Blitzing Emily (12 page)

He made it all sound so reasonable. Emily was not one of those stupid women who would let a guy talk her into anything, but for all intents and purposes, Brandon had been talking her into pretty much anything he suggested for the past day and a half. She had to stop this.

“How do you feel about scrambled eggs and toast?” he asked.

“That’s breakfast. It’s dinnertime.”

“You can’t tell me you’ve never had breakfast for dinner before.” He shook his head and began opening and closing cabinet drawers. “Where are your pots and pans?”

“I don’t have any.”

“You have a cookie sheet, but you have no pots and pans?”

“Amy likes to come over and bake cookies sometimes.” Okay, she sounded a little defensive, but he didn’t have to laugh at her.

“I can’t believe you don’t cook.” His smile broadened. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind Emily’s ear. She jumped, and he looked pleased. “What’s going to happen if you actually want to cook something one of these days? What will you do then?”

“I can order it from somewhere, or I can buy it ready-made. It’s . . .” Her voice trailed off for a minute, then she took a breath and informed him, “It’s a waste of my time. I have other things to do.”

“I meant what I said about teaching you how to cook.”

Emily closed her eyes for a moment. It would be nice if they could get through five minutes without disagreeing about something. But if it was so awful, why was her heart beating so fast? He was going to laugh at her, but he’d find out sooner or later.

“My mom tried to teach me, and it was terrible. I burned everything, and she—”

Her voice trailed off. The faintly mocking expression in his eyes faded. To her surprise, Brandon didn’t laugh.

“You’ll learn. Cooking’s like kissing. It takes practice.” He let that sink in for a minute or two. “If we can’t have eggs and toast, we’ll have to come up with something else. Let’s get Chinese.”

“That will work.” Emily sank into a chair at the kitchen table. He sat down next to her.

“See how easy that was? If you agree with me, things go so much better.” He had to be kidding. “Our first fight.”

“If that was a fight, we’ve been fighting since we met.”

“Of course it was,” he soothed. “Maybe I need to stop at the jeweler’s tomorrow and pick something up for you to mark this occasion with.”

“Are you serious?” she said. The smile he wore got even bigger.

“Then again, I already bought you something today. What’ll I do tomorrow, huh? I like the idea of bringing you something every day.” He moved closer to the table, and stretched out one hand to her. His voice dropped to a low rumble. “Maybe I’ll get you a nice set of pots and pans.”

Cookware never sounded sensual before she met him.

“You can take your pots and pans and—”

“Now, don’t get upset. I’ll tell you what. Let’s call the restaurant and order some food.” He spoke with exaggerated patience. Any second now, he’d start spelling the big words. “Do you think we could agree on that?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I suppose.” Despite being half-crazed with frustration, Emily had to laugh. He tried to pretend he was completely disgusted, but his eyes sparkled. They were especially green today. Maybe they changed colors.

“How do you feel about cashew chicken?” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

“Brandon,” she said.

“You need a pet name for me. Everyone else has one.”

She couldn’t resist teasing him again. “Box of Rocks?”

“That’s going to leave a mark.” He smiled indulgently. “How about something nice? Pretend you like me.” Emily let out a snicker. “I’m expecting some originality here. Everyone is ‘baby’ or ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie.’ You think it over, and we’ll discuss it later.” His fingers curled around hers. She pulled her now-sweaty hand away.

“You call me sugar,” she said.

“That’s different. You smell sweet as sugar. I’ll bet you taste good, too.” He leaned toward her, and his breath brushed her cheek.

“You smell like mint,” Emily murmured. She brushed her palms over her jeans-clad thighs. Mint and a delicious, male scent unique to Brandon she knew she’d never forget.

He leaned toward her again. “I know it’s a lot to ask”—his lips were a fraction of an inch from her ear—“but someday, you’ll kiss me, won’t you?” She felt the heat rising in her face. Suddenly she was speechless; all she could do was nod. “That’s good.”

He rose, rifled through the menus on Emily’s counter, and pulled one from the pile. He dropped into the chair next to her again. Even slouched in a kitchen chair, he was graceful.

