Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel (25 page)

She pulled a notecard out of the envelope.

They named these after you, Fifi.

You are more beautiful.

Matt

Four days later Amy stood at Matt’s front door in the trench coat she hadn’t worn since she left her corporate job and a pair of Emily’s stilettos. She knew Matt was home; he’d texted her from the Town Car that dropped him off half an hour ago. Samantha was spending the evening with her grandma.

Amy had spent the last two evenings practicing walking in the loaned pair of stilettos. She hardly had any bruises as a result, and last night she was really getting the hang of it. She made it from the van to his front door without wiping out. All she had to do was make it over the threshold of his house.

She tapped at the door. Matt pulled it open seconds later.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he said. The joy on his face made her heart leap. He reached out for her and attempted to pull her inside.

One of Emily’s heels snagged in the doormat.

“Ow!”

“You’re wearing heels? Since when do you wear heels?” he asked, trying to disentangle her from the rubber doormat’s surprisingly tenacious grip on the shoe.

“I wanted to surprise you—
ow
!” She yanked her foot out of the shoe and pulled away from him. “Now the surprise is spoiled. Why can everyone else manage heels, and I’m just a big mess in them? I don’t get it. I—”

Matt’s mouth covered hers. He was already working on the trench coat’s belt with impatient hands. He stopped kissing her long enough to say, “If this is what I think it is, I’m enjoying it already.”

“The panties,” she whispered into his ear. “They—They’re so teeny. I can’t get them off by myself.”

She managed to shut his front door with one elbow, yanked the trench coat off, and dropped it at her feet. She wore nothing but one shoe, toenail polish, a spritz of Jo Malone’s Orange Blossom, and the panties he’d sent her. He looked, and then he stared.

She bit her lower lip and glanced up at him. He seemed a bit awestruck.

“This is the best day of my life,” he said. “Don’t move.”

He grabbed the heel out of the mat, shut and locked the door, and knelt at her feet to slip Emily’s shoe on her foot again. Seconds later, he scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to his room.

Chapter Nineteen

A
NOTHER
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON,
another trip to meet the parents, or in his case,
parent.
Six days after Matt arrived home from the NFL combine, he pulled up in front of a modest-looking, white ranch-style house with blue-gray shutters and a green enameled front door. Roses climbed a trellis on one corner. The small garden in the perfectly mowed front yard was weeded, edged and staked to an inch of its life.

“Ready?” Matt got out, came around to Amy’s side of the car, and opened the door. “She doesn’t bite,” he assured her, and laid his hand in the middle of her back as they walked up the path.

“I’ll bet you say that to all the women.”

M
ATT RANG THE
doorbell, and Amy resisted the impulse to fidget.

“Keep your pants on!” a voice shouted from inside the house. “I’ll
be
there!”

“That’s my mama,” Matt murmured. Amy took another deep breath.

The door swung open and framed a tall, slightly rounded woman with long, teased, carefully sprayed black hair, a makeup application that didn’t skimp, and the most gold jewelry Amy had ever seen outside of a jeweler’s shop. Matt had led her to believe that his mother was a fragile, modest, and conservative older woman. Evidently, he’d lied. She wore stretch jeans, spike heels, and a hot pink tunic made out of a shiny fabric that accentuated her cleavage.

“Are you coming in?” she asked her son.

“I don’t know. Am I?” Matt moved forward and wrapped his arms around her. “So, hot stuff, how’s the terror of the gardening club doing these days?”

“Honey, those women need to either get laid or buy a Harley. Talk about wound tightly. Who’s your friend?”

Matt reached out to pull Amy over the threshold. “Mama, this is Amy. Amy, this is my mom, Pauline.”

Amy stuck out her hand, but Pauline brushed it aside. “What’s that crap? I need a hug.”

Amy was enveloped in a wave of old-fashioned scent she should have known but couldn’t immediately place. Pauline stroked her hair.

“Matty, you are so predictable. A blonde. When are you going to date a redhead? I’m telling you, for what you’re in the market for, you want a redhead.”

Amy laughed before she could stop herself. She’d met Matt’s mom less than five minutes before, but it was evident that the filter that most people seemed to have between their brain and their mouths wasn’t standard equipment with Pauline. Behind the makeup and the thick fan of fake eyelashes, Pauline’s eyes were the same navy blue as her son’s. He had her smile, too. Pauline was tall, but Matt was still a head taller than she was. He wrapped his arm around Pauline’s shoulders.

