The Guardian Groom: Texas Titans Romance Page 8

  Audrey snapped her fingers in the air. “That’s right.”

  “Nothing has to change unless I let it. Owen and I will remain friends. The kiss will fade into the historical tapestry of our friendship. And we will continue our friendship as before.”

  “Except you like him.”

  “Yes. But he doesn’t need to know that.” Bree lifted her chin. “And as long as he never finds out, all will be well.”

  “Alllllll righty, then.” Audrey did a horrible impression of Jim Carrey.

  Bree huffed a laugh. “You’ll see.” The longer the idea simmered, the better she felt about it. Silence was the golden key. Locking away her feelings for Owen was the best course of action. Audrey would see.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Owen tossed a sweaty towel into the hamper and stripped his shirt over his head in one fell swoop. He turned on the shower and finished undressing as the water cooled off. That was one thing about living in Texas: he had to wait for the warm water that was in the pipes to run out of the system before he dared step into the stream. He liked a cool shower after a workout—it rejuvenated him for whatever came next.

  And what was next on the schedule was hovering around Bree’s bake sale and scaring off other guys. Bree was too innocent, too sweet to tell a guy no—although she’d tried with him. But he’d broken through her excuses like a weak defensive line. If he could do it, other guys could too. She needed someone to watch over her and keep the jerks away. There were guys who would take advantage of her trusting nature, and he’d be darned if he’d let them hurt her.

  He tested the water before stepping in. He made short work of washing his hair thanks to shampoo and body wash in one. He turned around to rinse off and heard a splash. Looking down, his shower was full to overflowing. He stared for a moment, wondering if he was seeing things. But no, his brand-new house had a clogged drain. Cursing, he rinsed quickly and stepped out, careful not to slip in the quarter inch of water on the tile floor.

  He cursed again. Instead of drying himself off, he tossed the towel on the floor and then emptied his cabinet of towels, each tan towel turning a dark brown as it soaked up water. He snatched his phone off the dresser and did a quick search for plumbers in the area. Tapping the first name, he hunted for a set of basketball shorts.

  “Hello? Tyrell’s Plumbing.”

  “Hey. I need a plumber.”

  “Let’s see here.”

  Owen checked the time on his alarm clock and groaned. He was late.

  “How about Friday morning at ten?”

  The mess in the bathroom couldn’t wait two days. “How about I pay double your regular price and you come right now?”

  “Oh man—see, I was on my way to my girlfriend’s for a barbecue.”

  “Triple.”

  “You have yourself a deal.”

  Owen rattled off his address and went back to the closet for a shirt and a dirty clothes basket. If he was lucky, and it didn’t appear he had any luck in his pockets, then he’d be to the dance hall in an hour. He prayed Tyrell was worth his money and gathered the dripping towels for the washing machine.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bree stood behind the bake sale table. She’d hardly had a moment to sit down in the two hours since she’d arrived. It was a good thing her fringe boots were comfortable as well as stylish. More than one woman had eyed them appreciatively. The action made Bree feel proud and show-offish—a new combination of feelings for the bookworm.

  The reason she hadn’t sat down was that she was constantly selling her baked goods. Not all at once like she had two weeks ago when Owen strode into the dance hall, but sales were steady. The oatmeal cookies were a hit. Thank goodness. The time spent wrapping individual cookies had her doubting her plan, but the results couldn’t be denied.

  Bree stepped forward and craned her neck to see the door. She’d more than hoped that Owen would be here tonight; he’d hinted as much. His arms were strong and sure and his dance steps powerful and light. His grace on the dance floor was hard to ignore and she wanted another sample.

  The door stayed shut, and she was forced to admit that the people who were going to polka tonight were probably already in the room. She frowned. Being stood up stunk!

  Mike Silverton, who purchased both a brownie and a cookie, made his way over, covertly glancing her direction as he navigated the crowded room.