“We’ve already agreed on the cashew chicken,” he said. “What else might you like to eat?”

It didn’t
matter.
Her heart was still ba-ba-bumping around in her chest, her palms were sweaty, she was inappropriately warm, and her toes curled in her shoes. Would she ever kiss him? He might be shocked if she did it now. Maybe she should wait thirty seconds or so. After all, she wouldn’t want to seem desperate.

Emily shrugged her shoulders, and attempted to look bored. “Whatever you’d like is fine.”

“Fried rice, moo shu pork. How about some soup? I like that egg flower stuff.”

“It’s all great. Really.” She was still trying to regain her composure, and he was acting like nothing had happened.

“So, dinner, maybe we can watch a movie, and then we’ll hit the sack.”

“You don’t need to spend the night. I’m fine.”
Inside voice
, she told herself.

“Of course I’m sleeping here.”

B
RANDON BEAT HER
to the door a half hour later. The tabletop was quickly festooned with white cardboard take-out containers, and they sat down to enjoy the feast.

“Would you like more fried rice?” she asked him, wielding the serving spoon.

“Yes. Thank you.” Emily spooned more onto his plate, and he nodded. “Keep going. By the way, you seem to be wearing some hoisin sauce.”

She glanced at the front of her sweater and let out a groan.

“Oh, no. I can’t eat anything without making a mess.”

“It’s only me.” he said, obviously trying to reassure her she wasn’t as clumsy as she thought. “It looks like I spilled some, too. What a shame.” He dribbled a bit of sauce on his polo shirt. “See? Not so bad.”

“Here. Let me wash it. The stain might not come out.” She reached around the table for the hem of his shirt.

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s finish our dinner,” Brandon said. She reached up to brush a few grains of rice off his shirt. “Thanks. So, what’s on your mind?”

“How did your meeting go today?”

“They’re thinking about making a trade or two before the NFL draft, so there was some discussion about the positions the team might want to strengthen. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Do you usually have meetings when you’re not playing games?”

“There are a lot of guys who live here year round. We all practice together. The ones that don’t are usually talking to the other guys on cell phones or via Twitter, so they can chime in if they’d like.” He propped his chin in his hand. “How’d it go with Amy, and when am I going to meet her?”

“Amy’s business is a little nuts right now. We might be able to get together when I’m done with my performances in Seattle.” By the time her performances were over, the engagement would be over, too. He didn’t seem to realize this. Maybe that was best.

“I would like that. My parents would like to meet you, too.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea? If we’re not going to be together that long, it’s not really necessary.”

His expression was implacable.

“My parents will still want to meet you. I want to meet your folks, and I want to meet Amy. This isn’t open for negotiation.”

Chapter Eight

A
FTER
B
RANDON INHALED
his dinner that evening (and Emily picked at hers) they adjourned to Emily’s living room couch. She managed to seize the remote, flipping the television on. Brandon pretended to glare at her. The effect was ruined, however, by a huge grin and the flash of his dimple.

The sports anchorman’s voice boomed over the TV’s speakers.

“Single women everywhere are inconsolable over the news that the Sharks’ Brandon McKenna announced his engagement this morning. The Sharks front office is cautiously optimistic. Will McKenna put up what must be a modern-day version of the ‘little black book’—his legendary smart phone ‘contacts’ list of single females—for auction on eBay as a result?”

“Like I’m that stupid,” Brandon muttered.

Emily gave him a combination eye roll and head shake. The typically unflappable Brandon had been squirming for a few minutes now. “That’s really going to put a crimp in your social life, Brandon.”

He grunted in response.

The announcer continued. “Our cameras caught up with the wily Mr. McKenna outside of his fiancée Emily Hamilton’s home this morning, and he didn’t fail to astonish and amuse.”

Emily watched them walk down the front stairs on her television screen. One of the reporters asked her if she was surprised at his proposal, and Brandon wrapped his arms around her waist as she responded, “Yes, I was.” He gave her an adoring grin. He nuzzled her hair. It looked like he was kissing Emily’s ear, but in reality, she had deliberately stepped on his toes. The next piece of tape was of Brandon standing outside of her Escape while she waited inside. Another reporter asked, “Brandon, we understand that Miss Hamilton is a very talented and sought-after young diva. How do you plan to cope with two demanding careers?”

