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 torush.”
“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 yearsago.
“Maia?” April’s concerned voice easily penetrated the plywood door. The dressing room was for visual privacyonly.
“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 theirbox.
“Is she in there?” The doorrattled.
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 hisvoice.
“Sir!” April said sharply. “You can’t go in; she’schanging.”
Maia smiled at the image of her five-foot-two assistant glaring down all six feet four ofLondon.
“Yeah, she does that,” came London’sreply.
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 himselfoff.”
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 meanto—”
Maia held up her hand. “Don’t—just—” She drew in a fortifying breath. “Let’s not do thistonight.”
April looked back and forth between them. “I’m going to … go over there.” She pointed to the right and tookoff.
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 hermost.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “So, how’ve youbeen?”
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 sincethem, then the answer wasnot so great, lonely, like half of a whole.“Fine. Things aregood.”
“I saw the poster for your movie. That’s a bigdeal.”
She nodded. “A long deal. I’m under contract for promotional appearances for the next fiveyears.”
He whistled through his teeth. “I’d kill for a five-yearcontract.”
She chuckled. “I thought you landed one, Mr. Hardest Hitter in theNFL.”
He kicked his foot and ducked his head. “You sawthat?”
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 sawit.”
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 averageman.
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 withpride.”
“Dad’s the same asalways.”
“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 andfortune.
London laughed mirthlessly. “No. Dad doesn’tpushmeanymore.”
Maia wasn’t sure what to do with the unexpected verbal acid London spewed. “O-kay.”
April waved, giving her an out if she wantedit.