  Bree moved two brownies to the edge of the table, hoping to sway his decision. Mike’s ash-blond hair swept over his forehead, the sides trimmed short. He’d flicked his head several times to get his hair off his forehead when they talked. Bree reached up and brushed her hair aside, hoping to trigger his subconscious to stop flicking his brain around. One could cause damage.

  “Hi, Bree.”

  “Hi, Mike.” She glanced down at the brownies, hoping he’d follow her eyes.

  He didn’t. His gaze went from her to the floor to the wall behind her, and then back to her face. “Do you want to dance?”

  Bree tucked her hair behind her ear. “Uh. Sure?” She glanced down at the cookies. She shouldn’t leave them, but then again, she’d made more tonight than any other night, and it wasn’t like everyone in the room didn’t know what they were for. If anyone tried to swipe a treat, she’d hear about it.

  They joined the dancers. Mike’s arms were like limp noodles, and Bree had to keep an eye over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t leading her right into another couple. When they were done, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Mike’s sweaty hand gripped her arm. “Do you want to go out sometime?”

  She cringed and his grip loosened. He wasn’t trying to be rough; there wasn’t a hint of malice in his face. He was just nervous. And while that was sweet and endearing, it didn’t do much for Bree. “Sure. I like hanging out with friends.”

  His hope dashed to the floor and he let go of her arm. “Okay. I’ll call you sometime.”

  “That would be great.”

  He hurried away, disappearing between two couples. He was out of sight and hadn’t asked for her phone number. She shrugged. Mike was a good guy, the type of guy she could trust. Alas, Mike didn’t hold a candle to the flame Owen lit inside her with one touch. Owen’s arms were strong and sure.

  “Bree!” Ryan Mathews gave her a quick hug. Startled, it took a moment for Bree to hug him back. They’d been in the same classes since the third grade. He’d cheated off her spelling test once and she’d turned him in. They both had to miss out on recess, him for cheating and her for tattling. Mrs. DuBois was impossible.

  Ryan had filled out since graduation and his face had lost the chubbiness of youth. He had black hair and had shaved.

  “Ryan. What are you doing in town?”

  “Visiting the folks. It’s good to see you.” His eyes went down her body and right back up again. “You’ve grown up.”

  She laughed at the former wrestling state champ. His shoulders were still broad, and now his middle was too. “So have you.” She reached up to rub his head like he was a toddler.

  He laughed too, running his hands through his hair to set it back in place. “You’re different.”

  “You think?” She glanced at the bake sale table, seeing herself sitting behind it two weeks ago, her nose in a book. That woman was tucked safely between the pages of her favorite novels. The woman on the dance floor had ridden on the back of a motorcycle and her good friend was a football player. She was growing up in all sorts of ways, and … she was happy.

  “Yeah—come on, let’s dance.” He took her hand.

  Bree smiled, pleased to reconnect with an old friend. If nothing else, Owen had gotten her out of her leather-bound shell. Even if he didn’t come when he’d hinted strongly that he’d be here, he was in the back of her mind.

  “Do you remember the fifth-grade science fair?”

  She burst out laughing. “How could I forget? I was washing green Jell-O out of my hair for a week.”

  * * *

  Owen paused j
ust outside the dance hall doors to adjust his collar. The drain was draining in all the right ways, his wallet had a deep gouge thanks to Tyrell’s Plumbing, and his heart beat out a crazy polka tune in anticipation of walking through the doors and seeing Bree. She was probably tucked behind the table, hardly noticing the world around her as she read through someone else’s adventures. He couldn’t wait to pull her out of her imaginary world and hold her against his chest, reveling in the softness of her body next to his.

  He high stepped through the door and came to a skidding halt. Bree was on the dance floor, laughing as a guy who could use a few weeks in the gym regaled her with a story. Her eyes were bright and her hand flapped in front of her face as if trying to cool it down.

  He didn’t like it—he didn’t like it at all.

