Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel (2 page)

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 sign 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.”

Amy stifled laughter as she watched the look of abject horror that crossed the face of the frat rat’s friend. He extended his hand to Matt. His voice was sheepish. “I’m a fan. Sorry.”

Matt shook his outstretched hand. “Thanks.”

The other guy didn’t seem to know when to quit, however: “So, is Falcon as big of a dick as he seems to be on the show?”

Sean Falcon was the former Super Bowl-winning, six-time Pro Bowl quarterback of the Welders in the eighties and the biggest star on Pro Sports Network’s Sunday morning coverage.

Amy heard a burst of male laughter behind them, and Sean Falcon strolled through the bar area with three of his and Matt’s Pro Sports Network co-stars. They’d all been at the wedding. Brandon knew everyone, or at least it seemed like he did.

“Oh, he’s an even bigger dick,” Falcon called out. “See you later, Stephens.” He turned to one of his companions and said loudly enough for everyone to overhear, “Stephens is at the reception for twenty minutes, and he manages to hook up with a bridesmaid. I just don’t get it, man.”

Matt lifted one hand over his head with his middle finger extended; everyone laughed, and they were gone. The guys who’d been trying to talk to Amy were struck silent. She gulped down the last of the tequila in her glass.

“That’s my girl.” Matt signaled the bartender. “Hey, Greg, we need another refill down here.”

She’d had less than ten hours of sleep in the past three days combined. She hadn’t eaten much in that period of time, either. The flowers for Emily’s wedding took precedence over everything. When Amy wasn’t working on them, she lay awake, brooding over Brian like a lovesick idiot. Sleeplessness, no food, and alcohol weren’t a good combination. Right now she had a definite buzz going from just one drink.

Matt turned to her as Greg refilled his glass again. She caught Greg’s eye and gave him a nod. In for a penny, in for a pound. Greg poured a shot into her glass.

“So, where’s your date?”

Amy had to give him snaps for being observant. The third finger of her left hand was naked as the day she was born.

She took a sip. “I gave up dating for Lent.”

“Is that so?” He raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice.”

She took another sip and then swirled the tiny amount of tequila left in the bottom of her glass. The frat rats had evidently found more promising prey out on the patio overlooking the lake, she thought as she watched them lope away. “Yeah, I’m on the wagon.”

Matt appeared to choke back a laugh. “You’re shitting me.”

“No, I’m not.” She enunciated carefully, or at least, as carefully as she could. “No dating for me, Sparky.”

“So, what brought this on?”

Amy watched Greg’s head snap up as well. He was polishing glasses, but she had his full attention. “Isn’t the bartender supposed to be asking these questions?”

Matt’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “He’s busy. I’m filling in for him. You can tell me.”

“Don’t you have something else to do?”

“Nothing more important than what I’m doing right now,” Matt assured her. He casually rested one arm around the back of Amy’s chair, while making perfect condensation circles with the bottom of his glass on the bar in front of them.

“Greg?” she called out. “May I have another drink, please?” Just thinking about Brian made her want to grab the bottle out of Greg’s hand and chug it till it was gone. Brian wasn’t her soul mate by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d managed to break her heart anyway.

“Are you sure about this, sport? Stuff’s got a kick like a mule,” Matt warned.

“I can handle it,” she informed him. “Maybe I should order a double.”

“This’ll be good,” Matt muttered.

“What are you talking about?”

Greg poured another inch or so of tequila into her glass, and Matt leaned toward her a bit.

“Nothing. You were saying?”

The late night, exhaustion, and a fresh drink conspired against Amy.

“I dumped my boyfriend. Yesterday. I’m done with men.”

She was lying, but how the hell would he ever know? She wasn’t a liar by nature, but she wasn’t about to confide to a guy who appeared in
People
’s “Sexiest Man Alive” issue that she’d gotten dumped.

She lifted her glass. “Let’s drink to single women everywhere.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Greg assured her.

Matt didn’t drink. “So, you’re hanging it up?”

“Yes, I am.” Amy tipped her chin up and threw her shoulders back. No self-pity for her.

