The Guardian Groom: Texas Titans Romance Page 6

  Silence stretched between them as he turned the salmon, becoming tense and twisting tighter and tighter until he thought he would need ram his way out of the walls closing in.

  “Did you know that during WWII a lot of the NFL players went to war, and that the 1943 Philadelphia Eagles and Steelers had to merge into one team?”

  He closed his eyes, thankful she was making an effort, but her voice was like silk on his skin. “What did they call it?”

  “The Steagles.”

  He laughed despite himself. The Steagles? With the laugh, the pressure eased. This was Bree. Bree the librarian. She’d said they couldn’t be a couple, that she was a nerdy girl in high school who loved reading and being in the school library—a place he only went into to update the Wi-Fi password on his phone. “You made that up.”

  She lifted her nose. “I would never.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Fine.” She tugged his phone out of his back pocket without touching him. The act had a familiarity that was like a massage on sore muscles.

  Less than a minute later, she flipped the phone around and revealed a line of football players in green jerseys with tan pants and the old helmets. “Do you believe me now?”

  “How do I know you didn’t put up that picture just to fake me out?”

  Her jaw dropped and indignation burned in her eyes. She’d surprised him once tonight by getting on his bike, and he’d thought she was about to bolt before she squared herself and came in the house. And now this fire in her eyes. If she continued being irresistible, he wouldn’t be able to keep his distance.

  “Your opinion of yourself is much too high, Mr. Mattox.” She applied the full strength of her stingy librarian-ness. “I do have a life outside of you.”

  He winked. “You didn’t seem to mind my opinion of myself when you were holding on to me on the bike.”

  “If I was holding on to you, it was because you drive like a bat outta—”

  “Hello?” called Kyle from the doorway. He hovered there. “Am I interrupting?”

  Owen took a much-needed step back from Bree. “Not at all. This is my friend Bree Phelts.”

  Kyle strode out, and Owen watched Bree as she watched Kyle. This librarian may like a smarter man, one who could code and … and whatever else Kyle did. Bree extended her hand out in front of her.

  Kyle shook her hand, letting go in an appropriate amount of time. “From the polka dance, right?”

  Bree blushed prettily. Kyle perked up.

  Owen clenched the tong handle. The fish cut in half and dropped with a sizzle on the grill. He mentally cursed and rearranged the pieces. He’d have to eat that one and save the good piece for Bree. When he was done setting things in order, he refocused on what Kyle was saying.

  “… and he ended up running through the dorm in his boxers to get away from her.” Kyle leaned back, satisfied as Bree’s laughter pealed through the warm night air.

  Owen scowled openly his direction. “It wasn’t funny,” he insisted. Which only made Kyle and Bree laugh harder.

  “It’s a little funny.” Bree swiped moisture from under her lashes.

  He relented and his scowl dissolved. She had a natural way about her, like she wasn’t out to impress anyone, and that made him feel like he could just be and not need to put on a show.

  “It was nice meeting you.” Kyle shuffled to the French doors. “I hope to see you again.”

  “Me too.” Bree smiled easily.

  Owen worked to find any attraction in her gaze as she gave Kyle a small wave. He couldn’t see any, but he was feeling all sorts of anger surging through his system. Anger that Kyle interrupted his date—friend date. Anger that Bree had laughed so easily with him while Owen was still trying to figure out where the line was between friend and girlfriend.

  Because the way the soft glow from the gas lanterns brushed her cheeks was making it awfully hard to care that a line even existed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bree flattened her palms against Owen’s stomach on the ride home. She liked the feel of his muscles, all bumpy and strong under his shirt. She’d never really been interested in men who worked out all the time, but the benefits were hard to dismiss. Besides, those guys didn’t want a woman like her. They wanted someone who could keep up with them in the gym, not compete with them for the top SAT score.

