Save the Date (Wild Wedding Series Book 3)

by Ann Marie Walker

  The Wedding Planner meets The Bachelor in Save the Date, the third standalone laugh-out-loud rom com in the Wild Wedding series.

  Rebecca Halstead has never been a bridesmaid, but she can certainly relate to the expression “always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” As one of Chicago’s top wedding planners, Rebecca has had a front row seat to countless ceremonies, yet her own walk down the aisle has started to feel like nothing more than a little girl’s fantasy. She’s the wallflower who, thanks to a clean bill of health from her oncologist, wants to live life to the fullest. If only she knew how.

  Brody Dixon hasn’t heard the word “no” since he was drafted by the NFL. With cover model looks and an arm that’s earned him two Super Bowl MVPs, Brody can have his pick of women. But as the next celebrity bachelor on American Sweetheart, both his agent and publicist want him to clean up his image before the show begins. If only he knew how.

  Then fate, and an impulsive wager, bring these two opposites together until an unlikely alliance is formed. For the next two months, Brody will get a crash course in romance. In return, he agrees to help Rebecca break out of her carefully constructed shell. On paper it makes perfect sense. But as they struggle to teach each other, Brody and Rebecca just might discover that falling in love is the most important lesson of all.

  Praise for Wild Wedding

  “Sweet, steamy, and laugh-out-loud funny.”

  ~ LIBRARY JOURNAL on Black Tie Optional

  “Adorable, romantic, funny, and sexy!”

  ~KIRKUS on Black Tie Optional

  “Sexy, hilarious, and tons of heart.”

  ~ USA TODAY bestselling author

  JENNIFER BLACKWOOD on Icing on the Cake

  “Witty banter and off-the-charts chemistry make this a must read.”

  ~New York Times bestselling author

  JULIE ANN WALKER on Icing on the Cake

  Also By The Author

  Wild Wedding Series

  BLACK TIE OPTIONAL

  ICING ON THE CAKE

  SAVE THE DATE

  Chasing Fire Series

  REMIND ME

  RELEASE ME

  RECLAIM ME

  EMBRACE ME

  SAVE THE DATE

  A WILD WEDDING NOVEL

  Ann Marie Walker

  Contents

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  SAVE THE DATE

  Copyright © 2020 by Ann Marie Walker.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author, Ann Marie Walker.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Trade paperback ISBN: 9798639213700

  Cover Design by Simone Renou/In My Dreams Design

  First Edition

  Find out who you are and do it on purpose.

  ~ Dolly Parton

  Chapter One

  Brody Dixon woke to the sound of a ringing cell phone. Except it wasn’t the usual, factory-default ringtone, but some god-awful version of a 90s pop song. Britney Spears, if he wasn’t mistaken. He’d get Conor for that one. The guy was a damn fine wingman, but his sense of humor left a lot to be desired.

  Brody pulled a pillow over his head and waited for the call to roll into voice mail. At least he was alone. Thank God, he thought. Actually, thank the doorman. He’d only been staying on Chicago’s Gold Coast for a little over a week, but the swanky hotel’s late-night doorman was already proving to be a most valuable asset. Brody had learned early on in his football career that palming a few Benjamins to a building’s gatekeeper ensured him a good night’s sleep, solo, in his oversized bed. All it took was a few well-timed moves. A dance of sorts, really—a kiss on the cheek, an empty promise, an open car door—and before she even realized what was happening, the lady in question found herself back in the limo with a smile on her face.

  Last night had been no exception.

  Images from the previous night in the VIP room of an upscale club began to flicker through Brody’s mind. The entire place had pulsed with hypnotic energy as hundreds of bodies filled a dance floor that was really more of a pit in the center of the circular building. A DJ was perched on a platform, spinning tunes for sweaty clubgoers all writhing and grinding to the pounding bass, while above them, iron balconies spiraled three stories high. It was on one of those balconies, in one of the most exclusive velvet-draped rooms, that Brody had held court with a handful of friends around him and a well-endowed blonde in his lap. Or was it a redhead? Oh shit. He chuckled to himself as he realized he’d actually been with both.

  The phone rang again. Someone sure as hell had a bug up their ass. What could be so damn important at…

  He looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. Fucking hell, it wasn’t even seven yet. The ringing quieted, then without missing a beat, began again. On a groan, Brody reached for his phone, ready to rip whoever it was a new asshole. But when he glanced at the screen, he stilled. It was his agent. Before seven a.m.? This couldn’t be good.

  “Marty,” Brody said, scrubbing a hand down his face.

  “Have you seen TMZ?”

