The Forbidden Groom_Texas Titan Romances

by Sarah Gay

  He followed her to the kitchen. “What can I do to help?”

  “Peel the onions.” She handed him four onions.

  “Yeah, you might want to forget about Cole,” he laughed out. “With all these onions, no one is going to come near either of us.”

  Maggie shook her head with amusement. “Don’t knock it. I’m French, remember?” Her mood had definitely improved. “And all the better. There’s no one I’d rather spend the morning with than you.” She bumped his side with her hip.

  “We’re making French onion soup?” Pineapple questioned with disappointment.

  “Why the long face?”

  “I was hoping you’d make me Mexican food one of these day.”

  “Oh, that.” She waved a hand dismissively in the air. “You know I can’t cook Mexican food. I ate it as a kid, but never learned how to cook it. I experienced a little bit of the Mexican culture growing up, but my parents were adamant that I lead a more…” she looked to the ceiling for the right word. “Promising life than they did as migrant workers. I guess they didn’t want me working in the vineyards forever. They understood what it felt like to be put down and discriminated against and didn’t want me to experience the same thing, so they sent me to the schools with more affluent kids. I did my best to fit in. My fair complexion and blue eyes must have helped with that, but I always felt different. Like I didn’t quite fit the mold.”

  “Where did your crystal blue eyes come from?”

  “Even though my dad is partially Mexican, most of his ancestors came from France. We’re still not sure where my dad and brothers got their height, they’re both over six feet, but I’m guessing that’s where I got my blue eyes.” She arranged the beef bones, carrots, beef scraps, and onion slices into the roasting dish for the beef broth. “I think.” She shrugged as she drizzled olive oil over the broth ingredients. “According to my dad, that’s what his grandmother told my him. My dad’s stories are engaging. Unfortunately, you never know exactly how much of his stories are fact versus fiction. He tends to embellish. His stories could be ninety percent fiction and ten percent truth—or ninety percent truth and ten percent fiction. But I want to know my heritage for sure, so I did that…” She waved a carrot in the air. “DNA swab.”

  “Isn’t Cinco de Mayo a celebration of when Mexico kicked the oppressive French out of their country?”

  She raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Mexico won the battle against Napoleon and the French scurried off with their tails between their legs.” She tipped an imaginary hat to Pineapple. “You know your stuff. I guess my great-great-great-grandparents decided to stay in Mexico rather than head back to France with Napoleon. I chose French culinary classes to learn more about my French heritage, or at least experience their culinary delights.” She licked her lips. “And I must say, the French sure know how to indulge in the most glorious way.”

  “When do you get those DNA results back?”

  Maggie placed the roasting pan into the heated oven and grabbed her phone from her pocket. “Today,” she trilled with excitement.

  As she opened her email app, she did a little nervous patter of her feet as if she were a little girl who needed to use the restroom. Her inbox contained three new messages, but her eyes only focused on the one with the subject line, Ethnicity estimate and DNA matches. She placed her phone on the counter, face up, and took in a deep breath.

  She rubbed her palms together feverishly. “Here goes nothin’.” She tapped her screen to open the email. Her eyes flew through the percentages but narrowed when her brain caught up with her sight. She crossed her arms with a grunt. “What?” her voice squeaked.

  2

  Cole let out a woot as his four-wheeler hit a jump and caught some serious air. He didn’t normally ride this fast along the narrow dirt road between Tri-21 Ranch and the country store, but it was his twenty-eighth birthday and he would celebrate it in the good, old-fashioned style—with a boatload of adrenaline.

  During off-season, when there wasn’t a quarterback to sack on the field, he had to get his adrenaline rush in other ways. Racing down a desolate road seemed a relatively safe alternative. At least he would only injure himself if he bailed, but he never drove that crazy, or in areas where no one would find him.

  His ATV rides also provided him with solitude. He enjoyed his quiet time on the ranch to think and reboot his brain after the previous year’s stressful football season. His head was in the game 24/7 when football season revved up in the fall.

