“Of course.” She nodded. “You said you liked them.”
“I do.” He stood up and hugged her. “Thank you.” Her hug had the instant grounding effect he needed. This morning, Emmy… Well, he was a fan of routines. The more predictable the better. You could set a clock by Aunt Mo. Predictable. And reliable. “Thank you.” Not just for the food.
She wasn’t the most affectionate person, but she gave him a quick, hard squeeze back before patting him and telling him, “Sit and eat now.”
He took his time loading up his plate, waiting for her to make hers before picking up his fork. He scooped up some roasted sweet potatoes. “I almost ran over Emmy Lou King in the parking lot today.”
Aunt Mo’s eyes went round and she set her fork down. “What now?”
He swallowed and took a sip of tea. “She was there today. At the stadium. I was heading here.”
“Brock.” She placed her hand on his. “Land sakes, boy. What happened?” Her well-lined face creased with concern.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I slammed on the brakes and stopped close enough for her to put her hands on the hood of the truck. I…I didn’t see who it was.”
Aunt Mo pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh my. Goodness.”
“I got out and…it was Emmy.” He cleared his throat, cut a large piece off the grilled chicken breast on his plate, and started chewing. It gave him time to get the lump out of his throat and the image of Emmy, wide-eyed and startled, out of his head.
“What did you do? She must have been in shock. Of course she was. What did you say?” Aunt Mo was watching him. “After you were done apologizing, I mean.”
Had he apologized? Had he said a thing? Once he’d known it was her, he’d sort of blanked out. A damn fool, standing in the rain, staring at her like he’d just suffered a blow to the head.
“Brock?” Aunt Mo patted the back of his hand, the crease between her brows deepening.
“I’m not sure,” he confessed. “We both stood there, getting soaked, and then she ran off.” He shrugged, wondering why he’d decided to share this with Mo. The whole damn thing had a dreamlike quality to it. But it was no dream. If it was, he wouldn’t have her bright-pink-and-white polka-dot umbrella on his passenger seat.
“No wonder you’re so out of sorts.” Aunt Mo heaped more green bean casserole on his plate. “I can always tell when something’s gnawing on your insides.”
“You can?”
Her brows shot up. “Yes, I can.”
“Better share, Aunt Mo. Don’t want to be giving anything away to an opposing team.”
With a nod of her head, she said, “You don’t do it on the field. You couldn’t—not and still catch the ball.” She shook her head, cutting her chicken into tiny bites. “It’s getting cold.” She pointed at his plate with her fork.
Now he was curious. And she knew it. “Aunt Mo?” There was no hiding the exasperation in his voice.
She chuckled. “This.” She held her hand up, rubbing the pad of her thumb back and forth along the tip of each finger. “You do that, over and over, when something is weighing on you.”
He stared at his hands. Did he? If so, he never realized it.
“Only your left hand,” she added. “Now eat. I figured you’d be seeing her now that she’s signed on with the AFL. Time that little songbird had some good news. Especially with everything her family has been through the last year, poor little dear.”
Aunt Mo had a huge soft spot for Emmy Lou. And since she was an avid reader of tabloid and entertainment magazines, she stayed on top of the King family drama. He’d tried to explain that most of what was said or written was probably twisted or straight-out fiction, but Mo tended to hold on to things that she determined were truthful.
Unfortunately, a lot of what happened the last year had been real. And horrible. A few years ago, he would have been there to support the Kings. He’d been pissed as hell when the media tried to dismiss Krystal King’s sexual abuse allegations against a music industry legend as an attention-seeking ploy or out-and-out lie. The truth came out, of course. And other women came forward with similar claims, ensuring this asshole, Tig Whitman, would face real legal consequences for what he’d done. It was something—but not enough to heal the wounds he’d caused these women. Even Brock knew that.
“Emmy always was a football fan.” Aunt Mo glanced his way. “Once you’d explained it to her.”
He didn’t want to think about that. But if Aunt Mo was right… No. Probably just some gossip magazine headline. “I thought that was just a rumor.” He’d hoped like hell it was a rumor.
“What now?” Aunt Mo asked, a fork full of salad paused halfway to her mouth.
“Emmy Lou. Signing on to sing the AFL theme.”
“It was.” She nodded. “Until yesterday. There was a nice blurb on the news, showed her shaking hands with the leag