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I have not a single clue what she just said, other than her name, but this much cuteness from one woman should not be legal. I find myself laughing out loud this time until I realize she’s not laughing with me.
“Oh shit. You’re serious.”
She just nods, gives me a thumbs-up, then turns her back on me, and starts vomiting in my juniper shrubs.
Growing up with a sister four years older than me, I spent plenty of nights during her crazy teenage years holding her long hair back while she yacked in my bathroom instead of hers, which was closer to our parents’ room. I was all about doing her a solid so they wouldn’t hear her and she wouldn’t be grounded for life. She drove me and my friends everywhere before we had our licenses, and she bought all our alcohol for us before we turned twenty-one. I wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardize that.
Quickly moving into action, I lean across Emily’s bent-over body while she rests her hands on her knees. Reaching down and pulling her hair back from either side of her face, I secure it in one fist as I gently pat her heaving back with my free hand, while she purges all the demons.
“That’s it. Get it all out….”
This is absolutely a first. Women usually throw themselves at my feet, not puke near them. And I’m definitely not used to a woman who doesn’t freak out that Quinn Bagley is talking to her, let alone allowing him to hold her hair back when she throws up.
Damn… her hair is really silky and soft.
Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you? She insulted you. Now she’s killing your favorite bush, and you’re thinking about petting her. Snap out of it!
“Well, this is shaping up to be a great evening,” Emily groans a few minutes later when her stomach is finally empty. She stands back up and turns around, slipping the red, shiny strands of her hair out of my hand as she goes, until it falls all around her shoulders again. “Thanks so much for making sure I didn’t vomit in my hair. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll just… leave the country… change my name. I heard Japan has eleven cat islands, where you can just go and be one with hundreds of cats, living off the grid forever. That sounds nice.”
My laugh is so loud as she starts to walk away from me that I scare some birds that go flying out of a small tree a few feet away. Before I can tell myself, No, bad Quinn, I’m reaching out and grabbing her hand, giving it a little tug to turn her back toward me and keep her here.
What the hell am I doing? I don’t have time for this shit. When this season is over, I’m an unrestricted, free agent for the first time in my career, and I’m supposed to be making a decision about my future. Not wasting time with a woman here in California, when the decision I’m leaning toward will take me halfway across the country.
“My life is spent around a bunch of professional football players. Believe me, I’ve seen worse,” I reassure her, giving her hand a squeeze and not listening to one good, goddamn thing my brain is telling me. “I’ve done worse, actually. The last time we won the Super Bowl, I drank too much champagne and threw up on the Lombardi Trophy.”
“I know.” She laughs softly, her smile lighting up her entire face and making my chest feel tight for some stupid reason. “I was there… for… when the video was all over the internet.”
She stumbles over her words a little, and I wonder for a minute if maybe she didn’t manage to get all those demons out and into my bushes.
“See? Every stupid mistake I make is caught on camera for the whole world to see. I’m the only one who saw you do that completely awful, mortifying, oh my God you can never show your face in public again, thing. You’re fine; I won’t tell anyone,” I tease her, really hoping this woman is cool with joking, before I pull my head out of my ass and walk away, like I should have done five minutes ago.
“Would you look at that? A football player and a comedian. I want my cover charge back. Your show sucks.” Emily gives me a little smirk, letting me know she’s a good sport and making me wonder where the hell she’s been all my life.
Aside from my sister and my mom, women never give me shit right back. They just fawn all over me, thinking if they constantly stroke my ego, I’ll sleep with them and buy them expensive things.
No! Bad Quinn! It doesn’t matter if she makes you feel happy, and lighthearted, and normal for the first time in months. Scratch that—years. Walk away!
