Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel
Read Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel Online
Authors: Julie Brannagh
Rushing Amy
A L
OVE
AND
F
OOTBALL
N
OVEL
JULIE BRANNAGH
To Grandpa Dick and Grandma Elaine
You have shown me what it means to live life to the fullest.
I hope I live up to your example every day.
Love, Julie
I
HAVE SO
many people to thank for their help with
Rushing Amy
.
Thank you to my wonderful agent, Sarah E. Younger of Nancy Yost Literary Agency for all her hard work and encouragement. She chose me out of the 2,394,073 submissions she gets yearly, and I will always be thankful.
Amanda Bergeron is my terrific editor at Avon Impulse. I still can’t believe she chose me, either. Thank you for all your hard work and making my books so much better than I ever dreamed they could be.
My husband Eric had no idea he’d be dealing with the high-stakes world of publishing when he married me. Thank you, honey, for all your patience and support. I love you.
I’d like to thank Greater Seattle Romance Writers of America. Without their advice, encouragement, and writing workshops, I’d still be thinking
Someday I’d like to write a book.
I am so lucky to be part of the Cupcake Crew. Jessi Gage and Amy Raby, you make Friday the greatest day of the week, and always want my best work. Thank you so much for everything.
Thanks to Cupcake Royale in Bellevue, WA, for continuing to harbor the Cupcake Crew.
Thank you to my incredible mentor, Susan Mallery. I treasure every bit of hard-won advice you’ve ever given me. And yes, I will get back to work immediately.
My life changed as the result of a five-minute phone call on March 25, 2011, when I learned this book was named a Golden Heart finalist. I’d like to thank Judy Wiebe and Anna Muzzy for making sure I was in New York City to enjoy every minute of RWA National. I can’t ever thank you enough for your friendship.
Thank you to Schatzi Schricker of Duvall Flowers and Gifts, Duvall, WA, for answering my research questions, too. Owning a small business is not for the faint of heart!
Thank you to my unaware muse, Howie Long. I got the idea for this book shortly after listening to an entire roomful of romance authors rhapsodizing over him. (He is the definitive alpha male.) I’d also like to thank Mrs. Howie Long for sharing her husband with the women of America for an hour each Sunday morning from September to February.
I’d like to thank former and current Seattle Seahawks for interviews they’ve given in various forms of media that helped me with my research.
One final note: Matt is a character invented in my imagination. Any artistic license is mine. Any mistakes in the research are mine, too.
I’d also like to thank YOU for buying my book. I hope you’ll enjoy it! I’m at www.juliebrannagh.com, on Facebook, and on Twitter as @julieinduvall.
I love to hear from readers!
Go Sharks!
Contents
An Excerpt from
Catching Cameron
An Excerpt from
The Last Wicked Scoundrel
by Lorraine Heath
An Excerpt from
Blitzing Emily
by Julie Brannagh
An Excerpt from
Savor
by Monica Murphy
An Excerpt from
If You Only Knew
by Dixie Lee Brown
T
HE WEDDING WAS
over, and Amy Hamilton stood amongst the wreckage.
Every flat surface in the Woodmark Hotel’s grand ballroom was strewn with dirty plates, empty glasses, crumpled napkins, spent champagne bottles—the outward indication that a large group of people had one hell of a party. A few hours ago, Amy’s older sister Emily had married Brandon McKenna, the man of her dreams.
Three hundred guests toasted the bride and groom repeatedly. Happy tears flowed as freely as the champagne. The dinner was delicious, the cake, even better. The newlyweds and their guests danced to a live band till after midnight. The hotel ballroom was transformed into a candlelit fairyland for her sister’s flawless evening, but now all that was left was the mess. The perfectly arranged profusion of flowers was drooping. So was she.
Amy arranged flowers for weddings almost every weekend. Doing the flowers for Emily’s wedding, though, was an extra-special thrill. She’d seen it all over the past few years, first as an apprentice to another florist, and then after opening her own shop a little over a year ago. It meant long hours and hard work, but she was determined her business would succeed.
Amy took a last look at the twinkling lights of the boats crossing Lake Washington through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the west wall. She couldn’t help but notice she stood alone in a room that had been packed with people only an hour or so ago. She’d been alone for a long time now, and she didn’t like the feeling at all. She picked up the black silk chiffon wrap draped over yet another chair, and the now-wilting bridal bouquet Emily had tossed to her. Obviously, she’d stalled long enough. She wondered if the kitchen staff would mind whipping up a vat of chocolate mousse to drown her sorrows in.
H
EAVY FOOTSTEPS SOUNDED
behind Amy on the ballroom floor, and she turned toward them. The man she’d watched on a hundred
NFL Today
pregame broadcasts strolled toward her. Any woman with a pulse knew who he was, let alone any woman hopelessly addicted to Pro Sports Network.
