Blitzing Emily (33 page)

Truthfully she was more worried about Brandon not really answering her question earlier in his bathroom.

He never actually used the words “Will you marry me?” when they talked about getting married. His insistence that it already happened was a bit odd. She was still wearing a big-ass engagement ring. Everyone else seemed to think this was a done deal. Plus, she had to admit in her heart of hearts that she could think of a lot worse things in life than being Emily Hamilton McKenna for the rest of her life. When she wasn’t musing on Brandon’s behavior (or lack of it), she also wondered if it made her a Bridezilla to want him to get down on one knee and actually pop the question. Other guys did it. Maybe she worried too much, as he said. She twirled the engagement ring on the third finger of her left hand. Was it really so unreasonable for her to want something other women would expect as well?

Her mind was whirling. Nicole seemed to be taking her sweet time, too.

Emily got up from the sumptuously upholstered chair she sat in and wandered out into the store in her dressing gown. Nicole was a few feet from her, rifling through dresses at a high rate of speed.

“Hi,” Emily said.

“Oh! You’re here. I didn’t mean to take so long. I’m still thinking about a couple of these.”

Emily walked over to the rack. Finding a wedding gown couldn’t be that much different than shoe shopping, and she should have some type of professional certification for
that
. She flipped as rapidly as possible through the dresses.

“No. No. No. No. God, no.”

To Emily’s surprise, she realized she had more ideas than she thought about how she’d like to look on her wedding day. She didn’t want strapless, she didn’t want crystals, and she didn’t want something that made her look like she’d gone after the skirt with the kitchen shears. She wanted lace. She wanted something that would make Brandon gasp when he saw her in it.

“This one.” She reached up to pull the gown off the rack.

Nicole looked amused. “How about looking through some of the other dresses?”

“Not right now. Let’s try this one on.”

B
ACK IN THE
dressing room, Nicole unzipped the protective plastic slowly.

“We just got this gown in from New York. It’s formal without being stuffy. This is a diva’s dress. I hope you’ll love it.” She demonstrated how Emily should hold her arms in front of her face so she wouldn’t get makeup on the delicate fabric and slid the gown over Emily’s head.

Emily heard the rustle of a silk taffeta ballroom skirt. The bodice was a corset, covered with soft lace, embroidered with pearls. It had cap sleeves and a high neck, a slightly dropped waist, and buttoned up the back. It reminded Emily of the photos she’d seen as a teenager of Princess Grace’s wedding gown, with a modern twist. The skirt had a pickup of fabric on one side. A small train swept the floor behind her. It was dramatic without being over the top, young without being childish.

In the past Emily had heard her various co-workers talking about putting on a wedding gown for the first time. Their descriptions paled in comparison with the reality. She trembled as she regarded the curvy redhead reflected in the mirror. She felt overwhelmed, surprised, a little disbelieving. Her fingertips trailed over the soft lace and the silk taffeta. She couldn’t stop touching it. Even if the sample wasn’t an exact fit, she loved it.

The realization smacked her in the face so hard tears rose in her eyes. She was going to marry Brandon, and she was going to wear this dress when she did.

“We can get your size when we order it,” Nicole reassured. She pulled a small golden headpiece off the table behind her, formed of flat leaves, and extracted a long piece of tulle from another zippered plastic bag. Nicole pinned Emily’s ponytail into a bun, and fastened the headpiece and tulle in her hair.

Emily couldn’t resist twirling around in front of Nicole. “How do I look?”

A broad smile spread over Nicole’s face. “I’m so glad I didn’t bring you a room full of bling and ruffles. This dress was made for you.” She adjusted the headpiece once more and said, “Let’s go show you off.”

Emily stepped into her own high heels so the dress wouldn’t drag on the floor and rounded the corner to show them.

“What do you think? Mom, Suzanne, Amy?”

Emily’s mother let out a gasp, and grabbed for Suzanne’s hand. Her cool, collected, elegant potential mother-in-law burst into tears.

“That’s the dress,” Amy said, with tears in her eyes, too. “Buy that one.”