  Who was this yahoo, and what was he doing with Owen’s girl—friend? His girlfriend. His girl who was his friend?

  He stalked to the brownie table and found that half her wares were gone. Folding his arms and glaring for good measure, he waited for her to notice him. Let’s see how long this takes.

  He waited less than a minute. Bree’s eyes landed on him and her smile, already wide, lifted right up to include her eyes. Already bright, they turned liquid with pleasure.

  Owen grew warm all over. She made an excuse to her dancing partner and hurried to him. She didn’t notice, but the guy followed behind.

  “I thought you weren’t coming.” She was breathless. And breathtaking—from the top of her soft black hair to the silver points of her fringe-covered boots, she was a vision.

  The stress Tyrell and the drain had brought into his life faded into nothingness in the wake of her joy at seeing him. “The Titans’ offensive line couldn’t keep me away.”

  She laughed. “I’m going to have to take your word for it that that’s a big deal.”

  He grinned, not caring that she didn’t know football. “I’ll buy you a book.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Bree?” The interloper touched Bree’s elbow to get her attention.

  Owen growled low.

  “Ryan, this is my friend Owen.”

  Owen growled again at being called friend. He was her friend, but that title didn’t hold enough of a stamp in it. There was nothing in “friend” that said stay away.

  Ryan and Owen shook hands. Owen wanted to crush his puny fingers like an oatmeal cookie, but decided to play nice. He’d love to have Bree all to himself, but he wasn’t going to be that guy, the kind that insisted she break off friendships—the jealous boyfriend.

  “Are these your brownies?” asked Ryan.

  Bree’s eyes crinkled. “Yeah. I’m raising money for the summer reading program.”

  “I’ll take one.”

  Bree’s chest lifted.

  Owen’s eyes blurred with fierceness. “I’ll take the rest.”

  “Owen.” She spoke softly, and he had to lean closer to hear her. “You don’t have to do that. They’re selling well tonight.”

  “I’d like to.” He handed her a hundred-dollar bill. Let the little guy look like a cheapskate. One measly cookie? Ha.

  “Great,” said Ryan. “That means you’re free for the next dance.”

  Bree rolled her eyes. “I guess so.”

  “What’re we waiting for?” Ryan snatched her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor before she could give him a proper reply.

  Owen grabbed a cookie and crushed it in his palm. It was soft and crispy and smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. Crushing it did nothing to make him feel better.

  He would have marched out there and snatched Bree away from this Ryan character if she looked at all uncomfortable. Give me a reason, he silently taunted Ryan. One false step, one frown, one stray hand and Owen would toss the guy onto the street before he had a chance to hop and chassé.

  Owen’s mood darkened because Bree didn’t object to dancing with Ryan. She smiled and moved lightly, taking pleasure in kicking her boots up. That was wrong—so wrong. She shouldn’t be with another man. She should be with him. The knowledge was strong and true and he couldn’t deny it if forced to run twenty miles in his practice pads.

  He folded his arms again. He could wait. And watch. Just one small reason to step in, that’s all he’d need.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bree went through the moves of the dance on autopilot. Ryan led her around, not saying much.

  Her brain repeated the same phrase over and over again. And it wasn’t even an intelligent phrase: He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.

  She’d been watching for him, but until he showed up she didn’t realize how much she missed him. His walking into the room was as good as filling the place up with the scent of melted chocolate—it infused her with warmth and desire and cravings for things she knew weren’t good for her, but she couldn’t help but want them anyway.

  “… much vanilla?”

  Ryan’s voice rose above the din and she lifted her glasses up on her nose in an effort to refocus. “I’m sorry?”

  Ryan leaned closer. “I asked if there was any such thing as too much vanilla in a cookie.”

  She blinked at him. “Vanilla?”

  “Because you make cookies,” he added rather lamely.