Matt Stephens was tall. His body, sculpted by years of workouts, was showcased in a perfectly tailored navy suit, but that didn’t tell the whole story. The wavy, slightly mussed blue-black hair, the square jaw, the olive skin that seemed to glow, and the flawless, white smile were exactly what Amy saw on her television screen each week during football season. Television didn’t do him justice. After all, on her TV screen he didn’t prowl. He locked eyes with her as he crossed the ballroom.
She glanced around to confirm she was still alone in the ballroom, and the beeline he was making was actually toward her. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted.
She knew a lot about him. Matt was a former NFL star, and a good friend of her new brother-in-law’s. When Matt got tired of playing with the Dallas Cowboys (three Super Bowl rings and six visits to the Pro Bowl later), he’d played in Seattle for the last two years of his career, afterward embarking on the wide world of game analysis and product endorsements. Guys wanted to be him, and women just plain wanted him.
Well, women who were still on the playing field wanted him. She was putting herself on injured reserve. After all,
once burned, twice shy
, and every other cliché she’d ever heard that reminded her of salt being poured on the open wound that was her heart.
Mostly, guys who looked like Matt weren’t looking for someone like her: A woman more interested in being independent than being some guy’s arm candy.
Matt stopped a few feet away from Amy. The deep dimples on either side of his lips flashed as his mouth moved into an irresistible grin.
“Hello, there.”
“You’re late.” The words flew out of her mouth before she realized she’d said it aloud.
His smile cajoled. The man was clearly aware there wasn’t a woman on the planet who could hope to resist him. She could, though. She would. He slipped one hand into his pocket.
“Oh, I’m definitely not late,” he said. “As a matter of fact I’m right on schedule.”
She let out a gasp of outrage. In other words, he’d missed the wedding on purpose.
His eyes slid over her from head to toe. Slowly. They made a few stops along the way, too. Amy dragged a shallow breath into her lungs. She resisted the impulse to smooth the wrinkles out of her dress, shove the hairpins back into what was most likely the wreck of her updo, and press her lips together in an attempt to salvage lipstick smudged off hours ago. She reminded herself that she was dealing with just another male. Even worse, this one evidently believed the rules in life applied to everyone but him.
“Were you actually invited to this event?” she asked.
He looked a bit wary. Even if Matt were the most gorgeous man she’d ever met, he was not getting away with this. She was busting his chops. After all, someone had to do it.
“Yes, I was invited.” He tried to look sheepish, but she wasn’t buying it. “McKenna’s going to kick my ass.”
“Why do I think it won’t be the first time that’s happened?”
Matt lifted one eyebrow, seemingly unused to any woman who didn’t collapse into a quivering mass of flesh whenever he chose to make any effort at all. She saw his mouth twitch into a smile.
“It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe we should try this again.” He took a couple of steps toward her and extended one hand. “Hi. I’m Matt Stephens.”
Amy tried to surreptitiously wipe what she was sure was a sweaty palm on her dress before her hand vanished into his much larger one.
She nodded a bit and tilted her chin up as if she were introduced to guys who made
People
’s “Sexiest Man Alive” issue every day. “Matt, huh?”
“And your name is?”
Her mouth evidently had a mind of its own. For some perverse reason she blurted out, “I’m Fifi.”
“Fifi.” He looked a bit skeptical.
“Yes.” She squared her shoulders. “My parents were—imaginative.”
“Is that so?” He glanced around for a brief moment, and his eyes moved back to her. “I’m a little thirsty. Are you thirsty, Fifi? Let’s have a drink.”
Amy deliberated for about half a second. Despite the fact she was fairly sure she’d just met the most arrogant man in the world, she was dying to see what he was going to do next. Broken heart or not, she was in.
He didn’t wait for her response. His fingertips brushed the small of her back as he nodded for her to precede him out of the ballroom.
Matt led Amy to the small bar tucked under a grand, winding staircase in the hotel’s lobby. The bar resembled an old-fashioned bookstore. Bottles nestled in crackle-painted, indirectly lit shelving, sparkling-clean glasses lovingly flanking the alcohol. The five barstools were made of highly polished hardwood, padded in leather, and pulled up to a dark wood bar. There wasn’t a neon advertising sign, a paper umbrella, or a test tube shot in sight.
Amy laid her bouquet, wrap, and purse on the bar, and then gathered the skirt of the vintage copper silk Vera Wang gown she wore in both hands, hiked it up, and attempted to plop herself down on a barstool. It would have worked so much better if the petticoats she wore underneath cooperated with the general idea of sitting down, or if she knew the specific location of the barstool itself. Needless to say, she missed.
She grabbed frantically for the edge of the bar.
Matt’s hand shot out, grabbed her arm, and righted her before she hit the floor. “Easy, sport. Let’s try that one again.”