  Spring training would slowly roll out over the next few weeks, but spring training was nothing compared to fall workouts where the team would be sequestered in dorms and put through intense drills, plays, and mental preparation. Cole gave everything to the Texas Titans, but he couldn’t complain. His income matched his dedication, but he needed that money to accomplish his charitable goals.

  His philanthropic endeavors kept him focused on what was real. That and his mother. He could hear her voice. Don’t let all that money, or those sexy dressed women clawing each other’s eyes out to catch you, go to your head. No one he brought home ever seemed good enough for his mom, but, contrary to popular belief, he didn’t date all that much.

  The general population thought him to be a determined bachelor. It gave him a mystique that his agent and PR firm capitalized on. It didn’t really bother him either way what people thought, and until he found a hot, spirited girl to hang with, he would appease everyone and acknowledge his preference to remain single.

  In reality, he couldn’t wait to find a girl to settle down with, but there wasn’t much settling down as a pro-football player. He considered himself lucky. His married teammates were away from their families for weeks at a time, traveling from state to state. Even when the team was in town, they were almost always training in some fashion. Being a football pro didn’t leave much time for family life when football season rolled around.

  Cole shook his head with a sigh. He felt bad for his married teammates; the temptation to cheat was unyielding and ruthless for NFL players. His mother hadn’t been far off in her assessment that lots of girls would claw at each other for a chance at an NFL football player. Unfortunately, many of his teammates couldn’t withstand the temptation. That wouldn’t be him. When he dedicated himself to something, like his dream of being in the NFL, nothing stopped him—and he was determined to love harder than he played on that field. Someday he would find the woman he couldn’t live without, and when he did, he’d do everything in his power to keep her.

  His cell phone interrupted his internal thoughts. He pulled off the side of the road into a wildflower patch to answer the incessant ringing.

  Cole grunted when he saw the number. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Have you cut your hair yet, son?”

  That didn’t seem like much of a question—or a birthday salutation. “No. I thought it might help me look more intimidating on the field.” That was a lie, but every time his father pushed him, he pushed back. He couldn’t blame his father for hating his unkempt appearance. He did look like Sasquatch with his long hair and the scruffy beard he’d been growing out since off-season began. His wild locks and wooly beard had been a disguise to keep the press and gawkers at bay, and it proved effective. This past off-season he had only been hassled a few times.

  “Son, I need to know if we can plan on you for Mother’s Day.” His father’s deep voice paused. “We’re having a surprise party for your mother at Pineapple’s and you need to be there.”

  “Sorry to disappoint again, but I’m being auctioned off next weekend to the highest bidder. The arrangements have already been made by my PR firm and the press to have the date at the ranch the following day, on the eve of Mother’s Day.”

  “What?” his father almost shouted. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “I know. It’s for work and to help Vets. Sorry to do this to Mom, but I’ll send her some nice flowers and give her a FaceTime call when you’re all at brunch.”

  He env
isioned his father’s red face on the other side of the line. Cole had always been a disappointment to his father—this was no different. Unfortunately, he’d become accustomed to the degradation and now just avoided home altogether. He would like to be there for his mom for Mother’s Day, but the auction was mandatory and it would raise money for Veteran Affairs. His mother understood, even if his father didn’t. Cole released a succession of sneezes. “Dad, I need to call you back.”

  “Typical.” Click.

  Cole’s jaw tightened as he allowed his shortcomings and resentment to sink deep into his gut. He shook the menacing phone in his hand, wound back his arm, and hurled it through the air. It whistled before landing amongst the hairy stems of Indian blanket. He blinked his itchy eyes as his nose dripped with irritation.

  He slumped back into his seat and rubbed his palm deep into his cheek with a laugh. “That was stupid.” He needed to get away from here to escape his allergies, not trounce through the beautiful, sadistic flowers. He jumped from the four-wheeler and stomped toward where he believed his phone had landed, only to be forced to stop suddenly another sneezing attack when the Indian blanket lambasted him with pollen.