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I’m sure there could be, but I’ve never thought about it before.” Ryan was a nice guy. He really was. And if this dance had happened several weeks ago, she would have been happy to debate the ratio of flour to vanilla for a good half hour. However, the topic of conversation plopped between them like flat cookie dough on a baking sheet. Truly, Ryan’s only fault was that he’d come home after Owen Mattox had moved in, and for that, Bree felt bad.

  The accordion player drew out the last note of his solo, stretching his time in the spotlight. The second he released the keys, Owen was at her side, his blue eyes cutting into Ryan and his hand placed possessively on Bree’s lower back. “I believe the next dance is mine.”

  Ryan stepped back, probably out of an instinctive desire to survive. Owen radiated threats of malice. Bree empathized with Ryan. When she’d first met Owen, she was struck by his size and clipped manner, but she’d never felt threatened by him. Not once.

  Without waiting for Ryan’s answer, Owen took Bree’s hand firmly in his and pulled her right out the doors and into the parking lot. The night air was warm and hugged against her skin, like walking into a sauna. The sound of the band’s next number became smaller, notes from a music box.

  Owen rounded on her so quickly that she had to step back to avoid being stepped on. He paced, his right hand holding her left and pulling her along. She lengthened her stride to keep up and not be dragged behind. He ran his free hand through his hair. She wondered what it felt like, because it was short and spiky but it didn’t look stiff. “I shouldn’t like you.”

  Bree scowled. “What a horrible thing to say.” She tugged on her hand to pull it free, ready to stomp back inside and enjoy the company of a man who doted on her—or at least said nice things.

  Owen didn’t let go of her hand. In fact, he used it to tug her closer. “I mean it. We are two very different people. You like books.”

  “Love books,” she corrected.

  “Love books, and I struggled in school.” His gaze darted away, and she got the feeling that it was difficult for him to admit that he didn’t excel in the classroom.

  Had he thought she would think less of him? If he did, he didn’t understand that her heart and mind didn’t function that way. “Owen, there are dozens of types of intelligence in the world—and I would test below average at most of them. Including sports. But you have sports intelligence, and the ability to move your body with such grace that it amazes me.”

  “Fine. But Bree, we are different. You’re quiet and I’m pushy. You’re cute—”

  She pointed at his chest in warning and he stopped pacing, allowing her to catch her breath.

  “See. Right there. I always thought cute was a compliment.”


  She lowered her arm and pressed her lips together.

  He forged on, earning his pushiness. “The thing is, I can’t seem to stay away from you. And when you danced with Robin—”

  “Ryan.”

  “Whatever. I wanted to plow him into the wall.”

  She gave him a dubious look. “I think they call that jealousy.”

  “It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  She suddenly connected the dots. Owen liked her. He didn’t want to like her as more than a friend, but he did. And he wasn’t happy about it. Which was understandable and irrational.

  He dropped her hand and placed his palms on her cheeks, gently cupping her face. His hands were huge and comforting and tender. His freshly washed skin smelled of soap and something spicy. His intense blue eyes delved into her soul, seeking understanding as well as acceptance. Owen was scared she would turn him away. “Bree, I shouldn’t like you, but I do.”

  Her eyes dropped, unable to hold the intensity he poured into her. “I like you too.”

  His mouth covered hers. She gasped as her pent-up desire unleashed, and then she was kissing him hungrily. She dug her hands into his soft hair and trailed her nails up the back of his neck, making him shiver.

  He pushed his hands behind her neck and then brought them down her back, drawing her closer and deepening the kiss. There was a sense of urgency, almost as if he were worried that she’d push him away at any moment. He shouldn’t have worried. She was floating, never wanting to come back to earth. They explored, tasted, and soaked one another in right there in the parking lot.

  They broke apart, and Owen lifted her off the ground. She buried her face in his neck. “That was … exceptional.”

  His cheek pressed against her neck and she could feel the smile on his face. His beard tickled her skin, and she nuzzled against him. “Should we go back inside?” His voice was husky.