The Warrior Groom_Texas Titans Romances

by Lucy McConnell

  “Tell us, London, what do you have planned for the lucky lady who wins a date with you tonight?” Maia tipped the mic his direction.

  London panicked. No one told him he was supposed to come up with a plan tonight! He thought he had a couple days to put that together.

  Maia quirked an eyebrow. He had nothing and she knew it. And she wasn’t going to let him off the hook.

  It took two to play a game. Maybe it was the challenge in the arch of her eyebrow or a host of unfinished business that spurred him to take up the gauntlet.

  He brought out his best smolder, the one the photographer for Football Today had taught him, the same one that won him most handsome football player two years in a row—yeah, that one. He leaned closer to Maia, making it look to the crowd like he was leaning into the mic when all he wanted was to put his hand on her side. His fingers brushed the fabric and a small gasp escaped her perfect lips, triggering too many tender memories to fight.

  The smart-aleck response he’d prepared died and he said, “My perfect date doesn’t have to cost a lot of money. A gazebo, a night full of stars, and soft music is enough if it’s with the right woman.”

  Under the chorus of oohs and aahs, Maia whispered, “You remember?” She searched his face, her eyes glistening. The tenderness in her gaze told him so much more than the distance she’d tried to put between them all those years ago.

  “I remember everything,” he replied just as low.

  Emotions flipped over Maia’s face as if they were on cue cards and she could speed-read. The last one must have read ice, because she closed off her heart. He swore there was a cracking sound.

  “What did I tell you, ladies? He’s a gem.” She stepped away from him. “Let’s start the bidding.”

  Chapter Three

  “Thanks for supporting our vets tonight with your donations. Have a wonderful night!” Maia waved goodbye and stepped backwards until she was through the curtain opening. She held her smile in place until they dropped shut, and the audience disappeared from view.

  Gathering yards of fabric, she hiked her dress up enough to give her thighs room to move more than three inches. The gown was exquisite—when she’d put it on, it was like wearing a second skin. However, she’d had to walk like a Barbie doll all evening, and getting out of the building and away from London was her top priority.

  I remember everything.

  Good-luck kisses. Healing kisses. Kisses full of true love.

  Everything.

  “Maia.” Her assistant, April, speed walked by her side. Her ever-present tablet was tucked under her left arm, and her hair had been pulled back in a severe bun that made her cheekbones and puffy lips stand out like a supermodel’s. “There’s a car waiting for you out back—you don’t need to rush.”

  “Yes, I do.” Maia made it to the small dressing room. “I’m changing.” She shut the door in April’s shocked face and leaned against it to breathe. Just breathe. Nice clean air that didn’t smell like London’s signature cologne: Juniper & Clover. She smacked her palm against the door. Darn that London. Even his cologne wasn’t what she wanted it to be. She wanted him to stink so it would be that much easier to say she’d made the right decision when she left Dallas—and him—nine years ago.

  “Maia?” April’s concerned voice easily penetrated the plywood door. The dressing room was for visual privacy only.

  “I’m fine.” With an ease that came from thousands of costume changes, Maia slipped out of the borrowed dress and shoes and into heavily pleated black pants with a tall waistband and a tight sweater. Her mind drifted to another lifetime, and her hands worked while her eyesight blurred with the sands of time. She hung the dress on the hanger and wrestled it into the garment bag. Then, she laid the shoes back in their box.

  “Is she in there?” The door rattled.

  Maia froze, afraid to make a sound and give away her position. Even if she hadn’t followed London from Perdue to the Wranglers and finally to the Titans—listening to the few interviews he’d given along the way—she’d know it was him by the way every part of her responded to the deep timbre of his voice.

  “Sir!” April said sharply. “You can’t go in; she’s changing.”

  Maia smiled at the image of her five-foot-two assistant glaring down all six feet four of London.

  “Yeah, she does that,” came London’s reply.

