Blitzing Emily

by Julie Brannagh

  Emily shifted away from Brandon. “Do I have to?”

  “That’s up to you.” His eyebrow shot up. “It’s not a good memory, is it?”

  “Maybe you should tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “There are tears in your eyes,” he continued. “I’ll bet you think my parents were straight out of a romance novel.”

  “They were happy.” Emily pictured two little boys with unruly blond curls, and the two loving parents that couldn’t wait to spend any time at all with their sons.

  “It took them a long time. Like I said, my dad traveled a lot, and my mom worried he wasn’t being faithful.” Brandon leaned toward her. “Let’s just say I overheard one too many conversations between my mom and my aunt Pattie.”

  She turned to face him. “Did he cheat?”

  “If there was one thing my dad would never do, it was cheat. There were other women around. Dylan and I went to his games when we were kids, and we saw them. There was always someone who set her cap for my dad.”

  “He wasn’t taking them up on it?” She twisted her hands in her lap.

  “There’s nobody else for my dad but my mama.”

  They sat silently for a while. Emily’s stomach churned. She really didn’t want to talk about this anymore.

  “I wish I could say the same,” she said.

  She got up and walked into the kitchen. There had to be something to eat in there. She pulled the refrigerator door open and was reaching for an apple when she heard Brandon’s voice behind her.

  “So, let’s talk about it.”

  “How about an apple?” Emily said. “There’s several in here. There are oranges in a bowl on the table, too.” She straightened, and he pushed the door closed with his palm.

  “If we’re going to get to know each other, maybe this is something we need to talk about,” he said.

  Emily took a deep breath. He leaned against the refrigerator, arms folded, waiting for her to speak. She turned to the sink to rinse off the apple. He was still waiting when she tried to leave the kitchen. She couldn’t get around him.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Emily said in a low voice. After this afternoon’s festivities, another confrontation was not in her plans for the evening. At all.

  “If even thinking about it makes you look like you’re going to cry, maybe we should.”

  “This is not open for discussion,” she said.

  He stepped aside so she could pass. He followed her into the living room, tossed himself down on the couch next to her, and took the remote from her hand.

  “I need that.” Emily’s voice shook.

  “What are you afraid of?” he asked softly.

  “Maybe you should go home now.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t. I’ve obviously struck a nerve, sugar. Why are you hiding from me?” He pinned her shoulder to the couch with his big body. She gave him a shove as she tried to push away from him. “Hey, hey, hey. What’s going on here?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “I guess not.” He shoved the remote as far down behind the couch cushion as he could. “We’ll sit here, then.”

  “Fine.”

  All Emily heard was the soft tick-tock of the clock on the mantel and their breathing. She crossed her arms over her chest, crossed and recrossed her legs, drummed on her thigh, swung her foot back and forth. She wouldn’t look at him, even though she knew he was looking at her. The silence and the tension surrounding it grew. She felt like she could reach out and touch it. One big hand came down to cover her kneecap. She still didn’t look up.

  “I’ve got all night,” he drawled, and Emily rounded on him—well, as much as she could while he pinned her shoulder to the couch cushion.

  “You don’t want to hear this. Why would you even care?” she cried out. “This is just make-believe. We don’t have a relationship, and stop pretending like we do. My parents’ divorce was painful. It still hurts me. Why should I talk about it with someone who won’t even be here in a month? I can’t believe you think that I should tell you everything . . .”

  She fought for control of her emotions. Normally, she didn’t cry. She’d cried more in the last three days than she had in a year, though, and she wasn’t going to cry again right now. She blinked her tears into submission. She pulled the ring off her finger.

  “This is not going to work. I’m giving this back to you. You can get a refund or a store credit, and I’ll deal with it,” she said.

  Brandon took her hand in both of his. “I don’t want it back.”

  “I’m not wearing it.”

  He pushed the ring back down onto her finger. “Are you done yet?” He grew calmer as Emily grew more upset, and this was not acceptable. “You’re just pissed off. Better let me know how mad you are.”

  “No, I’m not going there with you. This is all your fault. If you’d left me alone, this would never have happened, and I—” She was so frustrated that she didn’t know what to say, so she blurted out the first thing that might hurt: “I hate you.”

  “Pretty powerful, sugar,” he soothed. “You’re bringing out the big guns, aren’t you? Keep it up. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Maybe I want you to.”

  “What if you do? You don’t. You want someone to yell at, really. You could yell at me some more.” He tipped her chin up, and looked into her eyes. “I can take it.”

  Silence fell. They sat for a few minutes. Nobody moved. She studied her lap. Emily heard his voice in her ear one more time. “How did you find out that your dad was cheating on your mom?”

  “How did you know that?” She shook all over. The heat of her anger (and embarrassment at her behavior) was fading into a cold she’d never known before. Losing it in front of anyone else wasn’t something she indulged in. She prided herself on keeping a tight rein on her emotions. She’d have to work harder on it.

  Brandon’s response was to slide his arm around her shoulder.

  “Did you see him? Did someone else tell you about it?”

  “The neighbor,” she whispered.

  “She or he saw it?”