  Of course he hadn’t seen TMZ. He’d been sleeping. Something he still should have been doing. “Would be a bit difficult with my eyes closed,” Brody said in a less-than-subtle commentary on the ungodly hour. Anyone else would have gotten an earful of what-the-fuck, but Martin Gelman had been in the business long enough to earn the right to wake his A-list clients. Not to mention, he was the one responsible for negotiating Brody’s latest contract. What was a little lost shut-eye compared to a nine-figure deal?

  “Well, look at it,” Marty huffed. “Now.”

  “All right, all right.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and launched the browser. It didn’t take long to figure out what Marty was referring to. Brody’s name was plastered across the website’s main page.

  “Double the Pleasure for Bad Boy Dixon” was printed in bold font. Christ, he was never going to shake that, was he? A few nights of acting like any other red-blooded male with a couple mil to burn and the press decided he was the poster boy for bad behavior. While it might have been true, he still hated it. Made him sound like one of those boy band singers with the skinny jeans and lopsided hair.

  Below the headline was a photograph of Brody leaving the club the night before. He was flanked by the redhead and the blonde. Both women were dressed in short, sequined dresses, and both appeared to be quite pleased with themselves. He slid his fingers across the screen to zoom in on the image. Damn, they’d seemed a lot hotter with half a dozen tequila shots pumping through his ve
ins.

  Marty’s voice crackled from the device despite the fact that Brody hadn’t hit the speaker button. “Tell me those aren’t professionals?”

  He put the phone back to his ear. “What?”

  “Hookers, Brody. Tell me TMZ isn’t running a picture of you with two hookers?”

  “Hell no!” He was Brody-fucking-Dixon. He’d never paid for sex in his life. He’d always attracted plenty of women. First as a high school All-American, then a Heisman Trophy winner, and then as a first-round pick in the NFL. And after he’d won his first Super Bowl ring? Forget paying for it. Getting laid was so easy, he didn’t even have to try.

  “They’re dancers.” At least, he was fairly sure that’s what they were. It seemed to ring a bell.

  “The exotic variety, I presume.” It was a statement more than a question.

  “Dunno.” Brody chuckled. “But I can assure you, they sure as hell weren’t expecting me to stick cash in their G-strings.”

  Marty made a noise that made him sound more like a swine than a suit. “Why would they, when the paparazzi pay so much better?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For such a worldly guy, you really are quite naïve. You think those leeches with the cameras just happened to know exactly where you’d be and when? The girls tipped them off, Brody.”

  Fuck. Seemed he couldn’t blow off any steam at all anymore without it becoming a national headline.

  “I swear, sometimes it’s like you’re still that wide-eyed boy I sat across from at the kitchen table.”

  It had been seven years since Marty had shown up at Brody’s parents’ ranch in Oklahoma, offering his services in launching what he was sure would be a record-breaking career. He’d ended up with horse shit on his Italian loafers, but he’d also ended up winning over Brody and his parents. They’d been Team Dixon ever since.

  “I spoke to Marguerite,” Marty said. Four words that always meant Brody wasn’t going to like how the rest of the conversation went. To put it bluntly, Marguerite Gauthier was a thorn in his side. Scratch that, a thorn in his ass. But despite the fact that the woman seemed to draw breath for the sole reason of thinking up new ways to rain on his parade, she was also the best at her job. And as much as he hated to admit it, when it came to PR at least, she was usually right. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

  “What did the wet blanket have to say?”

  “She had an idea for rehabilitating your image.”

  “I wasn’t aware it needed resuscitation.”

  “According to Marguerite, vendor orders for your new jersey are half of what they were when you first came out of the draft. And even less if you compare the sales following the first Super Bowl win.”

  Brody squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t need anyone reminding him of his steady decline. Sure, he was still rolling in the dough, but that didn’t change the fact that it had been nearly four years since his last Super Bowl win. He’d come out of the gate white-hot, taking his team to the play-offs in his rookie year, then leading them to back-to-back Super Bowl wins the next two seasons. But now his thirtieth birthday was looming, and those rings were starting to tarnish. Chicago was meant to be a fresh start, a chance to get his head and arm back in the game. It was exactly what he needed. Of course, the hundred-million-dollar contract didn’t hurt either.

  He braced himself. “What does she have in mind this time?” His publicist was always coming up with ideas on how to improve Brody’s image. Surprise drop-ins at local youth football camps, Make-A-Wish locker room visits, or even that one year she had him dressed as Santa Claus and handing out gifts at a local children’s hospital. To be honest, he actually enjoyed those types of events—itchy white beard and red fat suit aside. But he would have preferred to do them without a pack of photographers in tow. Spending time with his fans, particularly the young ones, was one of the highlights of his fame. That and the free stuff he scored. Seemed the more money he made, the more people wanted to give him things free of charge. Go figure. But taking the press with him to visit a kid who wouldn’t be going home for Christmas that year, or maybe ever again, seemed to cheapen the whole experience. Still, if it was what Team Dixon needed, then pass the bunny ears and he’d hop on by with a basket of chocolate eggs.