  Owen’s friendship baffled her. A couple times she’d caught him looking at her like he wanted to kiss her. And by the way her body zinged with excitement and buzzed with anticipation, his kiss would be a kiss to remember.

  They bumped over the half-curb into her driveway and came to a stop. He killed the engine and she hopped off and removed her helmet, not as self-conscious as she had been the first time. After all, he’d seen her with helmet hair and they’d had a friendly evening. She shouldn’t be worried about anything happening between them.

  “You cook a delectable piece of salmon.” She handed him the helmet and he secured it to the seat she’d vacated.

  “Thanks. It was a nice night.”

  “I had fun.”

  “Fun?” He pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair.

  She laughed. “Yes. Fun. Even librarians have fun sometimes.”

  “Good to know.” He glanced up and down the street.

  “I’ll see you soon.” She turned to go.

  He took her hand, halting her progress and twirling her into his chest. He was still on the bike, so they were closer to the same height.

  Her palm pressed against his defined pectorals and her breath caught. She lifted her chin to look into his deep blue eyes. For a friend, he was awfully friendly. “Owen?” She wanted to ask him what this meant and why, when she was close to him, her head swam. But nothing came out of her mouth.

  His eyes searched every centimeter of her face. With a quick move, he kissed her cheek and set her at arm’s length. “Night.” He slammed his helmet back in place, fired up the bike, and took off like she had threatened to spray him with a fire hose.

  If anyone needed a good dosing, it would be her. Her cheek burned with joy. She placed her hand over the skin his lips had touched, wanting to cradle the tender new feeling. “Owen Mattox, what are you doing to me?”

  He didn’t turn the bike around to answer her. She slowly sat on the steps and listened until the sound of his motorcycle faded away and the crickets came out again. The scent of the exhaust hung back, and on the edges of that was the smell of his soap. She sniffed her forearm, noting that her skin had picked up his scent when she’d hugged herself against him on the bike.

  Owen’s signals were mixed at best. She needed help to figure this out. With a jump, she headed inside and straight to her computer, where she Googled everything from “Friendzone” to “How to get a guy to notice me.” When her results yielding nothing concrete, she vowed to turn to the library stacks. Surely there was a book that could help her through this jumbled mess of feelings and hormones. Surely.

  Chapter Twelve

  “He says he wants to be friends?”

  “Yep.” Bree stood in the middle of the living room, wearing a sports bra and boy shorts while Mom pinned fabric sections in place, frowned, and adjusted. The blinds were closed and the lights were turned on.

  Mom was working for an A-line skirt that was long enough to hike in but not so long that it would impede movement. Pleats were a major possibility.

  Bree giggled. “I have a football player for a friend.”

  Mom arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain you’re just friends?”

  “Completely certain.”

  “Tell your giggle that.”

  “Mom! I’m just happy. I’ve never been friends with a jock before.”

  Mom’s forehead puckered. “Is that what you see in him? His athletic-ness?”

  Bree shook her head, her hair flowing over her shoulders. She liked the feel of it down—when she wasn’t at work. At work, her hair got in the way, dropping into craft glue or being grabbed by
a toddler to get her attention. But when she was out and might run into her new friend, she liked having it down. “He’s … nice. He cooked me dinner and—” She almost said he took me for a ride on his motorcycle, but caught herself. As close as she was with her mom, there were some things a woman didn’t need to share. “—he polkas.”

  “I think I’d like to meet this friend.”

  Bree put her hands on her hips. The fabric moved with her. Mom was on to something with this design. However, now was not the time to sidetrack the conversation. “Mom—I’m not twelve.” And Owen had asked some leading questions about her mom, like he didn’t trust her. Even though he couldn’t not trust someone he’d never met. Still … he would resist the meeting. She could feel it.

  “I know.” Mom stepped back, tipped her head, and studied the possibilities hanging on Bree’s hips. “I’ll back off—but remember the kiss rule.”