“So, what’s for lunch? Ritz Crackers and Cheez Whiz?” Matt was glaring at a stack of envelopes on the hallway table, for some unknown reason. “And what are these?”

“You must have me confused with one of those fancy restaurants you like to go to. You know damn well I don’t cook. Maybe you should take your poor mama out for a bite to eat once in a while.”

“You like to go to ‘family restaurants,’” Matt said, making air quotes with both hands. “Maybe we should go somewhere there isn’t a kiddie menu for a change.”

“Matty, those aren’t my people. I don’t like
nouvelle cuisine
, or stuff I can’t pronounce. Plus, those guys you work with would just die if they found out you spent ten minutes at the IHOP.” She turned to Amy. “He probably takes you all those fancy places, too, doesn’t he? Amy, you look like a woman who’d like a medium-rare steak and a beer. How do you feel about the Sizzler?”

“It’s pretty good.”

Amy knew it might be best to keep the information she’d never been to Sizzler to herself. She studied a black velvet painting of Elvis Presley wearing a white fringed jumpsuit in the hallway of Pauline’s immaculate house. Pauline’s house was cozy. She’d bought the kind of overstuffed, plaid-upholstered furniture that was popular in the last century with people who were raising a lot of kids. The back of her couch was draped in a multi-colored afghan Pauline had knit herself, judging by the selection of yarn and needles in a tote nearby. Amy wondered what the neighbors thought of her décor ideas.

“I like her already,” Pauline told her son. She held out her hand to Amy. “C’mon, honey. Let’s go open a couple of cold ones, and Mr. High and Mighty here can make up his mind where he’s feeding us today.”

Besides being an Elvis fan, Pauline really liked Harley-Davidson. Her kitchen was bedecked with chrome and Harley insignia-laden items. A framed photo of Pauline on the back of what must have been her Fat Boy hung over the kitchen table. She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out three Bud Lights. “Church key.” She grabbed the bottle opener off the front of the fridge, opened all three, and handed one to Amy.

“Mom,” Matt made a face. “I bought you some Pyramid Hefeweizen. What’d you do with it?”

“I served it to those snotty country club bitches you sent over here.” Her lips curved into a smug grin. “I’m sure they thought I couldn’t even pronounce “microbrewery,” let alone buy some beer from one. Why did you ever think I’d want to belong to a country club?”

“
Mom
.” Matt was suddenly transformed into what Amy imagined he must have been like as a teenager. “There’s some people there who ride. You might like them. Plus, it’s a good place for you to meet people and get out of the backyard once in a while. Just give it a chance,” he pleaded.

Pauline ticked off her objections on long, airbrushed fingernails. “They don’t like me. They don’t like my clothes. I
know
they think I wear too much makeup. I get out. I ride on the weekends. I’ve known those Harley folks for a long time. Plus, they don’t bug me for game tickets or your autograph.”

“
What
? Who did this?” It was interesting to watch as Matt’s expression changed. He evidently believed someone was mistreating his mother, and he wasn’t going to stand for that.

“Matty, you don’t seem to understand. My name is Stephens. Your name is Stephens. There are people who remember seeing me at your games, and they still see you every Sunday on that pre-game show. They think they can get to know you through your ma.” She took a long swallow of beer and leaned toward Amy. “You’d hate ’em, too.”

Amy liked the business she got from Seattle’s Eastside, but dealing with some of its young, wealthy housewives could be trying at times for a woman whose schedule consisted of a few other tasks besides a workout, lunch, and squeezing in a Botox injection before instructing the nanny to pick the kids up from school.

“Maybe we should let Matty go find something else to do, and I’ll take you to Target. Do you like that place?” Pauline said.

Obviously, Matt’s mom liked to shop.

“Yeah, I do. I’m not rich, so the price is usually right,” Amy said.

“We can get some chicken tenders or something when we’re done. What do you think?”

Amy opened her mouth to tell Pauline, “Yeah,” and Matt spoke before she could.

“Mom. I wanted to take you to lunch so you could get to know Amy.”

“We can go shopping. There’s no law that says we have to take you. Plus, we’ll spend two hours fighting off every football fan in the store.”

