Black Tie Optional (Wild Wedding Series Book 1)

by Ann Marie Walker

  SAVE THE DATE

  Wild Wedding Book Three

  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 Dixon 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 be
coming 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.