  Bree scoffed at the reminder. She and Mom promised—way back in the day when Mom started dating again—that if they got to the point where they kissed a man, then they would introduce him to the other. Bree had met several of Mom’s kissables, and Mom had met most of hers. Again, there were some things a woman didn’t need to tell her mother. “That won’t be an issue.”

  “Tell your smile—it pops up when you’re thinking about him.”

  “I’m just excited to have a friend—he’s different from my regular social group.”

  “Okay, love. Hold still so I don’t poke you.”

  Bree sucked in a breath and held it while Mom put in another section of fabric and created the pleat. Since she was basically a mannequin, she let her mind wander to riding behind Owen the other night. Hugging him was like hugging a giant, firm teddy bear with stuffing in all the right places. And that kiss, even if it was just to her cheek, lit a fire in her belly that slowly burned all night long.

  Yes, being friends with Owen was a thrill. He came from a world where sharing physical affection was part of a friendship, which seemed so mature compared to her small life. Most men kept her far enough away that affection wasn’t possible. Owen gathered her right in next to him—welcomed her into his personal space as if she belonged there. There weren’t many people who accepted her on that level, and it made her feel … special. She was pretty sure he treated everyone he met the same way, but that didn’t matter. She’d take a friend like him any and every day.

  She caught her beaming reflection in the mirror and rolled her eyes. What was she supposed to do? Ignore the fact that Owen made her happy? That was silly. Better to just enjoy the ride.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Owen lazily cruised the aisles of the local supermarket. He ordered most of his supplements and protein powders online and had pantry supplies delivered, but fresh produce and meat were a must. That, and he didn’t have anything else to do today.

  The off-season could drive him nuts. Other guys spent the time traveling with their families or working on self-promotion, and a few volunteered. He just didn’t have a hobby or a charity that was his own. Last off-season he’d worked on the house plans with the architect.

  He turned down the cereal aisle to see if there was a new flavor of Cheerios. Huh. Peach? He reached for a box.

  “I don’t always eat cereal,” said a false-low voice behind him. He flipped around to find Bree smiling. “But when I do, I eat peach.”

  His heart kicked him in the ribs. She was dressed casual, her hair hanging over one shoulder in a loose braid. A feeling of release came over him. He hadn’t realized how tense he was when she wasn’t around until she was there and the feeling released.

  He laughed. “You’re implying I’m the most interesting man on the planet.”

  “I’m implying you hold the box like you’re in a commercial.”

  “Ah— I have some practice.”

  Her eyebrows went up. His gaze swept over her dark hair and her liquid brown eyes framed by those too-large glasses. “Let me guess, Wheaties?”

  “I wish!” He reached for Ball-Os—an upstart in the cereal business made with no GMO products. He was featured on the back of the box. “We all have to start somewhere.”

  She practically ripped the box from his hands. “You’re kidding me!” Her mouth hung open as her eyes jumped from him to the box and back again. “I’m buying this.” She grabbed two more boxes and dropped them in her cart.

  He tipped his head back and laughed. “I hope everyone buys three because of my picture.”

  “They won’t if they don’t see it.” She turned the remaining boxes, all three of them backwards on the shelf, so his face was forward, and dusted off her hands. “Much better.”

  He cuffed her shoulder.

  She leaned heavily to the side and caught herself on the cart.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  She looked around. “Are you on any other products I should know about?”

  “Not in this store.” The sports-drink people didn’t put athletes on their packaging. His contract with them was for on-field footage and a few personal appearances.

  She snapped her fingers. “Shoot.”

  He grinned at her like a dope. But she was corny and funny and his chest felt lighter when she was around—like it was okay to just be him and being on a cereal box was cool.

  He peered into her cart. “What is all that?” He pointed at the cocoa powder, bag of sugar, several bags of chocolate chips, butter, and other baking supplies.