“People hardly recognize me anymore—”

“Matthew Thomas Stephens, that is a lie and you know it. Amy and I are going to Target for a couple of hours. Why don’t you go hit a bucket of balls and have one of those microbrews you like so much, and we’ll meet you at Claim Jumper in Redmond?”

“I hate that place—”

“You hate everywhere there’s chicken fried steak and a portion that’ll actually feed someone.” She patted his cheek, and dropped her empty beer bottle in a small recycling tub beneath a writing desk in the corner of the kitchen. “We’ll call you when we’re done.” She propelled Amy out to the garage. “Love you!”

The last thing Amy saw before the door slammed was Matt’s mouth dropping open.

P
AULINE SLID BEHIND
the wheel of a fire engine-red Cadillac STS.

“Matt bought this damn car for me. I wanted a Mustang. He said I’d race.” She raised one heavily penciled and perfectly arched eyebrow. “I can race in a Cadillac.” She hit the button on the garage door opener, and backed out of the driveway. Amy saw Matt crossing the yard to his Mercedes. “Look at that. I told him if he bought me a Mercedes, I’d just drive it into Lake Washington. I didn’t want a BMW, either.” She let out a sniff. “What do you drive, Amy?”

Amy watched Matt staring after them in the side mirror as Pauline drove away. She wondered if his mom had done this before. “I have a minivan. I also use it for my business.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“No.” A bit of explanation might be nice. After all, a minivan wasn’t the typical ride of choice for a single woman. “I’m a florist. I use the back for deliveries. Plus, it’s nice to ride around in.”

“It’s probably American-made, too. I like that.” She hit the “on” button for her radio. She evidently liked oldies. “You own a business?”

“Yes. I own Crazy Daisy. It’s on Capitol Hill.”

“I love flowers,” she sighed. “Matt sent me flowers from your shop.”

“He sent every woman he’s ever met flowers from my shop.”

She shot Amy a quick grin. “Sounds like a story I need to hear.”

Pauline and Amy spent the next two hours wandering through Target. She filled a cart. Amy bought some socks. They settled at a table in the food court, chatting over burgers and fries.

Pauline squirted a little more ketchup over her fries, glanced over at Amy, and said, “So, you like my son, huh?”

“I enjoy his company.”

“You’ve met Samantha.”

“Yes, and she’s wonderful. You must be crazy about her.”

A soft light came into Pauline’s eyes. “Yeah. I am. She’s a good girl. We have fun together. She stays with me for the weekend every month or so. We get the girly works: manicures, pedicures, the whole thing. She tried to give me a makeover last weekend.” Her smile was wistful. “If I would have known a granddaughter was this much fun, I would have had her first.”

“It sounds like you have a great time together.” They both glanced down at their food for a minute. Pauline set a tankard-sized cup of Diet Coke on the table.

“We do.” She met Amy’s eyes. “Listen. I like you a lot. You’re a lot different than the women Matty usually dates, and that’s good. They pretend to like me, they don’t laugh at my Elvis pictures and my motorcycle stuff, and maybe that’s the best I could hope for. At the same time, I’ve always hoped he’d meet someone that might be willing to have a few more of those grandkids for me.”

“I want kids,” Amy assured her.

“I know you do, or you wouldn’t be caught dead driving a minivan, flower shop or no flower shop.” Pauline played with a french fry. “I have to tell you, though; I’m going to give you the same speech I’ve given every last one of them.”

Amy took a sip of her soda. This didn’t sound good. Pauline looked like she was gearing up for a lecture. Even more, the expression in her eyes was a bit sad.

“It’s been just Matty and me for a long time now, Amy. His daddy left us when Matty was two. I loved that man, but I knew right then I never wanted to marry again. I wanted to know I had the cash to be independent, so I worked until two years ago. Matty’s always felt guilty about it.” She let out a sigh. “He wants to fix everything for someone he loves. I love him with all my heart, but I’m the first one to admit he can be a real handful at times.”

Amy covered her mouth with one hand to hide her smile.

“If I could pick out the perfect woman for Matty, she’d be someone who isn’t bowled over by who he is or the fact he’s on TV. She’d be his partner, instead of being someone who gets her entire identity from being with him. She’d be someone who’s smart and ambitious enough to have something to call her own. Something that absorbs her.” Pauline took another sip of her soda. “I really love Laura, but she didn’t learn to stand on her own two feet until after their marriage was over.”