Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel (24 page)

Her dad’s brows knit in concentration. “Now I know who you are,” he said to Matt.

“Daddy, what’s wrong?”

“Brandon told me that you showed up at the hospital with Amy. What were you doing together at two o’clock in the morning?”

“I drove Amy there,” Matt said.

“We had a date,” Amy burst out. “We spent the night together.”

Amy’s father could live with Amy’s mother, but just the idea that his daughter actually spent the night with a member of the opposite sex was enough to make him lose it. Both her parents were wide-eyed now.

“Amy Margaret Hamilton, how could you?” her mother gasped.

“Matt and I have a few things to discuss, young lady. Maybe you should be excused from the table.”

“Dad, I’m an adult. I own a home and a business. I’m registered to vote, and I pay taxes. If I want to spend the night with a man, it’s my business, isn’t it?” Amy said.

“Honey,” her mother pleaded. Amy’s father pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet. Matt was still taller than he was.

“Mr. Stephens, I’d like to speak with you in the family room,” her father said. He hooked his thumb toward the hallway, and Matt followed him out of the room.

A
FTER
A
MY’S FATHER
corralled Matt in the family room and demanded to know “his intentions,” Matt drove Amy home. His relationship with both of her parents was a bit dented at the moment, but her dad backed off quite a bit when Matt told him—privately, of course—that he wouldn’t be meeting her parents unless he planned to take his relationship with their daughter as far as it could go.

In other words, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere, and now Mark Hamilton knew it, too. Matt would also be talking with Amy’s mom about “his intentions” at his earliest opportunity.

He pulled into a parking place in front of a local pub he enjoyed. Hopefully, Amy would enjoy it, too. She needed more to eat than the cup or so of salad he’d seen vanish off her dinner plate. They stepped inside, seated themselves at a table, and ordered some food and drinks.

“See?” Amy’s voice was miserable. “I told you. My mom is probably trying to get me signed up for some counseling session with the minister of their church right now. My dad actually asked me how long we dated before we slept together. What kind of question is
that
?”

To Amy’s surprise, Matt let out a laugh.

“What is so freaking funny, Stephens? You’re the one that was getting bitched out in there. Aren’t you the least bit mad?”

Matt regarded her over his vegetarian burger.

“You know what? I’d do the same damn thing.”

“You would not. You’d be calm, and you’d talk to the boy in question like an adult—”

“I’d have to resist the impulse to knock him into next week. My little girl? Nobody’s touching her. I’m not even sure I’m going to let her get married, let alone have sex.” Matt took another huge bite of his burger. “Absolutely not.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin and helped himself to a swig of Amy’s microbrew. “Oh, I am. I appreciated what your dad had to say. I didn’t like it, but I like him, and I know why he did it. He wanted me to understand that he won’t tolerate your being treated with disrespect.”

Amy rolled her eyes. “I am a grown woman. Isn’t it my idea what I do and whom I see?”

“Not to your dad, it isn’t. You should be grateful, Fifi. I gotta hand it to him. He got in my face.”

“So, what happens now?”

He wadded up the half-wrapper from his burger, dropped it in the middle of his empty plate, and took her hand.

“I think I’ll stick around. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next.”

Chapter Eighteen

A
FEW DAYS
after dinner with Amy’s parents, Matt was pulling plates and silverware out of drawers in his kitchen to serve up the organic Mexican feast he’d stopped to get on the way home when he realized he hadn’t heard her in the family room for at least ten minutes. Maybe she had to use the bathroom or something. Maybe she was watching the news. He darted out of the kitchen to see what she was up to.

Maybe nothing. She was fast asleep on his couch.

He moved closer. The glass of wine he’d poured sat untouched on the coffee table in front of her. She’d curled up with the throw some interior designer insisted he couldn’t live without. The few minutes between twilight and nightfall cast her features in shadow, but he heard her deep, even breathing.

He sat down next to her. She didn’t stir. He knew she was burning the candle at both ends these days, but this was insane. She fell asleep on the way home, too. Thank God he was driving. Between working at the shop and spending her evenings with him, Fifi was wearing herself out. She accepted his help with the delivery driver, but she was still resisting any other offers of assistance, which frustrated him.

