EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: Save the Date

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 veins.

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 week 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.

Brody stood and stretched, the muscles in his arms, abs, and back moving in a sequential rhythm. As he drew closer to the window, he could see a few bikers and joggers twenty-seven floors below, all making their way along the path that hugged the shore of Lake Michigan. Maybe that was what he needed to start his day, a punishing run to fire up the synapses and sweat out the lingering tequila. Who knew, with a little luck, maybe he’d find something, or someone, to make the afternoon more enjoyable than the morning.

* * *

Rebecca Halstead kept her eyes focused on the statue of Abraham Lincoln that stood at the south end of Lincoln Park. When she’d started her morning routine only six weeks prior, the thought of being able to run all the way to the iconic landmark seemed like an unattainable goal. But she didn’t give up. Every day she ran just a little bit farther than the day before, until one day she realized she was nearly there. And her lungs weren’t on fire. And there weren’t shooting pains in her shins. And she wasn’t in danger of puking her granola bar all over some unsuspecting pigeons.

But more than just increasing her stamina, she was starting to feel good. And not just good as in not sick anymore, but good as in great. As in powerful and ready to take on the world. The side effects she was seeing on her body weren’t too shabby either. Thanks to a lucky dip in her mom’s gene pool, Rebecca had always been thin. But thanks to the fact that she’d also inherited her mom’s height, or lack thereof, her tiny frame looked more like that of a preteen than a twenty-six-year-old woman. All that was changing now thanks to daily cardio and weights. Her calves and arms were starting to have definition, and for the first time, she had an ass. It would never rival those that crashed the internet, but thanks to about a bajillion squats, she had more junk than she’d ever had in her trunk.

She’d just reached the steps of the memorial and was contemplating reenacting her own version of Balboa’s triumphant climb when her iPhone rang, interrupting Rocky’s theme just when it was time for her big moment.

“Hello,” she panted into the headphones.

“Oh good, you’re up,” Olivia said. “I was afraid I might wake you.”

“Not only awake, but just finished a killer run.” Truth was she’d been up for nearly two hours. Nothing like a near-death experience to inspire someone to take advantage of every moment. Carpe diem didn’t mean sleeping her life away. She’d done enough resting when she was sick to last a few decades. Now it was time to live.

“Well, don’t overdo it.”

Seemed her new sister-in-law was in danger of becoming as overprotective as her brother. Throughout her illness, her brother had treated her like she was made of glass. It had driven her bananas even though it was partially true. But now that she had a clean bill of health, it was time to put an end to that mentality, not have it spread to Olivia as well. “I’m fine, Livvy. You’re the one I’m worried about. I think Cole is rubbing off on you.”

“No, he’s not,” Olivia said, and for a second, Rebecca thought she’d let the double entendre slide. But then she added, “Not at the moment anyway.”

“Gross.” Rebecca laughed.

“Sorry.”

She could hear the smile in Olivia’s voice. “No, you’re not,” Rebecca said, shaking her head as her mouth turned up in a grin. “But it’s cute in its own weird way. You’re like a couple of horny teenagers.” Not that Rebecca had firsthand knowledge of such behavior. Her teens had been spent in the library or working odd jobs to help out her mom. Neither of which had allowed for much age-appropriate misbehavior.

“How was last night?”

“Great.” Rebecca started walking toward the Chicago History Museum. It wouldn’t be open so early on a Sunday, but her legs needed a cooldown and she could still check out the advertisements for upcoming events. “The bride and groom are huge SNL fans, so we had the reception at Second City.” Rebecca had only been in the wedding planning business for four years, but she’d already established a name for herself when it came to organizing ceremonies that were unique to the bride and groom. Of course, the fact that her brother kept sending clients her way didn’t hurt either. Not that he would ever admit it, the sneaky bastard. She loved him dearly, but did he really think she didn’t realize half the calls she got were from couples who either attended the same prep school he had or belonged to the same country club? Still, she was grateful for the referrals, even if it was his way of circumventing her vow never to take a dime of his money.

“Sounds really cool,” Olivia said.

“Well, it was no Elvis wedding chapel,” Rebecca teased.

Olivia snorted. “Hey, how many brides can say they were married by the King of Rock and Roll?”

“In Vegas? Probably quite a few.”

