Page 8 of Blitzing Emily

Emily rolled her eyes. The movement must have hurt because she flinched.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see them. They’re going to freak out. I’d rather avoid it.” She fiddled with her phone again, and listened for a few minutes. “Mom, it’s Emily. I spent the afternoon at Evergreen, and I need your help. Love you. Bye.”

“Let me guess. They’re not home, either.” Brandon turned onto Alder Crest Road, and Emily pointed to the townhouse on the corner.

“That’s mine.”

He pulled into the driveway, shut off the ignition, and turned to her expectantly. “So, invite me in.”

“Look,” Emily dropped the phone back into her purse. “I really appreciate your taking me to the hospital, staying with me, and driving me home, but I was wondering if I could ask you for one more favor.”

He got out of the car, crossed to the passenger door, and opened it. “Let’s have this conversation inside.”

AFTER A SHORTtutorial on which key fit in the front lock, Brandon followed Emily into her house. She promptly tripped on the luggage left in the entryway. He reached out, caught her around the waist, and set her back on her feet.

“Your roommate should clean up more often.”

Emily wriggled out of his grasp and bent down to unzip her boots. She clutched her head. “No roommate,” she said.

“Maybe you should sit down before trying that.”

She limped across the living room to a pair of leather couches. “I just got home from San Jose. I’ll drag them upstairs to unpack at some point.”

“That’s the least of your problems right now.”

“I have to be onstage at McCaw Hall at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” Emily told him. “I don’t have time for this.” She dropped both boots on the carpeting and leaned back against the couch. She pushed a curtain of strawberry-blonde curls out of her eyes with one hand. “Please sit down.”

“You might want to reschedule,” he told her.

“I have to go. I have rehearsals. I’m performing inThe Marriage of Figaroin two weeks,” Emily said. “It’s an opera.”

“You’re anopera singer?” Brandon realized his mouth was hanging open. He blurted his question out in the same tone of voice he might have used to say, “You’re aconvicted felon?” or “You wereraised by wolves?”

“The technical term is ‘diva.’”

He was having a rough time wrapping his brain around this. “But you’re not fat. Opera singers are ... larger. They wear headgear with horns sticking out on either side.”

“That’s only forThe Ring,” Emily said.

“I saw that movie. That little girl’s eyes ... She freaked me out,” he muttered.

“Most opera singers now are normal weight,” she continued. “I have to have the physical strength to lift my voice past a sixty-person orchestra without a microphone, though, so I work out, and I practice every day.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

Emily propped two stockinged feet on a wood-and-glass coffee table. “Most of my life. I started ballet at three. I entered a training program with a former diva in my teens. After that, I went to a conservatory. I’ve been performing with opera companies in the US and Europe ever since.”

“This isn’t like finding a job on Craigslist. You have someone representing you, like an agent.”

His interest surprised Emily. Usually, guys outside of her little world ran away when they heard the word “opera.”

“Yes. It depends on what operas the company is presenting each year, that kind of thing.”

“Do you listen to other types of music?”

“Sometimes.” She gestured toward the iPod stereo system on a nearby table. “You can take a look at what’s on my playlists if you’d like. Have you heard an opera before?”Opera?He considered himself a pretty open-minded guy, but he drew the line at that kind of thing. “Oh, all the time.”

She closed her eyes, but he saw her lips curve into a smile. “You might like it,” she teased. “It’s a play, set to music.”

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