  She began pushing the cart down the aisle, and he followed alongside. They made quite the pair, his huge frame and cart of fresh fruit and veggies and her tiny stature and cart full of calories. “Someone has to make the brownies for the bake sale.” She shrugged. “I thought I’d branch out and try oatmeal cookies too.” She pointed to a tub of quick oats.

  “I can’t wait to sample those.” Thankfully, Kyle had eaten most of the brownies he’d bought last week. If Bree was hustling brownies, he would be to polka night early and stand sentinel to ensure no one asked her to dance but him.

  “Get in line.” She winked, and he about fell into his cart. She pretended not to notice, but her lips twitched. They headed to the checkout. “So, I’m baking. What are you doing today?”

  He wished he had something impressive to say like reviewing my stock portfolio or changing the oil in my car. A memory popped into his head from the website that interested him in Schulenburg in the first place. “I thought I could tour some of the local churches.” Lame. Lame. Lame. He sounded like a dorky tourist.

  She placed the chocolate chips on the conveyer belt. “Lovely! I haven’t been inside many of them for years.” Her lashes dropped. “Care for some company from a f-friend?”

  Was she not happy to be his friend or something? Was that why she stuttered? Or was it something else? He rubbed his fingers across his thumb. “I’d love some company.” He left out the reference to a friend, not sure if it would make her feel uncomfortable. She’d mentioned several times that she wasn’t the type to hang out with a football player. He didn’t want to scare her away. “What about the cookies?”

  “I can bake when it’s dark.”

  “Great.” His chest inflated and lifted like a helium balloon.

  “I need to get the milk home. Do you want to meet or …?”

  “I’ll pick you up on the bike—if that’s okay?”

  Her smile stretched from cheek to cheek and lifted her glasses. “I’d like that.” She paid quickly. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  He nodded.

  The cashier eyed him wearily over her half-spectacles. He shifted his weight as she scanned his items. Finally, she shook her head. “Honey, you should just go right on ahead and kiss that girl.”

  “Excuse me?” Small-town mentality aside, this woman had no business telling him what to do. Besides, her advice was the exact opposite of what he kept telling himself—to stop thinking about kissing Bree.

  “I heard her say you were friends, but the only people in this line you are foolin�
� is yourselves.”

  Owen glanced behind him at the elderly man in a white tee and blue jeans. He nodded sagely. Had the whole store been watching? He ducked his head and kept his face down, wishing he’d thought to wear a ball cap today. He almost always wore one in public, but this was a small town and no one seemed to care all that much about making a big deal out of him. Which was great. But it had lulled him into a false sense of anonymity.

  “That’ll be one twenty-five thirty-six.”

  Owen inserted his card into the chip reader, pushing so hard the machine jerked. His neck was hotter than the sun.

  “Well? You gonna kiss her?” demanded the old man behind him.

  “That—” Owen flipped around. “—is none of your business.”

  “You don’t have to get so testy,” scolded the checker.

  “I think I do.” Owen snatched his card and shoved it into his wallet. “Any relationship I may or may not have is not up for public discussion. Is that understood?” He leveled the two of them with a glare that he hoped would zip their mouths shut.

  “We didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” mumbled the checker.

  A warning voice cautioned Owen to take it easy. He splayed his fingers out and rolled his shoulders. “I know. Sorry.” He put his shoulders up around his ears, grabbed the cart, and headed for the parking lot without looking back to see if his apology was accepted or not.

  He was not going to kiss Bree—especially not because some random store clerk thought he should.

  Kissing Bree would be … out of character. As a general rule, he liked kissing women. Women were soft and strong, gentle and tough, and pretty much the highlight of God’s creation process. But Bree was different from the women he usually dated. They were models, actresses, and setups his agent arranged, dressed in the latest fashions and with bodies that attracted more attention than the opening game of the season. The last woman he’d asked out was his high-school sweetheart, and he’d sworn she would be the only woman he ever dated. He’d wanted to spend a lifetime with her. Heck, they’d named their future children.