“Yes, but how many can say they also had Angus Young as the best man?”

She had her there. “Not many,” Rebecca agreed, wishing for about the hundredth time that she’d witnessed Cole and Olivia’s Vegas wedding. But that would have required them to tell her—or anyone else, for that matter—about their impulsive decision to marry, something no one could have predicted seeing as how they’d hated each other’s guts before, during, and after the wedding. At least that’s what they’d told themselves.

For three months, Olivia had made it her life’s work to lobby—or harass, depending on which one of them you asked—Cole into moving his latest venture to a site that wouldn’t threaten an endangered bat. Then an alcohol-fueled night in Vegas led to a night of passion, which led to a hungover marriage of convenience, and the rest, as they say, was history. And while Rebecca would have given just about anything to see that sitcom of a ceremony, especially when she heard about the personal touch the King had put on their vows, she would be forever grateful that she was present when her half-brother and his bride renewed their vows on her family’s farm a few months later. No matter how many weddings she witnessed, a couple pledging their love was a sight that would never get old. Add to that the fact that the groom was the man who’d seen her through the worst two years of her life and forget it, she was a blubbering mess.

“Is that Rebecca?” Cole’s deep voice echoed in the background of the call. A few more words were spoken that Rebecca couldn’t quite make out, but Olivia’s reply helped her fill in the blanks.

“I do not hog your sister,” she said. The smile in her voice was hard to miss. “She just likes me more than you.”

Cole’s muffled voice replied.

“You’re a bossy bastard,” Olivia said with a laugh. “Do you know that?”

Of course he knew that. And Olivia knew it too. And yet she loved him anyway. Simply put, Cole and his bride were proof positive that every pot had a lid.

“Your brother would like you to meet him for lunch tomorrow.”

She bit back a smile. “Tell my brother I will have to check my schedule.”

“Don’t tease him. You know he doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“True.” Rebecca laughed. Although the irony wasn’t lost on her that this was coming from the woman who seemed to live to tease the man she loved. “Fine, tell him I’ll meet him for lunch, but not at one of those stuffy, wood-paneled clubs he likes.”

Cole and Rebecca had been raised by different mothers, but more than that, in different worlds. Private clubs with steep membership dues and snooty clientele were about as appealing to her as an afternoon at the dentist. And she hated the dentist.

“Tell him he can pick the time, but I’m picking the place.”

“Oh no, you’re not putting me in the middle,” Olivia said. “I’m stepping out of this negotiation. Here, putting you on speaker.” A moment later, Cole’s voice came across the line, and this time, it was loud and clear.

“I’m not eating in the park again. Nearly ruined my favorite Tom Ford last time.”

“Fine, a place with tables. But no tablecloths.” That would rein him in a bit. The fact that Rebecca hadn’t been raised with the same silver spoon Cole had was something he seemed to be forever attempting to correct. But she was just fine with her life the way it was. And while it might have been nice if her late mother hadn’t had to worry about making rent, Rebecca’d had a far happier childhood than her half-brother had had growing up in a mansion full of servants.

“My office. Noon. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Your wife is right. You are a bossy bastard.” Although to be fair, no matter how Olivia described her husband, the word “bastard” always seemed to follow. Depending on the day, Cole was anything from a “gorgeous bastard” who could melt his wife with a smoldering glance, to a “depraved bastard” who would destroy the earth if it weren’t for her near-constant intervention.

Cole chuckled. “Part of my charm.” With that, he was gone. Rebecca smiled and shook her head as she tucked her phone back into the pocket of her jacket. She was tugging the zipper closed as she rounded the corner of the monument and slammed right into a solid wall of human.

The collision sent her stumbling backward with such force, she fell flat on her ass. Although not before flailing and flapping her arms in what must have looked like an attempt to fly away. If only she could have been so lucky. But no. Instead, she ended up sprawled across the concrete with her elbows scraped and her ego bruised. Of course, that was when she thought she’d run head on into a normal human. Once she had a chance to get a better look, she realized there was nothing normal about the man in front of her, which somehow made her state of disgrace all the more humiliating.

Her eyes traveled up his body, from the sculpted calves and the thighs that appeared to be carved from stone, to the black running shorts that did little to hide a hard-to-miss eye-level bulge, to the planes of his broad chest, clearly defined beneath his damp T-shirt. And the arms? Holy cow, forget a gun show. His biceps were a full-on armory. But all of that paled in comparison to his face.

