Her Second Chance Hometown Groom Read online

  “I really am sorry.” There wasn’t much else she could say or do. The moment had come and gone, and she didn’t know if there was a way to live it down.

  “Just what did Mayhew say to get under your skin, anyway?” Mr. Wiltbank asked.

  Angela blinked. “Bobby didn’t tell you?” He’d said he wouldn’t, but she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had crumbled under Wiltbank’s glare.

  “No, and if he wasn’t such a good cameraman, I’d probably fire him. We don’t keep secrets around here.” He lifted a brow, and she got his message without any trouble at all.

  “Yes, sir.” She looked down at her hands again. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. “You see, sir, I grew up in Frogwater too. I went to high school with Austin Mayhew.”

  “What?” Mr. Wiltbank didn’t seem to believe her. “You know him?”

  She nodded.

  He leaned back, exhaling loudly. “This is amazing. This is incredible. You’ve . . . you’ve just given us the story of the year.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes!” He thumped his finger on his desk. “I’ve caught wind that the whole team is going home for Christmas. All you have to do is head out there yourself and run into him ‘accidentally.’” He made air quotes, which looked really weird for a middle-aged man. “You get to talking, jot down some quotes, maybe throw in some casual pictures—selfies and whatnot—and there you go. We’ll even outfit you with some cameras and recording equipment, whatever you need. You’ll get shots of his home, what he’s like when he’s with his family, the inside scoop on his love life—which you know he’s never talked about publicly . . . This is worth a big bonus, Angela.”

  “I . . .” The air had been completely knocked out of her, and she almost couldn’t respond. “You want me to use my past friendship with him to get an exclusive?”

  “It’s falling into your lap!”

  “Yes, but . . . I’m not sure I’m cut out for the whole Roman Holiday thing.”

  “It’s not a Roman Holiday thing. Yes, you’re a reporter, and yes, he’s someone famous, and yes, you’d be spending time with him for the sake of the story . . . all right, it’s a Roman Holiday thing. But is that so bad? When you’ve got an angle, you’ve got to use it.”

  She sighed. “And now we’re doing a White Christmas thing. Honestly, Mr. Wiltbank, I just can’t see myself doing it. I haven’t spoken to him in years, and it would be awkward to show up at his parents’ house and pretend like I’m not invading his privacy.”

  “You could say that you’ve come to apologize for the other night. If he’s the gentleman he appears to be, he’ll invite you in, and you can take it from there.”

  Angela was shaking her head before he even finished his sentence. It didn’t feel right, and she couldn’t pretend that it did. She hated doing anything under false pretenses, and if that’s what being a reporter was all about . . . Sadly, she knew many reporters who did this kind of thing without thinking twice.

  Mr. Wiltbank blew out a breath. “I didn’t think it would be this hard to convince you, but if I have to be more obvious about it . . . Listen. I know you’re shooting for the cohost spot on the morning show. If you get this exclusive, I’ll put in a good word for you—a very good word. If you don’t . . . well, I’m sure you could find a job as a weather girl on some station back east.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’ll fire me if I don’t do this?” she asked slowly.

  “Now she gets it!” Mr. Wiltbank swiveled in his chair. “Go back to Frogwater, get the exclusive, and have it on my desk in a week—with pictures and any other footage you can manage to get while you’re at it. Otherwise, I’ll know you’re not really serious about your future here.”

  Angela stood up, frustration and anger coursing through her. She gave a nod, not trusting herself to speak, and left the office. She had to get out of there—she needed time to think, and she needed to cool down.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” Her best friend, Becca, happened to work in a cubicle near hers.

  “Just getting my purse.” Angela grabbed her things from her desk and forced a smile. “See ya later.”

  “Are you all right? You look upset.”

  Angela knew it was rude to leave without filling in her friend, but she just couldn’t go into it. “I’ll call you later, okay? I promise. There’s . . . a lot.”

  “Are we breaking up?” Becca asked jokingly, but her smile faded when Angela didn’t laugh. “Go,” she said, giving a nod. “Call me later.”

  That was the great thing about best friends. They knew when you needed your space.

  “I will. Thanks.”

  Angela took the elevator to the parking garage, climbed in her car, and then sat there, gripping the steering wheel. She wanted that cohost slot—she wanted it badly. It was her chance to make something of herself, to add something impressive to her resume.

  When she’d left Frogwater, she’d told everyone that she wouldn’t come back until she was famous. Being a sports reporter for a small television station wasn’t what she meant. Her goal was national television. She wanted a seat on The Talk. She needed this chance . . . but she needed to keep her integrity, too. She would never forget the advice her father had given her when she’d left home—not if she lived to see a hundred. “Don’t sell your soul, Goldilocks,” he’d said. “No amount of fame or fortune can buy it back once it’s gone.” He’d passed away six months later, leaving an ache in her chest that had never dulled.

  She started the engine and backed out, her head swiveling left and right as she looked around. At this time of day, there were only a few cars coming and going, but she still didn’t want to take the chance of hitting any of them. Once out on the road, she turned right, knowing she’d need to pick up some dinner on her way home. There was nothing at her apartment that even resembled food.