He wondered how he could make her understand that seeing her like this brought back everything he remembered about his own childhood. He’d done his homework in the corner of a diner while his mom worked double shifts; she couldn’t afford a babysitter. She had a second job as a cashier at a gas station until he was out of high school. He’d gotten a paper route as soon as he was old enough, but he couldn’t make enough money to make a dent. She worked so many hours, but she got paid so little that keeping up with the bills and the groceries was a constant struggle. His mom never knew he’d seen her hiding her tears because she wasn’t sure how she was going to pay the utility bill, or because the car needed fixing again.

He wasn’t going to stand by and watch while another woman he cared for had a rough time financially, not if there was anything he could do to help.

He made sure his mom’s bills were paid to this day. Samantha had half a million dollars in her college fund, and an additional trust fund which would kick in when she was 30. He wished Amy would let him shoulder some of her burdens, too.

He reached out to gather her close. She was warm. She smelled like the shampoo she used, fabric softener, and a whiff of some citrusy perfume he loved. She rubbed her mouth against the side of his neck as she snuggled against him.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “You hungry?”

She jumped a little. “Oh. Oh!” She reached up to rub one eye, must have realized she was still wearing eye makeup, and tried to repair the damage with her fingertips. “I didn’t mean to doze off.”

“We didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

He saw her smile in the faint light from the kitchen. “No, we didn’t, and somehow I’m fine with that.” He had to grin. She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “I guess this means we’re not going to make the 9:30 show at Jazz Alley tonight.”

“Probably not,” he said.

She let out an amused snort. It was now a private joke. They’d been out for dinner or other public dates several times now, but they didn’t cross the bridge into Seattle in the evenings. They hurried home at the first available opportunity, ending up in her bed, in his shower, or on the living room carpet instead. He wasn’t complaining.

He couldn’t get enough of her. It seemed she couldn’t get enough of him, either. When they weren’t making love, they were talking, or they watched rebroadcast football games on NFL Network. Her running commentary was hilarious.

He put his feet up on the coffee table. Maybe he should relax for a few minutes, too. “I realize it’s a poor substitute for dinner in a white tablecloth restaurant, but I have a burrito bowl for you in the other room.”

“I love burrito bowls.” She leaned against him. “Is it bad to want to stay home and veg out on the couch when we’ve only been seeing each other for two weeks?”

“I thought the purpose of dating was meeting someone you’d like to stay home with.”

“Well, then, we’re overachievers, Sparky.”

He rested his cheek against her hair. She laid one hand over his heart.

“Speaking of dating, Fifi, I have to go to Indianapolis for the NFL Combine next week. I was wondering if you’d like to come along.”

He could hardly wait to see what she’d think of the most high-stakes job interview in professional sports. Any football fan would spend the weekend gorging on all things NFL. Maybe he could get her into some of the behind-the-scenes stuff. She’d love it. Sure enough, she almost jumped into his lap with excitement.

“The Combine? You’d take me there?”

“Of course. We’ll have to leave on Wednesday, and we’ll be back on Monday night. I’m interviewing some of the draft picks and coaches for PSN. We’ll fly in the corporate jet, have some expense account dinners. It’ll be fun.” He leaned back against the couch cushions. “I’ll make sure they have plenty of tequila for you.”

He felt her stiffen against him. He hoped she wasn’t mad about a gentle joke. Maybe she was cold. He pulled the blanket around her. She sat up and looked into his eyes.

“I can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t be away from the shop for that long.”

“It’s just Wednesday through Saturday. You’re closed Sunday and Monday. Estelle and Scott can handle it for a few days.” He reached up to stroke her cheek. “Couldn’t we find a shop babysitter or something? I want you with me.”

“I want to be there too. I can’t leave things alone for so long, though. It’s not just the walk-in business. It’s wedding planning season. I have to be there to take those orders. If Estelle and Scott get overwhelmed, there’s nobody to help. I’ve been open less than a year, and being closed six days in a row right now would be disastrous for my business. Customers find out you’re closed, and they go somewhere else.”