  “She’s booked you on some reality dating show.”

  Fuck. Him. “No. No way.”

  “It wasn’t a suggestion, Brody. It’s a done deal.”

  The hell with that. If there was a line that shouldn’t be crossed, it had just been drawn in the sand. Besides, he was the Dixon of Team Dixon. His vote outweighed the rest.

  “Chicago just signed you to a record-breaking contract. This is supposed to be a comeback year for both you and the team. The last thing they want is for their quarterback to be the epitome of bad behavior. And before you launch into the whole spiel about how dudes high-five you on the street, let me be clear. For the kind of money they’re paying you—and looking to recoup on merchandise—you don’t just need the men. You need the women too. We need to see girls wearing your jersey on game day as well. And you need the mothers to say yes when their kids ask them to spend a hundred bucks so they can wear number fourteen.”

  Brody stared at the ceiling through the frame of the hotel’s modern, brushed metal canopy bed. While Marty may have had a point, this wasn’t the solution. Not a viable one anyway.

  “Dating a reality television star didn’t work out so well for my predecessor,” Brody reminded him. And boy was that an understatement. A local website had even listed her as one of the top five reasons Chicagoans disliked their former QB.

  “The women on the show won’t be reality stars. They’re your average, run-of-the-mill Midwesterners. Wholesome values.”

  “So, I date a farm girl, and all my problems are solved?” Girls in Daisy Duke jean shorts began parading through Brody’s head, and he couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips. Maybe this ridiculous idea wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter,” Marty said in yet another example of his uncanny knack for reading Brody’s thoughts. “All of this will be on camera.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Marty. Training camp is the end of July, and the first preseason game is a few weeks later. I don’t need any distractions.”

  “Your whole life is a distraction.”

  Brody opened his mouth to object when Marty added, “The show agreed to an adjusted schedule. Marguerite will explain it in detail, but from what I understand, they’re going to pre-shoot all the locations prior to training camp and then have live elimination shows air throughout the fall.”

  “During the season?” He had to be kidding.

  “Only on Monday. Right before Monday Night Football. Except on the West Coast. There it will air after.”

  Brody pinched the bridge of his nose as Marty continued his pitch.

  “It won’t be a big deal. Lots of players do radio shows and whatnot on Mondays. This is just a wider audience.”

  “What about when we play Monday night?”

  “Not sure. Might air Tuesday or take a bye week. I’m sure Marguerite has anticipated that.”

  Brody let out a heavy exhale.

  “It’s win-win,” Marty said. “For you, for the team. And the network loves the idea of attracting more female viewers.” There was a long pause during which Brody assumed Marty was taking a drink from his ever-present black coffee. “Look at it this way,” he said. “If your ratings and popularity are high enough, it will maintain your market value even if your first-year stats are low.”

  Time to shut that shit down. “Not going to happen.”

  “Of course not,” Marty said, quickly switching hats. Sometimes an agent was the guy to give you the good news. Sometimes the bad. But at other times, he was cheerleader, father figure and confidant all rolled into one. “You’re going to kill it this season. And when you do, the whole damn nation will be wearing number fourteen while they tune in every w
eek for the latest episode of American Sweetheart.”

  Brody groaned.

  “Enjoy your Sunday. Marguerite will call you tomorrow with all the details.”

  Brody ended the call and tossed his phone onto the mattress. Enjoy his Sunday? He glanced at the clock. Seven fifteen. During the season, he’d already be on his way to the stadium by now. But during the off-season, Sundays were meant for sleeping late and lunch at some place that served an all-day breakfast. Then maybe a little PlayStation, followed by a movie and a few beers with the guys. Okay, maybe more than a few. But his home theatre was in a house that was currently for sale over a thousand miles away, and the guys were there too, although not for sale. Brody chuckled to himself. Well, some probably were. Wouldn’t take long for a couple of them to join the entourage of the next phenom. That was the problem with having an entourage; you never knew if any of them were really your friends. Normal people didn’t have to deal with that shit. Then again, normal people didn’t drive a Lamborghini.

  Normal people.

  What did a normal person do on a Sunday anyway?

  Brody sat up and squinted toward the window. His new city greeted him like an overly perky lover, the kind who woke up all bright and cheerful and ready to plan the day. Except at the moment, the only people he knew in Chicago were Coleman Grant and Conor Lynch. He hadn’t even seen Cole yet. Now that he was a happily married man, he was basically useless for a night out. He’d sent his friend Conor as some sort of proxy, and while they’d had a few laughs over the course of the week—and way too many tequilas—Brody’d bet good money Conor wasn’t the type to wake before noon.