  After grabbing some Chinese takeout, she drove home, changed into her pajamas, and sat on the couch. Her remote control teetered on her knee while she dug in her sack for the sweet and sour chicken. Mr. Wong claimed he brought the recipe with him when he came from China, but she had serious doubts—she was pretty sure Mr. Wong had never even been to China. Regardless, she loved his food, and as long as she was living out of bags and boxes, she’d be a regular customer. Yeah, that was a Two Weeks’ Notice thing. Was there any part of her life she couldn’t compare to a movie that day?

  She needed to think. She needed some clarity. Time to look at this logically. Mr. Wiltbank said that if she didn’t get this exclusive, she would lose her job at the station. He didn’t flat-out say that he’d blacklist her, but the hint about “somewhere back east” did make it sound like she’d have a hard time finding something else in Texas. She didn’t like being threatened, and she didn’t like working for someone who had that kind of power over her success. Nevertheless, that was the field she’d chosen, and if that’s what she really wanted, she had to learn to play the game.

  If she did get the exclusive, she’d have a really good shot at a job that would catapult her into the public eye. True, the morning show wasn’t as prestigious as she would like, but every job was a stepping stone, and this one would put her light-years ahead of where she was as the moment. Could there be any lowlier job at a television station than the sports reporter? She could only go up from here, right?

  She wanted that job . . . but not if it meant disappointing her father. She’d often had the strong sense that he was watching over her from the other side, and no amount of success would matter if she didn’t feel that he was happy with her.

  She thought it over while she chewed. Mr. Wiltbank had asked for an exclusive. He’d hinted that she should be sneaky in getting it. Well, what if she did it her way? What if she got the interview, but she asked for it? She’d have to swallow her pride . . . and that might choke her because there was a lot to swallow. But Austin really was a gentleman. He wouldn’t toss her out in the snow or anything, and the worst he could do was tell
her no.

  Actually, that wasn’t true. The worst he could do was make her fall in love with him again, but they’d already been down that road, and she was totally resistant to him. She would never, ever again fall for that soft-spoken cowboy-turned-football player with eyes like sea mist and a soft beard that felt like velvet on the back of her hand.

  With her decision mostly made, she grabbed her phone and called Becca, who answered on the first ring.

  “I’m at my desk and there are lots of people around, but I can listen and make sympathetic noises,” Becca said. “So, what’s going on?”

  Angela launched into her tale, knowing full well that if she and Becca were talking face to face, Becca’s eyes would be huge. Angela had never even told Becca that she knew Austin Mayhew, and she felt bad about that now. It would have been nice if one person in San Antonio knew her that well, but she’d thought she was doing the right thing by creating a whole separate life for herself. She’d obviously been wrong.

  Becca did make the right number of sympathetic noises, and when Angela reached the end of her story, including her decision, Becca said. “Wow. Just . . . wow. You’re right—that’s a lot.”

  “Yeah. So . . . what do you think? Am I finally doing the right thing now?”

  “You realize that your first mistake was not telling me about this, right? The whole Frogwater thing. You could have introduced me to Austin Mayhew . . . because you know I’ve had a crush on him since he first signed with the Rebels.”

  “I know.” Angela smiled. Becca hadn’t kept her feelings a secret. She had a boyfriend, and they were actually almost engaged, but that didn’t stop her from thinking Austin was mighty fine—and he was. Angela couldn’t argue that point. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was just trying to create a new life for myself, something that sounded less . . .”

  “Less froggy?” Becca supplied.

  “Exactly. Less froggy. More professional.”

  “Professional. You know, you’ve used that word a lot in the last ten minutes. I’m starting to think it’s overrated.”

  “But that’s what we’re supposed to be, right? If we want to make a good impression, get ahead . . .”

  “Yes, and that’s why I’ve left my desk and I’m now standing between the vending machine and the wall so no one can hear me talking to you. Because it’s not a professional conversation.”

  Angela chuckled. “You’re literally going out of your way for me.”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of what I do.” Becca let out a long breath. “For what it’s worth, I think your decision is solid. Let me know how it goes, all right? And are things going to be okay with your mom when you get there?”

  Angela’s rocky relationship with her mother was one of the things she had shared with Becca. There were some facts of life that couldn’t be hidden, no matter how much she might want to. “I don’t know, but we’ll see, I guess.”

  “Good luck with that—I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

  “Thanks, Becca. I appreciate it.”

  After Angela hung up, she dug the last egg roll from her bag and ate it, then studied the text that had come in from Mr. Wiltbank’s secretary while she’d been talking to Becca. A flight had been booked for her the next day. She vaguely remembered filling out a form when she hired on with the station that gave them permission to arrange her travel—she never thought she’d be going anywhere, so she hadn’t given it a second thought. Now there was a ticket with her name on it, and she was expected to be on that flight the next morning. A courier would be coming by with some recording equipment, and she was also expected to “Have a nice day.”

  Too many expectations.

  She gathered up her trash, put her leftovers in the fridge . . . and then took them back out and threw them away. She was leaving and wouldn’t be there to eat them, and she didn’t like Chinese for breakfast. She’d need to tell her landlord she’d be gone for a few days, and unplug her alarm clock, and . . . She sighed. Better get started. There was nothing quick about taking a quick trip.