  Maia glared at the door. I changed? Me?! She wrenched open the wooden door, feeling it shake on its hinges. “I’m not the one who closed himself off.”

  London ran his open palm down his face. He did that when he was sorry, but it always looked to her like he was checking for pain. “It slipped out. I didn’t mean to—”

  Maia held up her hand. “Don’t—just—” She drew in a fortifying breath. “Let’s not do this tonight.”

  April looked back and forth between them. “I’m going to … go over there.” She pointed to the right and took off.

  They stood there for a moment—taking each other in. London had grown. He’d always been big and strong—she’d loved that, loved how protected she felt having him close. He’d gotten bigger, wider, harder. His cheeks hollowed out, giving full definition to his jaw and high cheekbones. His carefully groomed facial hair was a work of art. Even with all of that going for him, it was London’s eyes—the key to his soul—that called to her most.

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “So, how’ve you been?”

  Maia weighed her answer much more carefully than she probably needed to. She wanted to make sure she was addressing the right question. If he was asking how she’d been since them, then the answer was not so great, lonely, like half of a whole. “Fine. Things are good.”

  “I saw the poster for your movie. That’s a big deal.”

  She nodded. “A long deal. I’m under contract for promotional appearances for the next five years.”

  He whistled through his teeth. “I’d kill for a five-year contract.”

  She chuckled. “I thought you landed one, Mr. Hardest Hitter in the NFL.”

  He kicked his foot and ducked his head. “You saw that?”

  Maia berated herself for saying too much. London could always loosen her tongue—even when she didn’t want to talk to him. Her resentment of his superpowers channeled into her tone. “The whole country saw it.”

  He shrugged. The move so relaxed, so humble, so him. He’d never been one to seek the spotlight—her complete opposite. Her grounding rod. “Yeah, well, football’s just a game, right?” His eyebrows transformed from straight lines to wavy ones. He even had more muscles in his eyebrows than the average man.

  She huffed. He did remember everything. “Right.” She laced her fingers together in front of her. “You’ve done well, London. I’ll bet your dad’s bursting at the seams with pride.”

  “Dad’s the same as always.”

  “He still pushes you?” London’s dad had been to every game. He filmed every play. He ran extra practices with London every Saturday. They spent hours talking football. And he’d hated Maia—thought she was latching herself on to London’s star, trying to hitch a ride on his rise to fame and fortune.

  London laughed mirthlessly. “No. Dad doesn’t push me anymore.”

  Maia wasn’t sure what to do with the unexpected verbal acid London spewed. “O-kay.”

  April waved, giving her an out if she wanted it.

  She wanted it. Leaving now would save her from saying words that were better left to daydreams and fairy tales. Maia unclasped her hands. “It was nice seeing you again, but I have to go.”

  London nodded and stepped back, giving her enough room to pass without making physical contact. “It’s been nice to see you, too. I wish—I wish you all the best, really. You deserve every good thing.”

  Maia searched his gaze, falling right into his heart, where every emotion was as easy to read as a teleprompter: sincerity, regret, hope, honesty, and—as always—something she couldn’t pin down. That last one was the reason
she’d said goodbye the first time, and it was the reason she didn’t want to say goodbye this time. Whatever haunted London Wilder was beyond her reach.

  “Thank you, London. You too.” Her hand itched to reach up and brush along his jaw—for old time’s sake. She held back, barely. Tearing herself away caused her body to shriek in protest. Her heart pounded against her ribs, crying, “Listen to me!” Her skin burned with the need to make contact.

  April held up her jacket. “You okay?”

  “Nope. But I will be.” She’d gotten through the separation withdrawals once before; she could do it again. “How soon can we leave Texas?”

  “Six hours.”

  The best medicine was distance. “Let’s do it.”

  She looked forward to returning to her beach house, where nothing would remind her of London and how wonderful and easy it would be to fall into his arms.