  The flower resembled a Fourth of July pinwheel with its burnt red center and yellow tipped petals, giving off an all-American feel. Texas really was a patriotic place. Texas could, however, take a lesson or two from Wyoming, his home state, on how to throw a Fourth of July firework show—but other than that, you couldn’t get much more patriotic than Texas.

  Cole tapped his watch. Glorious ping. Modern technology had once again saved him from his unruly temper and the menacing flowers.

  3

  Maggie bit at her lower lip as she scooted her mini cart down the fish aisle of the international market. Two weeks after her breakdown at Pineapple’s, she’d managed to make it to the Lone Star state.

  Pineapple had been adamant that she meet his cousin during her three-day work trip to Dallas. She’d told Pineapple to give her time; she was super stressed about the event and needed to pull it off without a hitch before she could think about anything else, especially men.

  The function she’d been hired to cater was a cozy meet and greet for subscribers of a local online dating service and doubled as a benefit for Muscular Dystrophy. She’d thought she’d find most of the ingredients for the event here at the eclectic grocery store which boasted goods and produce from all over the world from China to Africa to South America, but there wasn’t a French section to speak of. She hadn’t been able to locate large enough escargot to work with, or fresh ripe cherries for the clafoutis custard desert.

  She tapped her foot and peered up at the industrial ceiling for answers. The pipes were exposed in a simplistic yet contemporary motif. She always wondered if the designers cackled at how much money they saved while still charging their clients top dollar when they asked for the more modern design.

  After checking the clock on her phone, she shook out her hands to stay her nerves. Her time was short. Preparing French food required time and lots of it. Good thing she’d spent the entire day before her trip baking a hundred of her signature macarons. It wasn’t exactly her signature recipe. Elise, the French baker in Midway, had taught Maggie how to make an authentic French macaron, then Maggie developed her own sui generis flavors. Although she didn’t drink, Maggie considered it fate her macarons paired well with Veuve du Vernay Brut Rose wine since the vineyard where she worked most of her life was named Vernay Vineyard. The vineyard sold its grapes to the highest bidder, then the bidder did with them as they pleased, so Maggie didn’t actually know if the buyers ever made Veuve du Vernay Brut Rose wine with the grapes.

  And so it goes with an item up for bid; the seller has little control of what a buyer does with their goods once they’re sold.

  We are no better than our worst thoughts, settled on her mind. It was one of her mother’s favorite sayings when Maggie acted peevish and ungrateful.

  Maggie retrieved the artisan lemongrass bar soap out of her cart and brought it to her nose. Sniffing soap in the fish aisle of grocery store in downtown Dallas was not exactly a day at the spa, but it could assist with transitioning her perspective to a more positive one. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. So what if I’m not French—like I thought my entire life? That doesn’t mean I can’t cook an amazing French meal and land my dream job.

  It had shaken her when she’d read the DNA results two weeks back—not one percent. Not one speck of French blood. This past year she’d been crafting delightful French cuisine, all the while thinking she was discovering a piece of herself that had never been explored, to find that—nope—no French blood. She was forty-five percent Native American; no big secret there since her maternal grandmother spoke a native language and wore her hair in braids when her grandfather first met her. Her grandfather, the one they thought was French, turned out to be Greek and Italian. Or maybe just Greek or Italian and the other grandparents were a mixture as well. What a letdown.

  We are no better than our worst thoughts. Think positive. A zesty Greek salad was a fave of hers, as well as a fresh caprese salad. Perhaps she could now specialize in Greek and Italian food?

  But not today. Silver, her boss for the weekend, was expecting Maggie to prepare a compilation of rich French appetizers and deserts to spark romance in the hearts of subscribers of the local online dating service, Dallas Dating.

  “Yes!” Maggie shouted when she caught sight of enormous scallops on the other side of the frosted glass. “Can I have five pounds of those, please?” she petitioned the attendant who scowled at Maggie’s outburst. Maggie didn’t mind the crusty look; her luck was turning up. She could still make Coquilles St. Jacques as planned with scallops smothered in cream, butter, and wine sauce, then sprinkled with savory mushrooms and shallots and topped off with freshly grated Gruyere cheese that would turn a golden brown when broiled to absolute perfection.