“You know, Emily’s talented in
many
areas,” he smirked, raised one eyebrow, and gave the camera a look that let all of America know exactly what she was talented at. “Frankly, she wears me out. I’m a lucky man.” He shook his head a bit, gave the reporters a dazzling smile, and said, “Thanks, guys,” as he pulled the driver’s door open and swung into the seat.

Emily let out a gasp of horror. “You—You—What was that?”

Brandon shot her a quick glance. “Take a breath, sugar.”

“My
parents
will see that. You just told the entire
country
that I’m some kind of—oh, my God. How could you?” She jumped up from the couch, hurried through the living room, and stormed up the staircase. Her headache was temporarily forgotten. Brandon didn’t even have to run to catch up with her.

“Sugar,” he cajoled. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, it is. I can’t believe you said that. I am not one of your—” She whipped around to face him; he stopped inches from crashing into her. “Floozies. Trollops. Hos.
Bimbos.
Whatever they’re called, I’m not one of them.” She poked her finger in the middle of his chest to punctuate. Multiple times.

“Now, you don’t need to name call,” he said. “They wanted a colorful quote, and I gave it to them.”

Emily let out a groan, and turned on her heel. Right now, making a lot of noise was the only option. He caught her elbow. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be right now?” she said.

“No. No, I don’t.” He stroked her arm. “You’re not mad about this.” He moved closer. Her body double-crossed her, swaying toward him. His arm slid around her waist. “So, I got a little carried away. It’s not a problem.” He nuzzled the hair at her temple. The temperature in the room shot up twenty degrees in five seconds or so.

She couldn’t understand why she wavered between wanting to commit bodily harm on him and wanting to do things to him that would feel really,
really
good. Right now, though, she needed to pull herself together.

Her head jerked up, narrowly missing his nose. “I realize the rest of the world thinks we’re engaged right now, but did you need to tell everyone I’m some kind of
insatiable
sex maniac? That stuff is private. It should remain between us. All of America does not need to know what goes on in my bedroom!” She poked him in the chest a few more times for emphasis.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Insatiable sex maniac? Now, that’s interesting.” The amusement on his face made her realize he wasn’t backing off. “I’ve never met one of those before. Tell me more.”

Her mouth dropped open in outrage. At that moment, the phone started to ring. She turned on her heel and stomped away from him only to hear Brandon’s laughter again.

E
MILY GRABBED THE
ringing phone in her room, hitting “speaker” as she sat down on the bed. It was David calling to outline the booking offers he’d fielded that day.

“Your calendar’s getting a workout, Emily. So, I’ll confirm all three of the productions we talked about, and send the information to your phone’s calendar as well.”

“Thanks, David. I’m really glad things are picking up.”

“I am, too. I just got an email from Seattle Opera’s PR group as well. They’d like to do an interview and some pictures with you and Brandon at your earliest convenience. It’ll run in the magazine and on their website. If he’d like, we can schedule a date and time with his agent.”

She saw Brandon stroll into the room out of the corner of her eye.

“That’ll work for me, David. I’ll let Josh know to expect your call,” Brandon responded, speaking loudly enough for David to hear him over the speaker phone.

“Great. By the way, Brandon, I saw the ESPN interview. You’re making my job easy.”

“Glad to hear it,” Brandon said. “Thanks for taking such good care of my girl.”

“Back at you. Talk to you later, Emily.” David hung up.

Emily pulled breath into her lungs. Their conversation gave her a few minutes to calm down and think. Three more bookings! She’d never gotten three bookings in a week, let alone one day.

Brandon stretched out on the other side of her bed and picked up the book resting on the nightstand.

“If this keeps up, you’re going to have to bring somebody in to feed the cat and water the plants while you’re gone. Good job, sugar.”

Obviously he was teasing her, but the irritation she’d felt twenty seconds before her phone rang had given way to relief and amusement. Rather than causing some type of irreparable issue, Brandon’s outrageous comments in the media led to bookings. How did this happen, anyway?