  Chapter Four

  London hefted two forty-pound bags of black mulch over his right shoulder and headed toward Mrs. Brown’s truck. The little red Nissan was a familiar sight in the parking lot of his mother’s flower shop during the spring. The truck bed bounced, and the struts whined in protest of the added weight.

  “Any chance you could follow me home and help me unload, too?” Coming from anyone else, that questions would have been suggestive and flirty. However, Mrs. Brown was two and a half times his age, and the only suggestion she’d tossed his way was a sample of her applesauce chocolate chip cookies.

  He swiped theatrically at his brow. “Wish I could, but the boss is a slave driver.”

  “You’re a sweet kid.” She patted his tummy, because that was the highest point she could reach. He had no doubt she’d pinch his cheeks if she could reach them.

  “I’ll come by sometime soon and check your roses for mold, though.”

  “I’d appreciate that. My peepers ain’t what they used to be.” She tapped her temple and climbed into the truck.

  He hoped her peepers were good enough to drive. She managed to make it into traffic without a mishap, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He ducked under the wooden archway and into the nursery proper. The “shop” was one giant tent equipped with fans and a cooling system. They weren’t trying to chill the place so much as they wanted to dampen the hottest month’s enthusiasm. Indoor plants were displayed here, as were pots of different shapes and sizes, herbs, garden gnomes, pink flamingos, a cooler for cut-flower orders, and a small gifts section.

  He’d built the register counter out of shipping pallets, adapting a schematic he found online. It was high enough for a three-drawer filing cabinet underneath and short enough that his mom didn’t have to stand on her tiptoes to give change. There were two customers in line, but neither looked like they’d need help loading, so he headed out to “the yard” to spend some time with something green.

  Low tables covered with flowers dotted the fenced area, creating a checkerboard effect. Chalkboard signs indicating perennials, annuals, shrubs, and trees hung off decorative hooks. Customers browsed, sometimes reaching out to rub a leaf or cup a blossom. Rarely did anyone run through here. He didn’t know why, couldn’t explain the way his thoughts came to order out here as if they were in neat little containers or labeled with chalk signs.

  Lately, he only needed one container, and it was clearly labeled: Maia.

  He unrolled a coiled hose and began watering the cannas. In the bright pink color, he could see the swirl of Maia’s dress. She’d grown up since their last talk. The parts of her that had been skinny were now elegant and graceful. She didn’t let that dress make her beautiful; she made the dress into so much more than silk and thread.

  A small hand patted his shoulder blade and his mom came around to smile up at him. “You’re going to drown my cannas.”

  He immediately jerked the hose over a new plant. “Sorry.”

  She pressed her lips together, weighing her words. “You’ve been in your own world for a week now.” She scratched out her words. “Your father didn’t try to contact you again, did he?”

  London hated when she used the words “your father.” He understood why she didn’t want to say his name—his name was associated with too many painful memories for her. But he didn’t like having that man labeled “father.”

  He shook his head. Even if Reed had tried to contact London, there were measures in place to keep him from getting through.

  “So what’s on your mind?” Mom took the hose from him, changing the attachment to the rain setting, and moved it from plant to plant.

  London fingered a rubbery leaf. “I ran into Maia the other night.”

  “Oh?” Mom turned partway to look at him and then went back to her chore.

  “I can’t stop thinking about how things ended.” He paused. “Actually, I can’t stop thinking about how things started either.”

  “Beginnings are always more fun than endings.”

  “More flower pot wisdom?” he teased. Ever since she’d opened the nursery, The Flower Pot, Mom was a veritable fountain of advice on anything that grew: plants, grass, children, love. It was like she’d been in a seed all those years she was married to Sam and when she finally found a safe place to plant herself, her personality burst out like the petals on a peony. London was still getting used to this woman. He loved her, but he didn’t know her growing up.

