Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel Read online

  Rushing Amy

  A LOVE AND FOOTBALL NOVEL

  JULIE BRANNAGH

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  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

  * * *

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  An Excerpt from Catching Cameron

  About the Author

  By Julie Brannagh

  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

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  * * *

  THE 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.

  HEAVY 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.”

  She managed to get both feet under her. Maybe if she held onto the back of the chair, and scooted herself on . . . Yeah, right. If she let go of the dress, she couldn’t see the barstool. If she didn’t let go of the dress, she was going to end up on her ass—and what an attractive picture that would be.

  “Need more help?” Matt asked.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted.

  “That’s some dress, Fifi. Did you lose a bet?”

  She glanced up at him, ready to rip off a strip of his flesh with her tongue. He held down the barstool with one foot, gripped both her upper arms, and lifted her up. He had set her down on it before she could get a word out. She found herself speechless as a result. Of course, that problem quickly resolved itself.

  “Okay. We need a drink,” he told her, sitting on the barstool next to her. He directed his next comments to the bartender. “Greg, two Herraduras.”

  Amy glanced over at Matt, and back at Greg. “A shot of Jose Cuervo Gold, please.”

  Matt let out a snort. “Friends don’t let friends drink Jose Cuervo.”

  “Don’t be a booze snob.”

  “You’re intending to get naked wasted drunk, then? I’ll join you.” His lips curved into an infuriating smirk.

  “I am not getting naked wasted drunk. I’m having a drink. There is a difference,” Amy informed him. Her new drinking companion just laughed.

  “So. You want Cuervo, you want Herradura—” It appeared Greg was having difficulty keeping up.

  “Anejo, Greg. Skip the Cuervo.”

  “We’ve got Herradura Silver.”

  She turned to the caveman next to her. “I can order my own drink—”

  “Obviously, you can’t.” Matt shook his head. “The silver will do.” He turned to face her. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  “Hey, 1975 called. They’d like their pick-up line back.” Amy took a breath. Well, as much of a breath as she could. Even the effort to talk to him left her breathless. God, he was unbelievably cute. Other women could handle this stuff with style and grace. If he had any idea her stomach was in knots and her palms were still sweating, he’d probably laugh at her. “Why don’t you ask me what my sign is as well, Sparky?”

  “You’re not going to remember the first thing I said to you tomorrow, anyway.” Matt’s heart-stopping grin belied the sting in his words. “Why should I make the effort?” She resisted the impulse to make a rude hand gesture in response.

  The Herraduras arrived. He nudged one glass in front of her, picked up the other, and said, “Drink up, sport. Shall I demonstrate?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You sip this. You don’t slam it.” He touched his glass to hers and sipped. Full, and what she imagined to be soft, lips brushed the rim of the glass. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He chased a stray droplet of tequila out of the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. He made love to a mini-snifter, and she wondered if he was that good with a female. He set his glass back down on the bar. “I’m waiting.”

  “And this would mean what to me?”

  He challenged Amy with his eyes and a quick nod toward her glass. His eyes were darker than the navy blue of his suit, dappled with tiny gold flecks. Even high-definition television failed to capture their color. The edge of his mouth curved into another smile.

  “Don’t make me drink alone. We’re getting drunk together, remember?”

  “You’re getting drunk. I’m having a drink.” She took a sip. It was smooth all the way down. “This is pretty good.”

  “So, you’ll manage to choke it down?”

  Amy narrowed her eyes and took another sip. There were a few other guys in the bar area. They seemed to be circling. Even through the slight haze of fine tequila, too much emotion, and little food or sleep, it was apparent to her that she must be wearing an invisible s
ign around her neck. After all, she wore an expensive—albeit, wrinkly—maid of honor gown and had a semi-wilted bouquet sitting on the bar next to her. Besides, it was getting close to closing time. She was a desperate bridesmaid, ripe for the picking.

  Matt signaled the bartender for another drink, and one of the guys approached. Judging from the college-man attire and his straggly facial hair, he must have been on a weekend pass from the frat house. He leaned against the bar, gesturing to Amy’s glass.

  “What are you drinking, gorgeous?”

  She gave him a quick grin, but Matt broke in before she could even respond.

  “She’s drinking a shot of back the hell off.”

  Amy’s mouth dropped open.

  “Greg, my man,” Matt stated, turning to ignore the frat boy leaning against the bar. “I think my new drinking buddy needs a refill.”

  Greg made his way over to them. Amy still had half an inch in the bottom of her glass. Quickly, she laid one palm over it.

  “Maybe later,” she whispered. Greg gave her a nod.

  Mr. Tragically Hip glared at Matt. “She can speak for herself, can’t she?”

  Matt’s expression didn’t change.

  Amy caught the other guy’s eye. “Thank you, but no thank you.”

  “You’re sure about that? Why don’t you ditch Gramps here, and we’ll take you someplace better?”

  Considering the fact that Amy was closer to Matt’s age than his, it must have been his idea of a compliment. However, the guy in question evidently had no experience with waving a red flag in front of a bull. Matt bent a look on him that must have been an NFL leftover.

  The guy’s buddy grabbed one of the frat rat’s arms.

  “Do you know who that guy is?” he hissed. “You can’t tell me you don’t know who Matt Stephens is. Let’s get the hell out of here before he rips your head off and pisses down your neck.” He turned toward Matt and Amy, and spoke up. “My buddy’s had a lot of beer. Sorry.”