Chapter Twenty

B
RANDON GLANCED AROUND
the Sharks’ workout facility a few weeks after his parents’ unexpected visit, mopping the sweat off his face with a well-used hand towel. He had the place to himself. Early morning sunshine through floor-to-ceiling windows bounced off a fortune in exercise machines, free weights, and other paraphernalia. He glanced up at the ceiling-sized panoramic photo of Sharks fans that the team photographer took during a game last year. Every crunch, every butterfly, every rotation of the elliptical meant he improved his game for those fans and for himself.

The other guys didn’t usually show up here till later in the morning. He stuck the
iPod
earbuds in, turned the beats up as loud as they would go, and draped the towel over his head. It was time to work his neck.

Forty-five minutes later, the smart phone in his shorts pocket was on perma-vibrate. Five calls from his agent in an hour. The Sharks must have agreed to their latest contract extension offer. He clicked over to an incoming text: CALL MY OFFICE. ASAP.

The team’s front office probably wanted him to sign before the first home game. They’d make a big production out of it, too. He grinned, imagining how long it would take his little diva to choose an outfit before the press conference. Maybe he should buy her a new dress for the occasion. He’d make sure it was scheduled on a day she could attend.

His phone vibrated again. A text from Emily: PLEASE CALL YOUR AGENT. HE’S LOOKING FOR YOU.

“What the hell’s the fire drill?” he muttered to himself. He got up from the weight bench, loped into the locker room, stripped, and stepped into the shower.

B
RANDON THREW HIMSELF
into his Land Rover twenty-five minutes later, and hit “Josh” on his contacts list. Most guys saw their agent as a necessary evil—someone who handled the business end of football. They didn’t want to think about contracts and endorsements. The year he was drafted Brandon came home from the Senior Bowl with a fistful of business cards from potential agents. He hired Josh when Josh answered his own telephone and didn’t hide behind bullshit when Brandon asked him tough questions. Their relationship over the years was businesslike but cordial.

Josh’s contract negotiations with the Sharks were a work of art. He managed to stay on good terms with the team, while getting Brandon every dollar and perk one of the best pass-rushing defensive ends in the NFL deserved. He put multiple lucrative endorsement deals together for Brandon, endorsements that would live on long after his football career was over. Brandon was a very wealthy man as a result, and Josh hadn’t done badly for himself, either.

Today, Josh didn’t even say “hello.”

“McKenna, where the hell have you been?”

“Lifting. Shower. You must have prevailed in the negotiations.”

Josh waited a few beats. “I’m at Sea-Tac Airport. My flight just landed. We need to meet.”

B
RANDON NOSED HIS
vehicle into the curb by the Alaska Airlines baggage claim area. Josh moved through the crowd of passengers waiting to be picked up by loved ones, tossed a laptop backpack onto the back seat of the car, and hopped into the passenger seat.

“What’s up?” Brandon asked.

“Let’s get a beer. It’s on me,” Josh told him. He stared out the windshield of Brandon’s SUV.

Brandon felt the first icy fingers of dread slithering up his spine.

T
EN MINUTES LATER,
they sat down at the bar in a restaurant across the street from the airport. Josh ordered two microbrews. Brandon ordered a glass of ice water.

“Out with it,” Brandon said. “I’m guessing you’re not here because you missed me.”

Josh took a sip of his beer. “I’m not quite sure how to tell you this, so here it is. The Sharks declined your contract extension. This is your last season with them.”

Brandon didn’t drink during football season. He took his training regimen seriously, not to mention his commitment to staying out of trouble. He’d been quizzed on this fact many times by sports reporters over the years. Good thing it was still pre-season. He wrapped one hand around the second beer on the bar, lifted it to his lips, and chugged it. He nodded at the bartender for a second.

“Did they give you a reason?” Brandon said.

“The team wanted a significant pay cut for an extension. They also wanted a waiver from the injury guarantee portion of the contract.” Josh put his empty glass back down on the bar. “I reminded them you restructured two years ago to help them land McCoy when the Vikings cut him loose due to the salary cap, and restructured again when they went after Tampa Bay’s backup QB last season. I reminded them you live here in the offseason. You encourage most of the defense to live here as well, so the group hits the ground running in July. I reminded them you had twelve sacks last season.”

Brandon drained his refilled pint glass in three long swallows. He nodded at the bartender once more and said, “A shot of Jameson’s, too.”