“Got it.” He stifled his disappointment. “Maybe next year, huh?”

“By next year, I’ll have more employees. Next year, it would be great. Thank you for asking me, though. It sounds like so much fun. I’ve watched it on TV so many times, and I never thought I’d actually get to go.”

She’d forgotten her exhaustion for a few minutes and was talking excitedly about the things and people she wished she could see at the combine. Other guys’ girlfriends lost it over a piece of fine jewelry, a shopping trip to New York City, or a weekend in Paris. The woman in his life would be ecstatic watching football practice.

He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

O
NE WEEK LATER,
he boarded the PSN jet with his iPad and a tote bag Amy left for him before she went to her shop that morning. She made him promise he wouldn’t look inside till he was on the plane.

“There’s nothing illegal in here, is there?”

“Of course not.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

“I’ll miss you, too. I’ll be home Monday night. I promise.”

He still felt her softness against him and the sweet scents he breathed in whenever she was near. He couldn’t imagine facing the next six days alone. Maybe he should call her when he got to the hotel, just to say hi. She’d probably think he was whipped. Truth be told, he didn’t give a shit if he was.

The pilot announced over the PA that they were cleared for takeoff. Harry McCord, Hall of Fame defensive end and one of Matt’s co-workers, glanced over at the tote bag in Matt’s lap.

“Someone must have packed you a lunch, Stephens. Maybe she pinned a dollar in your shorts for milk money.”

“That would mean I’m actually wearing shorts,” Matt said.

McCord looked annoyed, yet one more thing Matt didn’t give a shit about. McCord had a bad habit of sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He didn’t bother with basic manners, and Matt returned the favor. He imagined anyone else would call it a “personality conflict,” but mostly, McCord went out of his way to piss people off—especially Matt.

Matt waited till the jet climbed to cruising altitude, set the bag down on the seat next to him, and reached inside.

His fingers brushed an envelope. He pulled it out and slid a fingertip under the flap to open it.

Matt, I thought you might need a snack or two for your trip. Just in case you’re wondering, I made the cookies with organic peanut butter.

I’ll be thinking of you. I miss you already. Fifi

He slid the note back inside the envelope and glanced inside the bag. A disposable plastic container filled with cookies. A produce bag with an apple, a pear, a peach, and a half a pound or so of cherries. A lacy, silky red thong.

He slid the envelope back into the bag, zipped the top, and pulled out his iPad. He was going to give Miss Fifi something to think about while he was gone, too.

M
ATT HAD BEEN
in Indianapolis only forty-eight hours, and Amy missed him like she’d miss an appendage. She’d hardly slept last night. Her pillowcase still smelled like him, but it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t cuddle with a goldfish. She finally resorted to hugging the pillow until she drifted off for a few hours.

Things were crazy at her shop, too. She could hear the “chirp” of texts received on her smart phone as she worked, but she didn’t have time to look at them. She heard the bells jingle on the shop’s front door as the FedEx guy walked in. He held up a medium-sized box. She put her shears down for a few seconds to sign for it.

“Thanks,” she said, and she took the package out of his hands. He left, and she continued to stare at the box.

It was light, too light to be ribbon or enclosure cards. There were only initials in the upper left-hand corner, and she wasn’t familiar with the mailing address. She was tempted to leave it on the workbench while she started the next arrangement, but curiosity got the best of her. She opened the Fed Ex box to reveal a much more luxurious box inside. It was a vivid pink, wrapped with black satin ribbon tied into a gorgeous bow. The top of the box read “Agent Provocateur.”

She glanced around. Estelle was on a coffee break. She untied the bow, pulled the lid off of the box, and let out a gasp. A delicate pink and black lace slip was nestled in a bed of barely tinted pink tissue paper. She lifted it out of the box. The straps were thin black ribbons that ended in bows. The cups of the bra were the palest pink lace. The bodice was sheer, and the skirt was flounces of Chantilly lace and tulle. Hopefully she wouldn’t snag something so beautiful and delicate on her work-roughened fingertips. The tiniest pair of panties she’d ever seen lay undisturbed in the tissue paper along with an envelope that read “Amy.”