  Emily nodded. She closed her eyes. In a second, she was back there, and she wrapped her arms around herself again.

  “What happened then?”

  “I told my mom.” Forcing the words out was a Herculean effort for her.

  “What did she say?”

  Her voice sounded like it was coming from a million miles away. “It was awful. She was so pale, and I felt like I slapped her. She asked me who told me, and then she went upstairs, packed a bag for Amy and me, and we went to stay overnight at our grandma’s house. By the time we came home, my dad was staying in the guest room. Mom wouldn’t talk about it.”

  “Did you try talking to your dad?”

  “We didn’t see him. He worked all the time.” She rubbed her nose with one hand. Brandon was stroking her upper arm, slowly. He listened, and he didn’t seem to judge. To her surprise, the tension drained out of her as she spoke, and she sagged against him.

  “Were you close before?”

  “We were closer.”

  “What do you think would happen if you tried talking to him about it?”

  She swallowed hard. “We don’t.” The unwritten rule of the Hamilton family: Never, ever talk about what happened with Mom and Dad. It wasn’t open for discussion. She’d tried, more than once over the years. It didn’t go well.

  “Maybe you should tell me what happened at dinner, then.”

  Emily took a deep breath. “My parents aren’t happy about a fake engagement. They’re worried other people will find out.” She forced lightness into her voice. “Plus, we’re making a mockery of the institution of marriage, according to them.”

  “Is that so?” Brandon appeared to be stifling a laugh. He patted her knee with his free hand. She felt herself relaxing more and more.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I don’t hate you.” For the second time today, she was apologizi
ng. She evidently enjoyed the taste of shoe leather. Before she could stop herself, she reached up to kiss his cheek. His stubble tickled her nose. She couldn’t stop the cross between a snort and a giggle she made.

  “I know you don’t.” He moved closer, turning toward her. “I’m sorry for bringing up something that made you cry.” His arm slid to her waist and tightened around her. He took her cheek in his free hand. Electricity sizzled over Emily’s skin. He wasn’t going to kiss her, was he?

  Seconds later, his mouth brushed over hers, the barest contact. “Are we okay?”

  Adrenaline arced through her. In an instant, she was breathless, boneless, and nodding at him like one of those bobbing-head dog figurines people used to put on the back window ledge of their cars.

  “Um, yeah. Fine.”

  His voice dropped. He stroked her lower lip with his thumb. “You’re sure about that?”

  She started nodding again, and his hand slipped to the back of her neck. He was definitely going to kiss her. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

  She felt the tender touch of his lips on hers, the way her mouth molded to his. She couldn’t help but smile a little. He kissed her as though he had all the time in the world. He lingered, he teased, and Emily wondered how she managed to get through every other day of her life before experiencing what it was like to kiss him. She felt the tip of his tongue sketch the seam of her lips, and she tasted mint as that tongue slipped into her mouth. Mint, and some indescribable thing that she could never identify to anyone else, but knew she’d never forget. She reached up blindly to slide her fingers into his hair, which curled around them like liquid satin. The melting spread.

  She couldn’t remember why she originally objected to his kissing her, but she’d officially changed her position on it. He was really, really good at it, she discovered, and she wanted more. She felt the warmth of his breath in her hair as she snuggled against him. She tried to catch her breath.

  “It might be tough to be engaged to a woman who hated me,” he continued. “I’ve dated women who’ve hated me. I’ve even slept with a few of them. They weren’t wearing my ring, though.”

  Emily had to smile. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  She heard his low chuckle. He hadn’t let go of her. She could get used to this.

  “Back to the subject.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe you should talk with your dad about all this.”

  Immediately her insides clenched. “I don’t think so.”

  “Hear me out. It’s been a lot of years. It still hurts. Maybe you need to hear his side of what happened. Maybe he has something he wants to tell you.”

  “How could he justify it?”

  “Maybe he wouldn’t. He might like to say he’s sorry.”

  He propped his feet up on the coffee table, crossing his legs at the ankle. Emily laid her head against his shoulder. They were lost in their own thoughts for a few minutes.

  “Didn’t you mention dessert earlier? If you’ll drive, I’ll buy,” Emily said. “How about some ice cream?”

  Brandon got to his feet and reached out for her hand. “I’m in. Let’s go, sugar.”

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  BEING ENGAGED REALLY brought the women out of the woodwork. Brandon glanced over at a line of several hundred people snaking around the side of Sharks Stadium, waiting for Sharks players’ autographs. One-third of them were females who appeared to be between twenty-two and forty. In other words, he was going to spend the next couple of hours giving the words “No, thank you” a workout.

  He sat at a long table with four of his teammates inside the Sharks’ pro store. Signing autographs was part of his job description. The team wanted the best PR they could produce. Brandon wanted to remind the team’s front office he was someone the Sharks would regret cutting or trading due to community backlash if his contract extension wasn’t offered.