  Chapter 3

  Austin turned his rental car to the left and smiled at the cloud of dust that kicked up as he left the smooth asphalt. He didn’t have anything against paved roads and a comfortable ride, but this dirt road marked the start of his parents’ property, and bouncing along over the ruts and rocks felt like home to him. He and his brothers had gone over this lane countless times with a grader, trying to make the surface easier to drive on. It always seemed to end up like this again, though, sort of like it was meant to be.

  The rental car didn’t appreciate it the way Austin did, and it jounced him along more than was really necessary. He couldn’t wait to park this thing in the garage and pull out his old red-and-white ’67 Ford pickup until it was time to head back to the airport. The truck was as old as his father, but almost as dependable, and it handled the land out here like they were built for each other. He wished he could take it back to San Antonio with him, but it just wasn’t practical there, considering he mostly drove from his apartment to the football field and that was pretty much it.

  When he reached the top of the rise that would descend into the main portion of the ranch itself, he stopped the car and got out, looking around and breathing deep. It was cold, and the air jabbed at his lungs like needles. He welcomed it, though, because it was another sign of home. It hadn’t snowed much, and he could see tufts of grass peeking up through the spots where the white was thinner. That would change—they often got over sixty inches of snow in a year, and they might not have it yet, but they’d catch up.

  He turned his attention to the main house. Smoke curled up from the chimney even though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. They heated the house with fireplaces during the autumn and winter, saving money on electricity, but burning through manpower. All that work with an ax kept Austin in shape for football, so he couldn’t complain too much.

  Fact was, he couldn’t complain about anything when it came to his growing-up years. He had a supportive, God-fearing family, he’d always had a warm place to sleep and plenty of good food to eat, and he knew he was loved. His father didn’t say the words, but he showed it every day, and his brothers and sister were his best friends. His mother . . . well, she was something else. She’d follow him around the rest of his life doing his laundry and making all his meals from scratch if he’d let her. She took her role as a mother very seriously, and that included being a mama bear. Austin loved his family, his home, and his town with a ferocity he couldn’t even explain, and so when Angela Dingle wanted to forget that she’d ever even lived in Frogwater, that made him angry.

  She’d not only lived here, but she’d loved it—at least, it seemed like she did. She’d been a cheerleader and traveled to all the games, and she’d been the Homecoming Queen and she’d then become a rodeo queen. What had happened between then and now? She’d gone from showing massive amounts of town spirit to being ashamed of her roots—of the very place that had made her what she was.

  But then again, maybe that wasn’t the case. Frogwater wouldn’t have raised her to be so snide and condescending. If that’s who she was now, that had nothing to do with the town where she’d been born.

  He shook his head. He was disappointed in her to be sure, but he knew she had to decide for herself. He loved it out here and he’d always come back, but he couldn’t force her to feel the same way. He’d learned a long time ago that she couldn’t be cajoled into anything, and that he shouldn’t even try. A person’s right to choose should never be stepped on, and he’d gotten out of her way when she’d chosen to leave . . . even though it had hurt like nothing else.

  He opened the car door and climbed back in. Enough of this—he could stand there for hours and rehash everything that had gone wrong between him and Angela, but that wouldn’t do any good. Plus, he had a strong suspicion that his mother was checking the clock, wondering what was taking him so long. It was good to know there were people waiting for him.


  When he pulled up in front of the house, the kitchen door opened and Melinda Mayhew came running out, her arms outstretched. “Austin! You’re home!”

  Austin grinned as he scooped his mother up into a hug. At just five feet, she was easy to tote around, but there was no mistaking the strength in this woman. “Hey, Mom,” he said, swinging her around. “Told you I’d be here.”

  “Yes, you did, but I expected you an hour ago.”

  He set her down, and she looked up at him with scolding eyes that softened almost immediately. “Are you getting enough to eat?”

  “Don’t I look like it?”

  “Well, you aren’t wasting away, but there’s always room for some good home cooking, isn’t there?” She turned and led the way into the house. As soon as the door opened, the smell of fresh-baked bread wafted out, and Austin’s mouth watered. There wasn’t anything in the world he loved more than his mother’s bread.

  “Todd?” she called out. “Todd, Austin’s here.”

  Austin’s father ambled into the kitchen from the den, a big grin on his face. “Well, there you are, son. I thought your mother was going to give herself a conniption fit of worry if you didn’t show up soon. Thanks for saving us all a trip to the mental hospital.”

  “Glad I could help,” Austin replied with a chuckle, giving his dad a hug. Todd Mayhew was the giant of the family, quite literally. He stood six foot four and weighed close to two eighty, all solid muscle. He’d gained those muscles hauling bales of hay and lifting bags of feed, every drop of sweat honestly earned. “I see you’re still working out,” Austin said with a chuckle, giving his dad’s biceps a squeeze before stepping back.

  “And I see they’re still letting you take it easy out on that field,” Todd shot back, feinting a punch at Austin’s stomach.

  “Hey, I’m in the best shape of my life,” Austin protested. “I can’t take you, but I could take almost anyone else.”