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She made a show out of pushing her hair from her shoulder, whispering, “Fine,” and hoping he’d heard.
His large hand was warm at her waist. “You need a hand?”
She hadn’t meant to jerk away from him. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention their way. But if Momma saw… She held her breath, risking a look at the camera, her mother, and Chad. Whatever they were looking at held Momma’s undivided attention. Not that it stopped her heart from pounding.
The harshness of Brock’s sudden laugh startled her enough to draw her gaze. And then…she couldn’t look away. His face. In all her life, she’d never been on the receiving end of such hostility. It rolled off of him. Crashed into her. Knocked every ounce of air from her lungs… Just when she thought he couldn’t hurt her anymore, he did.
“Emmy Lou, your water.” Melanie was there, water bottle in hand. “You need anything?”
She needed to stop staring, to stop wanting to explain why she’d just pulled away from him. Stop wanting to explain anything to him. And, more than anything, she needed to stop trying to understand what had happened and how they’d wound up here. But the words were too tangled up to do anything more than clog her throat.
Brock’s features hardened. There was nothing gentle or concerned about him now. He swallowed, the muscles in his throat working as his gaze fell from hers. With another bitter laugh, he shook his head. “She needs to sit down—her ankle.” He was walking away before his words sunk in.
“Did I interrupt something?” Melanie was blinking rapidly. “I am so sorry, Emmy.”
“No.” Emmy found her voice. Unsteady but audible. “No, you didn’t. Thank you for the water.” She took a long swig.
Melanie was watching her. “You should take a break, put that ankle up.”
“Emmy?” Chad called out. “You good to do it again? I feel certain we’ll get this done in one more take.”
One more take. One more and she could go home. “Yes.”
“You sure, baby girl?” Her father stood on the other side of the field, far enough away from Momma that he could pretend he didn’t see the glare she’d leveled in his direction.
“Let’s get this over with,” she whispered to Melanie. She ratcheted up her smile and gave her father a thumbs-up.
Daddy grinned. “Well, all right then.”
“We need ten minutes or so to reset everything anyway,” Chad said, slipping from his chair. “Damn pyrotechnics.”
* * *
Brock stood in the dark on the football field. Watching Emmy Lou King in her element was impressive. No, she was…she was mesmerizing. Every head pop had her hair swaying. Every step set the bangles on her sexy-as-hell, skintight outfit swinging. With her dusty-rose lips smiling, singing her heart out, and one arm rising over her head, she grabbed hold and held on tight to every single person’s attention. It wasn’t just him; it couldn’t be.
If he ever needed a reminder that CiCi King knew her daughter best, here it was. This was where Emmy Lou belonged. Front and center, the spotlight fixed on her. He didn’t need to be here. Hell, none of the players needed to be here. Who the fuck would be looking at anything other than her? The fog and wind machine and sparks were overkill.
With every practiced step, every rehearsed tilt of her head, and her blindingly beautiful smile, the closer she got to him, the harder it got to breathe.
He flexed his fingers, the warmth of her skin lingering on his fingertips. Why had he touched her? He was no better than a moth flying directly into an open flame. So why was she the one who jolted away from him? Fast and quick—like he’d burned her.
No, that wasn’t it at all. More like she couldn’t stand his touch.
His hands fisted. No more of this shit. No more letting her get in his head.
Emmy took another high step, her smile wavering as she planted her foot. Her ankle was hurting. She was hurting. So why was she pushing this? It was obvious every single person in the building was at her beck and call. The Kings ruled—that was clear. CiCi King was there to make sure of it.
The moment the beam of the spotlight illuminated him, he stared down at the turf. He heard the rasp of her breath as she stepped around him. The dangling strands of sequins brushed and bounced against his arm and chest as she planted her feet. She stood—too close to ignore her scent, her warmth, the energy coming off her in waves. His gaze traveled up slowly, lingering on the swell of her hip. With a toss of her head and a sweep of her silky hair across his arm, she belted out the last of the song.
“Because I’m a warrior. Warrior…” Her voice was pure—a stark contrast to the sparkling temptation of a getup she was wearing. “And I fight for you.” Five words, five beats, and another shower of sparks poured down over them and the lights went out.
It was over. He’d go his way. She’d go hers. Considering how easily she got under his skin, it couldn’t happen soon enough.
The director yelled, “Cut.” But the lights didn’t come up. “Can we get the lights?” The director, Brock didn’t know who he was, sighed loud and exasperated. “Lights?”
It was too dark to see much, so the press of Emmy’s hand against his thigh was unexpected. Even more so was the way she swayed into him, more propped up against him than anything. “Sorry…” she whispered, her voice high and thin. “Need to get…my boot…off.” She fell more heavily against him.
“Your ankle?” He steadied her, torn between sympathy and irritation.