With light brown hair, mischievous green eyes, and features that were almost too pretty to be real, the man in front of her easily could have been a movie star. Hell, maybe he was for all she knew.

His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear a word he said. A moment later he bent down, his elbows resting on his solid thighs. And then he leaned forward, close enough for her to smell the clean scent of light sweat mixed with spicy soap. And then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and his eyes seemed to grow a darker shade of green. And then his hands reached up as though about to frame her face. And then…

And then he plucked the earbuds from her ears.

Well duh, what had she been expecting, a kiss? That sort of stuff only happened in books.

“Are you okay?” he asked. This time, she could hear him, but she still didn’t answer. She couldn’t. And it had nothing to do with her fall. It wasn’t her tumble that had taken her breath, not to mention her capacity for speech, away. It was him.

“Miss?”

“Huh?” Even to her own ears, she sounded dazed and confused. She shook her head to clear it.

“You okay?” he repeated. His voice was deep and rough and had the slightest rasp of a Southern drawl. It made her think of honey and lounging in a field in the warm afternoon sun. On a blanket. Naked. With the honey.

Whoa. Where did that come from?

“Um, yeah… I’m fine.” Her words croaked from her suddenly dry throat. But then again, maybe she wasn’t fine. Maybe she’d hit her head when she fell. How else could she explain the outlandish thoughts of naked, honey-covered sunbathing that were currently flooding her brain? Rebecca reached up but felt no lump or blood in her short dark hair. So that’s how it was, eh? Losing her mind at twenty-six.

“Let me help.” He held out his hand, and when she took it, Rebecca could have sworn a tingle passed between them to rival the one Bella felt with Edward. She narrowed her eyes to check for sparkling skin, then silently wondered if it was possible to have a head injury without actually hitting your head. Whiplash concussion, perhaps? Something, anything, to explain her current state.

The wall of muscle hauled her to her feet. He was taller than she was—something that wasn’t too difficult given her size—but this guy was tall. Like six-foot-four kinda tall with a confidence that was hard to miss. Even in casual workout clothes, the man in front of her had a commanding presence. Clearly, he was used to being the center of attention, and if the smug grin that played on his lips was any indication, he enjoyed it.

And there she was, sweaty and covered with sidewalk dirt and staring at him like she’d never seen such a handsome man before. Well, at least not up close.

“Sorry about that,” she said, hating how awkward she felt, especially in comparison to his self-possessed demeanor.

“Don’t be.” His grin stretched into a full-blown smile, unleashing a dimple that made him look too adorable for words. “I rather enjoyed it.”

She quirked one brow. He enjoyed seeing her fall on her ass?

The thought had no sooner crossed her mind when it seemed to occur to him as well. “Um, I mean, bumping into you,” he said. “Not that you fell.” Uncertainty flashed across his face for the briefest of seconds before his composure returned.

She tipped her chin up. “So, figuratively instead of literally?”

He unleashed the dimple again, and her knees did a little wobble. Surely, it was from the adrenaline crash? While there was little doubt that dimple of his had the power to make grown women drop their panties, it was highly unlikely he was actually making her weak in the knees. That was just an expression, wasn’t it?

“Both,” he said, looking quite pleased with himself. “I literally enjoyed bumping into your figure.”

Good God almighty. He might have looked like a deity, but his lines were mere mortal. Maybe that was the curse of being so good-looking. He never had to try, so he didn’t know how? Either way, the moment was broken. That, or the blood was merely returning to her brain.

“Well, I better get back to it,” she said, popping her earbuds in as she backed away. His face registered a hint of surprise, and then his lips moved with words she couldn’t make out over the blast of music that now filled her ears. It was just as well, she thought as she turned onto the path. The wall of muscle might have been dreamy, but he was also rather full of himself. The hot ones usually were. Still, it would have been fun while it lasted, and there was little doubt that Mr. Sexy-And-I-Know-It could have taught a girl like her more than a few new tricks. If only she could have him, no strings attached, for a night. Or two. The thought alone put a smile on her face that lasted far longer than the walk home.

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Wild Wedding - Recommended Reading Order

(standalone stories with interconnected characters)