“Please tell me you’re not driving,” Josh said.

“I’ll have my rig towed home.” Brandon dropped the full shot glass into his third beer. “How long until this hits the national news?”

“Not sure. I got on a plane three hours ago.”

“You must have other meetings here today.”

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”

“Thanks.” Brandon stared at the boilermaker in front of him. “I think.”

“You’ll be highly sought after in free agency.”

“
Fuck
free agency.” Brandon drained his glass again. He had no interest in getting shipped off to whatever team could write him the biggest check.

The bartender dropped off some bar snacks.

“Where’s Emily today?” Josh asked.

Brandon pulled out his smart phone. “She’s on her way to Atlanta by now. She’s doing promotion or some damn thing for upcoming performances.”

She’d be gone for three days, which meant he’d spend the next seventy-two hours doing whatever he needed to do to keep from picking up a telephone and begging her to come back.

E
MILY CIRCLED THE
park-and-fly lot just outside of the airport. She wanted to park anywhere there was a chance someone wasn’t going to open their car door into hers. She hated leaving Seattle when the sun was out. Atlanta would be a huge, sticky, humid mess.

She reached out to flip on the car stereo. Maybe some music would help. The last time Brandon was in her car, though, he tuned it to the sports station. She reached out again to change the channel, and her hand froze in mid-air.

“Twitter is on fire with the news that the Sharks declined the contract extension Brandon McKenna was looking for. We’re trying to get some official confirmation. Our phone lines are burning up right now, but if you’d like to weigh in on what might be the biggest story of the Sharks’ preseason, give us a call. Will McKenna demand a trade as a result? He always said he wanted to retire a Shark, but this might be enough to make him think the grass is greener in Dallas or Green Bay. Call us.”

Emily steered into a parking place that materialized from nowhere, stepped on the brake, and pulled her phone out of her bag. Brandon didn’t answer. She scrolled through “calls received,” and hit “dial” on Josh’s phone number.

“Josh Williams.”

“Hi Josh, this is Emily Hamilton. Where is Brandon right now? He’s not answering his phone.”

E
MILY WALKED INTO
the dim, old-fashioned bar area of a restaurant she hadn’t been to in at least ten years. Josh was gone. He was already on a plane, flying back to Los Angeles; one of his kids had a soccer tournament.

Brandon was hunched over the bar with a string of empty pint glasses lined up in front of him. He didn’t glance up when she slid onto the barstool next to him. “Hey, bruiser,” she said softly.

“They cut me off,” he said.

She counted four pint glasses and three shot glasses. Brandon’s eyes were red-rimmed, but he wasn’t slurring his words. Yet. The bowl of peanuts in front of him was untouched.

“Want to go home?”

“Hell, no. I want to drink.” He shook his head like he’d been caught in a rain shower. “I thought you were going to Atlanta.”

“I thought I was, too. Damn mechanical problems.” She set her handbag down on the bar.

He turned to look at her. “There was nothing wrong with that plane.”

“You’ll have to update the pilot. He was pretty convinced.” Emily nodded at the bartender. “I’d like a club soda with a twist of lime, please. Also, I’d like an appetizer or two, if there’s a menu available.”

“Coming right up.” The bartender moved away from them. She reached out and laid one hand over Brandon’s bigger, warmer one. He narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t give me any of that ‘It’s going to be okay’ shit.”

She swallowed hard. “Of course not.”

“I don’t want anything to eat. I want to get so drunk I don’t sober up for a week.”

“I guess I’m driving, then,” she said.

Emily’s club soda with a twist of lime appeared, and the bartender brought one for Brandon, too. Brandon studiously ignored it. He asked for another Guinness with a shot of Jameson’s.

“You know I can’t serve you if you’re drunk,” the bartender said.

Brandon fixed laser eyes on him. “I’m not drunk.”

“Trust me. You’re drunk.” The guy moved the second glass of club soda in Brandon’s direction. “Maybe you should talk about it. The booze won’t fix it.”

The look on Brandon’s face was murderous. Emily slipped both hands through his arm.

“Take it easy,” she said into his ear.

“Maybe we should leave this dump. I can drink as much as I want at my house.”