  Maggie’s mouth moistened. She should have eaten at some point today, especially before coming to the market. Would she pass out from hunger right here in the middle of aisle? She was starting to think that a very real possibility as she stumbled to reach for the scallops.

  “Do you have any fresh sushi, or deli sandwiches?” Maggie questioned the attendant.

  The plump middle-aged woman shook her head. “We make fresh sushi in the mornings, but only enough for the lunch crowd.” She held her watch out in front of her as if her sight were failing. “And seeing as how we’re coming up on two o’clock, you’d be lucky to get the last pre-made sandwich from the Italian deli.” She pointed to the Italian section of the store.

  “Thanks,” Maggie said with enthusiasm as she turned and bounced toward the deli counter. She let out a soft squeal of delight when she reached the counter to find one long sandwich resting behind the Mozzarella, Prosciutto, Pesto, and Plum Tomatoes chalk sign.

  A young boy in his late teens smiled brightly at her. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Maggie almost screamed. “I’d like that sandwich, please.”

  “You got it.” He quickly wrapped the sandwich in white paper, scribbled on the wrap, and set it on the counter with a thunk. “Anything else?”

  Maggie shifted a few steps to one side to peruse the selection of olives. “I may want—” A large hand interrupted her peripheral vision as it retrieved her sandwich from off the counter. “Hey!” she exclaimed, turning to a wooly mammoth of a man dressed in baggy shorts and a stained t-shirt. He towered over her like a large white beast, but at least he didn’t smell like the Yeti he resembled. In fact, he smelled delicious enough to eat. Man, she was hungry. She regained her composure and narrowed her eyes at the Sasquatch making an appearance in a Dallas delicatessen.

  “Thanks, Benji!” he said to the boy with a smile.

  The teenage boy’s face grew scarlet as his eyes bounced from the hairy monster to Maggie and back.

  “Benji, is it?” Maggie raised her brows. “You just wrapped that sandwich for
me.” She pointed to herself.

  The hairy giant waved Maggie’s sandwich in the air. “I apologize, but I really need this.” His milk chocolate eyes looked sincere, but what a jerk!

  Maggie glared at Benji when he held up a poster featuring a pro football player on it for the hairy giant to sign. So, this arrogant guy had been a football star. Figured. Jocks did whatever they pleased.

  She crossed her arms and tapped a foot as he turned his back to her and strode away. “I guess that’s what I’d expect from a self-centered, jerk-faced jock,” she called after him.

  He waved the sandwich in the air but didn’t turn around to face her, which infuriated her even more. She clenched her fists. Why was she letting this guy get to her? Hunger. She didn’t do well when she reached near starvation. With a look of disdain, she directed her anger at Benji. When he caught her glare, he threw his arms in the air in defeat.

  “Tell you what I’m gonna do for you.” By Benji’s tone and car-salesman-smirk, you’d think he was offering her a cruise to the Bahamas. He leaned into the counter and lowered his voice. “I’m out of fresh bread, but I’ll make you an Italian salad, on the house.”

  She sighed out her resignation. “Thank you.”

  We are no better than our worst thoughts. Be positive and a positive outcome will follow. She determined to finish the day with a smile on her face to compliment her optimism, and that cheerfulness would start right now.

  “Benji,” she said in a softened voice. “I appreciate how you try to make everyone happy, even when your customers can be demanding and impatient.” She was speaking more of the inconsiderate football player than herself, but recognized she wasn’t entirely free of fault either.

  Benji’s lips tilted up at the corners and his eyes brightened. “Anytime.”

  Cole sprinted through the parking lot of the grocery store with the coveted sandwich in hand. The damp afternoon heat was downright suffocating, but he’d grown accustomed to the climate. What smothered him more than the dense air was the guilt that prickled at his conscience when he thought of how the petite, princess-eyed woman with the messy, muffin-hair bun laid into him. His actions could have come off as somewhat selfish, he admitted, but where did she get off calling him a jerk?