Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) by Kirsty Dallas Page B

should have just come in.”
    “And risk seeing you in all your naked glory . . .” I tapped my finger against my lower lip as my eyes ran up and down his body. “I’m totally just coming in next time.”
    Bradley grinned. “You look good, too, pussycat. Are you ready?”
    “As I’ll ever be.”
    I followed him out of the apartment, down the elevator, and into the basement parking garage. He drove with a quiet confidence that I found strangely erotic. Was there anything this man could do that didn’t turn me into a quivering mess of hormones? The memory of his not so sweet words, assuming that he could “fuck” his need for me away, yeah, there was that, and my lust dimmed under that memory.
    We drove in silence—I took in the grey brick landscape, and Bradley drove like a Formula One pro. He soon pulled into a vacant parking space in front of a quaint restaurant on a narrow street. I peered through the windows of the establishment but couldn’t see much. I startled when my door suddenly popped open, Bradley standing before me. He held out a hand, and I chuckled.
    “What did you do?” He gave me a quizzical look as he shut the car door. “Men only behave like this when they’ve done something wrong. So, what did you do? Did you accidentally wash my colors with my whites?”
    Bradley had surprised the hell out of me when I came home the day before to discover my laundry done and neatly folded on top of my suitcase. The thought of him sorting through my bras and panties made me blush for half a second before an illicit grin worked its way to my face. I hoped he had a severe case of blue-balls after the sight of my Victoria’s Secret matching sets. This man who thought he could work me out of his system with just one night between the sheets. Not possible. I got under people’s skin like a lovable parasite. Besides, if he tasted me, he’d be hooked, and I didn’t need that complication. I could certainly fantasize about it, though, repeatedly.
    “What do you mean colors with whites?”
    I gasped. “Bradley, you can’t wash colors with whites. It will ruin the whites.”
    “Oh,” he looked guilty as hell, “then I guess I’m buying you dinner because I might have ruined your whites.”
    We stared at each other, Bradley almost expecting me to smack him over the head. Instead, I burst out laughing, and soon enough, he was smiling right along with me.
    “You’re not angry?”
    “Lord no, the fact you washed my clothes gives you free reign to ruin everything I own for a few months, at the very least.”
    Bradley’s smile fell. “Well, you won’t be here that long, so you have nothing to fear.”
    Now my smile dimmed, too. The thought of going home was clouded with mixed emotions. I missed my apartment, my friends, and my family, even though they weren’t speaking to me, but strangely enough, I enjoyed being around Bradley, even if he was sullen and brooding most the time.
    Dating the painfully secretive Kasper Karish proved I was a glutton for punishment. Bradley Emerson was no exception. I was also enjoying the small amount of privacy the UK had offered that the US had been unable to. I hadn’t had another run-in with the paparazzi since the day Bradley had stepped in to rescue me. Oh, I had seen them and they had snapped a few photos from afar, but I didn’t leave the apartment without Lionel or Casey, so the cameras stayed back, and they were quickly becoming bored with my infrequent comings and goings. Facing the whiplash of gossip that surely awaited me back home made me feel anxious.
    Bradley pushed open the door to the restaurant. “I didn’t screw up your clothes . . . I think. I just like to treat women as they should be treated. My woman is always well fed and treated like a lady. A woman is the reflection of the man who stands behind her,” Bradley murmured, and I raised a brow.
    “Really? Did you read that in a Hallmark card or something?”
    He chuckled. “No, but if I treat my