exactly what kind of makeup is needed to achieve that, but before we apply any makeup, we need to clean your face!”“And brush your hair,” Cindy chimes in. “You’
Emilie"Brandon hasn't replied to your texts because men are all the same: they all want sex, and once you give it to them, they are all done," Cindy says from her place on my couch. "You think that's the case?" I ask. I've been on cloud nine ever since Brandon gave me head, but he hasn't replied to any of my texts today, so I'm a bit bummed out. Laura sighs and stops filing down her nails. "Don't listen to her. Brandon is a human and probably busy at the gym or something. There's an upcoming game, and I bet he is nervous since his Dad told him he will no longer inherit the family business."I told Cindy and Laura about Brandon's family drama. I didn't give them all the information, but they know enough to have concluded Brandon's Dad is a jerk. "Why would he be nervous?" Cindy asks. "The guy could join the NFL already if he wanted.""He was offered in the past, but now, when his first plan of taking over the family company no longer exists, he probably feels pressured to win the u
EmilieLater that same night, Brandon takes me to a hotel in the same town where my mother’s hospital is located. He doesn’t bother to ask me if I mind sharing the same room. I don’t. Being alone right now would be the worst thing ever.“I hope you’re happy with our room. It’s supposedly the best view in town,” Brandon says, probably in an attempt to lighten the moon, but I don’t respond. I just stare out into nothingness while Brandon hangs up his jacket in the background. He is talking, but I can’t hear him. My mind is empty, and I walk towards the bathroom without taking off my clothes. There is a large shower area inside. One of those large, luxurious showers with rocks on the wall to imitate a tropical place, and I press my palms against the cool wall as the water cascades down, drenching my clothes, my hair, and my skin as the tears fall down. I feel like a broken woman and can’t stop the ocean from spilling from my eyes. Why am I never included in anything? Why am I so fucki
EmilieMy Dad leads us to his car that’s parked by the curb. It’s a cute red little thing, and I glance up at Brandon, wondering if his 6’6 frame is going to fit. He gives me an amused smirk. “Don’t worry, I will manage.”“You sure?”“Yeah, there’s a guy on the football team with a worse car than this.”My Dad clears his throat as if offended, and Brandon grimaces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.”There is no response, and Brandon silently folds himself into the back seat. I slide in beside him, feeling a small measure of comfort in his presence before my Dad starts the car.The drive to St. Mary’s Hospital is tense and too damn long. At some point, I fall asleep only to wake up when my Dad drives over a bump in the road. “Hello, sleepyhead,” Brandon says, and that’s when I notice I’m leaning my head against his bicep. “Did you sleep well?”“Not really…”Brandon doesn’t try to make more conversation. His large hand finds mine, his fingers lacing with mine in a silent show of su
EmilieWhen I wake up the next day, I find Brandon snuggled close to me, clinging onto me as if he never wants to let go. We are curled up in my bed, my nose nuzzled into his sturdy chest while his big hands play with my hair. His chest rises and falls like two fluffy pillows, and I can feel his warm breath tickling my scalp each time he exhales.I smile and hesitantly reach out my right hand to place it on his side. He doesn’t even twitch, so I slowly stroke his tanned skin. It seems innocent at first, but then my fingers drift down to his lower abdominal muscles. What can I say? A girl has needs. Like a pervert, I skim over them lightly, relishing the way they twitch under my touch, the subtle shiver that it coaxes from Brandon’s sleeping form. He’s still asleep, his expression peaceful, the blonde stubble on his jaw giving him a rugged look that my fingers itch to trace.A small puff of air escapes his lips as my fingertips skirt the waistband of his boxers, though I stop shy of l
Emilie“Brandon…” I whisper, feeling the weight of his name as I try to rake my brain for something to say. But what do you tell someone who has just lost their parent? Nothing can take the pain away, so I say the only thing that comes to mind. “I’m… I’m so sorry for your loss.”As soon as I’ve said those words, I regret them because I think I just broke the man I love. Brandon’s hands grip the steering wheel tighter even though the car’s engine isn’t on, knuckles whitening. And then there’s a sound that shatters the silence—a guttural sob that seems to wrench from deep within him. My heart lurches. Brandon, my Brandon, the guy who’s more likely to be a grumpy bastard than a sensitive, sweet guy, is crying. Tears are flooding down his face, and I feel terrible. Should I have ignored the elephant in the room and not said anything?“Hey.” My voice is strained since there’s a lump of guilt in my throat. But it doesn’t stop me from trying to comfort him. I reach out tentatively, placi
BrandonI think I’m living in denial. My mom is gone, and she won’t come back. She is officially dead, yet the tears aren’t here yet. Instead of crying, I’m staring into space while my siblings are joking around with Emilie. I guess it’s their way of handling their grief, cracking jokes and smiling to ignore the pain of losing one’s parent. But one look at Bailey and Bernie tells me they will both be in tears once they are alone in bed. I won’t be getting away from the pain, either. I’m already feeling the sadness creep up on me even though I’m trying to keep it at bay. I can’t cry here. Emilie would be so embarrassed if I suddenly started bawling my eyes out inside a fast-food restaurant. Then again, maybe I could get away by saying I’m crying because this is the best chicken I’ve ever had?But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?This chicken is far from the best I’ve ever had. My mom’s slow-cooked roast chicken will forever have the honor of being the best chicken I’ve ever had, an
EmilieThe blood in my veins freezes over at Clinton's words. Did I hear him correctly? He said those words so casually as if we didn't just say farewell to his wife. Even in grief, the man doesn't cease to be cold and calculating. Brandon takes a moment to respond, and when he does, his voice is calm but laced with controlled anger. "How dare you..." he starts, then swallows hard, collecting himself before continuing. "Now is not the time for this discussion.""I talk about what I want whenever I want, and I won't let you date some nobody without money—"Something swishes past me, and my breath hitches when Brandon's fist connects with Clinton's jaw. The older man stumbles back, holding his face in surprise as Brandon towers over him, visibly shaking with rage. "You will not," Brandon snarls, each word pronounced with deadly precision, "speak about Emelie that way. Nor dictate who I choose to be with."Clinton recovers from his surprise and straightens up, wiping a streak of blood
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