“You’re just going to let him win?” Matt insisted.

“What are you talking about? Win? Are you kidding?” She gestured with her glass. The few drops of tequila slopped dangerously close to the rim. “He moved to New York. I don’t care about him.”

That’s why she’d watered Emily’s wedding flowers with her tears yesterday, and why she’d had to soak her face in ice-cold water this morning. She concealed her broken heart well. After all, she’d had lots of practice.

“You don’t say.”

“He got on a plane this morning. He couldn’t even wait until the wedding was over.
Win
? That’s insane. There is no winner here.” She took another sip of tequila. “Then again, I’m the winner. Fine. I don’t want him. He doesn’t want me, either.”

“That’s the spirit, Fifi.” Once again, Matt appeared to be smothering laughter. “I thought you dumped him.”

“I did. I totally dumped him.” She polished off the last few drops of her drink.

“So, I take it you’ll be joining a—what do they call it? A nunnery? Maybe there’s some kind of ‘down with men’ club you’re checking into?”

“It’s called a convent. Didn’t you pay attention during catechism?”

“As a matter of fact, no, I didn’t.” He captured the bowl of pretzels Greg had just put onto the bar and held it out to her. “I’ll bet you look great in black. Snack?”

“No, thank you.”

“So, let’s get back to this whole ‘we hate men’ thing. I’m intrigued. Is it all men, or just your ex?”

Even with the buzz, Amy knew Matt was teasing her. There was an expression in his eyes she couldn’t read. At the same time she got the feeling he didn’t want to spend the evening alone. He was in no hurry to leave. She didn’t want to spend the evening alone, either.

Amy let out a sigh.

“I don’t know what they want. They say they love you, and then they don’t.” She waved her arms for emphasis. “I shower. I’m reasonably nice. I know how to cook, and I’m somewhat financially stable. I’m not clingy, demanding, or crazy. I do not get it.”

She turned to face Greg. “Greg. You’re a guy. What is it that they want?”

“Damned if I know,” Greg reassured her. “Who cares about them, though? They’re obviously stupid. You’re hot.”

“Thank you.” She beamed at Greg, and glanced over at Matt. “I love him.”

“You’re not helping me right now, Greg,” Matt informed him.

Greg moved down the bar a bit. Matt took another sip of his drink, and turned to study Amy. How could he drink so much more than she had, and still appear to be sober? This was just another of life’s inequities. He patted Amy’s hand.

“So, sport, what are we going to do about this?”

“Do about what?”

“You shouldn’t be running around in public alone.”

“I am
harmless
—”

This time, Matt laughed out loud. He threw his head back, closing his eyes for a moment. The sound bounced around the room.

“It’s late.” He leaned closer to her. “Maybe the best thing to do is to make sure you get home safely. Let’s try that first. Do I need to call a cab?”

“No, no.” She shifted on the barstool. “I have a room upstairs. I’ll be fine.”

“Got it. Well, Fifi, I think you’ve had enough.”

“Nope.” She waved the snifter at Greg the bartender, who took it out of her hand before it went flying. Her reflexes were somewhat unsteady, but she knew exactly what she wanted. “More.”

“How about a cup of coffee instead? It’s on the house.” Greg was all efficiency. Matt slid his credit card across the bar, and Greg scooped it up. “I’ll make a fresh pot, just for you.”

“No. No coffee.” She held up one hand like a traffic cop. “More tequila.”

“Not tonight. Let’s leave some for the other customers,” Matt said, and rose from the barstool. He and Greg had some sort of murmured conference. He signed the receipt, and took Amy’s elbow. “It’s time for you to get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired. Are you tired? I don’t want to go to bed yet.”

Her feet wouldn’t reach the floor. She couldn’t figure it out. Plus, the dress had a mind of its own. She couldn’t seem to get it untangled from the barstool. One minute she was sliding off the barstool, the next minute she was toppling over. Matt caught her in his arms. Again. It probably had something to do with the fact she also managed to put the stiletto heel of her sandal through the tulle that made up the underskirt of the gown.