  Mom threatened him with the water, and he backed away quickly. She wasn’t really trying to soak him, just keeping the conversation light. He appreciated her efforts. “The beginning of a relationship is like planting a seed. There’s so much hope for that seed that any progress, no matter how small, is celebrated. Once the plant is full-grown, the fact that it blossoms is often taken for granted.”

  “Hey, Mom. Why was Yoda such a good gardener?”

  She poked him in the side. “Because he had a green thumb.”

  “Yes.” He dropped his arm over her shoulder and chuckled.

  “You should talk to her. You two planted a seed and never saw it grow.”

  “I can’t call her. She’s super famous.”

  Mom laughed. “You’re super famous. Have your people call her people and you can do lunch—isn’t that how it’s done?”

  “I have no idea,” he mused. He’d dated several recognizable women before, but none of them on Maia’s level of fame. She probably lived in a gated community with an armed guard at the front door and shaded windows to keep the paparazzi from looking in. “Anyway, I have the charity date tonight. I should focus on that.”

  “Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “Anna Cardoniva.”

  “Pretty name.”

  “Pretty lady.” She was a five-foot-seven blonde with eyelashes as thick as caterpillars. Normally, he’d be looking forward to showing her the town. He needed to get his head on straight. He kissed his mom on the top of the head. “Mind if I take off? I want to get a haircut.”

  “Go. I don’t need you drowning my plants. Maybe this lady will take your mind off of Maia.”

  “Maybe.” He pulled the green apron over his head and folded it up as he walked out back where his truck was parked. He climbed in, letting the heat soak into his muscles. Off-season workouts would start soon. He felt excellent. Strong. No player ever left a season feeling a hundred percent. They all had weak knees, sore ankles, tired shoulders, or muscle strain. He appreciated the time to let his body heal, but not being busy was messing with his head.

  He stared down at the console and a memory clouded his vision. A happy memory, a planting memory. He was hiding behind the stage, way in the back where the old props were stored. The place was an accident waiting to happen with giant Easter Island heads toppling into Main Street River City building fronts. It was the perfect place to hide …

  London leaned his head against the cold pipe, not even caring that no one had cleaned it for a decade. The dust and dirt rubbed into his forehead like sand stuck under his helmet.

  The door creaked open and someone entered. It had to
be a girl. No guy had such a light step. He peeked around the rack of circus costumes and watched Maia turn in a slow circle. She blew her bangs off her forehead and planted her hands on her hips.

  He hadn’t spoken to her since the homecoming game. Not that he hadn’t noticed her in the hallway. Every day between fifth and sixth period, they crossed paths. She was surrounded by thespians and tailed by that guy who always had a ukulele. And London traveled with a pack of linemen. But their gazes would cross all of that and still connect for five whole seconds. He knew because he’d counted them one day—wondering if time slowed down, because that’s what it felt like when Maia looked at him, like he had all the time in the world to stare into her deep brown eyes.

  He could use some of that time right now. Without thinking through the consequences, he stepped out of the shadows and whispered her name.

  She screamed.

  He put both hands in front of him. “It’s me. Relax.”

  “What are you doing in here?” She pressed her hands against her chest. A vein right above her collarbone pulsed quickly.

  He turned his face away, hiding his right eye in the shadows. “Hanging out.”

  “More like hiding out.”

  “Maybe.” He lifted a shoulder.

  She moved her hands to her belly as if that’s where her courage came from and she was gathering it to talk to him. “Why?”

  He closed his eyes for a minute. He was tired. So tired of hiding in plain sight. Just once, he wanted someone to see the truth. He couldn’t bring that to light—but this wasn’t that, and he refused to lie to Maia. The look in her eyes, when he’d dropped that kiss on her out of the clear blue sky, was a look he’d never seen before. It filled him up, inspired him to do better, be better, and still gave room for him to fall on his face.

  He turned so she could have a better view of his shiner.

  She gasped. “What happened?” In seconds she’d found a chair and brought it over for him, motioning for him to sit.

  He did. “I was coming back from lunch and a couple guys from Skyview jumped me.”