  Brandon wasn’t opposed to female attention. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed the attention he received from a certain diva named Emily who wore his engagement ring the most, however. Unfortunately, Emily was out of town performing. He missed everything about her, up to and including when she got bossy with him. His little diva could be compared to a pampered, purebred Persian. She had no problem tilting her nose in the air, swishing her tail, and walking away when he was pissing her off. She’d throw a sweet smile over her shoulder, though, and he was helpless again.

  The perfume she wore drove him crazy, too. He remembered her scent when she was nowhere around: It smelled like peaches and freshly mown grass.

  Speaking of helpless, the first woman of marriageable age skipped over his teammates Zach and Tom like they had failed to shower recently. She had long, dark hair. The third finger of her left hand was bare. Her makeup applicator was set on “thick.” She wore stilettos, a micro-mini, and a low-cut top showcasing her after-market breasts to their best advantage. She extended a team cap to Brandon, flashing him a huge, whitened smile. “Would you sign this, please?”

  “Of course I will.” He reached out for the cap. She didn’t let go. He gave it an experimental tug.

  “You know what I’d like even better than your autograph? How about having a drink with my friends and me later? You’ll be thirsty from all this signing.” She leaned over the table a bit to give him the maximum amount of cleavage on display.

  His buddy Damian sat next to him. Damian let out a snort. Brandon managed to pry the cap out of her hand and scribbled his name and jersey number with a Sharpie on the back of it.

  “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m going to have to say ‘no’. My fiancée doesn’t like it when I date.”

  “She doesn’t have to know,” the woman coaxed.

  “Thank you, but no, thank you.” He handed the cap back to her.

  The guy next to her in line gave her a glare. “Do you actually know anything about football, or are you here because you think he’s handsome?”

  The woman flounced away. She didn’t ask Damian for his signature, either. “I think I’m insulted,” Damian said in a low voice, but his broad grin belied his words.

  Brandon shook his head. The signing continued. Brandon received many more amorous invitations over the next hour and a half. He did his best to be polite, but he couldn’t believe these women thought he would do something as stupid as accepting an invitation to cheat on his fiancée with them. He wasn’t interested, and he couldn’t imagine where they got the idea he would be. His single teammates were eagerly scooping up a few of the disappointed females, however.

  Brandon signed five hundred autographs that evening. He and his four teammates were whisked out of the pro shop and into a waiting SUV for the trip back to their cars by security. Instead of going back to the team facilities, Damian talked the driver into dropping them off at the Sharks’ favorite bar.

  One of the more frustrating things about being a professional athlete was the fact it was sometimes tough to go out in public. The recognition factor increased along with the number of Sharks involved. Tonight’s five meant the group would be besieged anyplace else but the hole-in-the-wall Brandon and Matt Stephens had found during Brandon’s rookie season.

  The place was older. The décor was early seventies—orange Naugahyde-covered benches, dark wooden tables scarred from years of use, industrial carpet of an indeterminate shade of blue. The place was littered with neon signs advertising various alcohols. At least ten flat-screen televisions were suspended from the ceiling in various places throughout the seating area. The food was plentiful, delicious, and nothing on the menu could be classified as nouvelle cuisine. Best of all, it was a fairly open secret among the mid-twenties to fifties clientele that the pro athletes they might see bellying up to the bar (or indulging in an order of chili fries during the off-season,) kept showing up as long as people left them alone.

  The BrewPub was comfortable for everyone from Boeing blue-collar workers to thirsty Microsoft billionaires. The athletes fit right in.

  A
fter ten PM on a weeknight, there weren’t many cars in the parking lot. Brandon’s teammates followed him through the front door to the large table against the back wall. A few people glanced up from their beverages or food, noted the arrivals, and went back to discussing the Mariners’ latest victory or the upcoming schedule of the University of Washington’s football team.

  Damian seized a menu as the group arranged themselves around the table. He was deep in consultation while three of his teammates compared notes on how many phone numbers they got slipped during the signing.

  “Hey, McKenna, they were all talking about you, too.” Tom, the Sharks’ quarterback, attempted to imitate one of the women he talked with earlier. “‘I can’t believe he’s getting married. What does he see in that opera chick, anyway? I’m cuter than she is.’”

  “If he went out with me, he’d forget all about her,” the newest Shark, Chris, chimed in.

  “Maybe they’ll break up.” All five men laughed at Zach’s attempt to sound like a female.

  Brandon nodded at a passing server. “I need some beer before you ladies start on the post-game wrap-up.”

  “Your loss is our gain, brother. The dark-haired one with the big rack, short skirt, and spike heels is meeting me tomorrow night at Feedback Lounge. I’m sure she’ll forget all about you when she meets my friend,” Zach told Brandon. He pointed at his groin for emphasis.

  Brandon shook his head. He loved these guys, but he was consistently amazed at how little they knew about him. Ms. Big Jugs wouldn’t have been on his to-do list in the first place. There had been too many women over the years with whom there was nothing to talk about five minutes after he pulled his pants back on. That part of his life was over the moment he met Emily, and he was grateful.

  The server left with an order that would keep the cook and the bartender busy for a while. Brandon’s phone buzzed in his pocket: A text from Emily. She asked him how the signing went. He tapped out, “It was fine. I miss you,” and hit “send.”