MAKING A SPLASH
By
Laurie LeClair
Copyright 2015 by Laurie LeClair
All rights reserved. This work is not transferrable. Any reproduction of this work is prohibited without the permission of the author due to the infringement on the copyright. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the creation of the author or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.
Dedication
To my sweet husband, Jim LeClair. Thank you for a shoulder to lean on, a hand to reach out to and hold, and your unwavering support for me and my dreams. I am so grateful for all you do for me. I am so very lucky to have you in my life.
Chapter 1
Splash!
Annabelle O’Connor sucked in a sharp breath as the icy-cold water drenched her back. She sputtered. “What the hey!”
She twirled around on the sidewalk and heard the offending car screech to a halt in the crowded street. Another spray of muddy puddle water sloshed from her head to her toes.
Male voices shouted from rolled down windows. In shock, she couldn’t understand a word they said. Glunk. Glunk. Were they underwater?
Shaking her head, she hoped she’d get the water out of her ears.
Taking quick stock, she realized that her newly styled hair was now plastered to her head, the long strands clinging to her face and neck. With a trembling hand, she brushed aside the heavy wet mess, clearing her vision.
“I can’t go into the grand opening like this,” she muttered, still clinging to the football tucked in her left hand and against her side.
Gazing down the block, she spotted the long line swelling with more people waiting for the new Whitfield’s Sports Bar to open. Many held memorabilia to have signed by the ex-NFL player and now owner Jay Whitfield.
“They’d never let me in looking like this, never mind sign anything. That’s even if I could be one of the first fifty like the ad said.” Her heart tugged. “Joey!” Her little boy had been let down so much in life; she couldn’t do it again.
“Miss, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.” He raced to her from the driver’s side of the cream-colored SUV.
Tall, Annabelle assessed as she tipped her head back to look up at him. Sandy brown hair. Wide shoulders, broad chest, she noted glimpsing the charcoal gray suit with black shirt underneath. Strength radiated from him. His furrowed brow did nothing to mar his handsome features and light brown eyes. The pained look in them struck a chord in her.
Shaking her head again, this time to dispel the instantaneous womanly thoughts blaring through her mind and body, she held up her hand to ward him off. “You? Stay back. You’ve done enough damage already. And I’m late.”
He smiled and it sucked the air out of her lungs. “Forgive me. I’m late, too.” He nodded to the vehicle. “My brothers and I are.”
“Hurry up, Max,” one of the men called out. Horns honked. Drivers yelled not so nice things.
“We’re holding up traffic,” the other one yelled.
“Go then.” She backed away a step. The downpour ended ten minutes ago, thus creating the massive puddles. Now the drizzle began. It didn’t matter; she was soaked to the bone.
That’s when those hypnotic caramel eyes scanned her. He swallowed hard. “You can’t. Ah…your dress…”
It was the one decent dress she owned. New, light, frothy green. Joey told her it made her look like a fairy with her red hair and her green eyes to match. So she’d bought it on a whim and to keep that smile on his face. Now it appeared ruined, drenched. The dirty water dripped over her cold, shivering body and down her legs.
“It’s…I can see through it.” He waved a hand over her, obviously uncomfortable and embarrassed for them both.
Annabelle jerked her gaze to her dress. “Eek!” The tiny cry escaped her mouth. She shifted the football to shield her top. But she didn’t have anything else to cover the rest of her.
The guy named Max shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped it around her, and then gingerly extracted the long, wet strands of her hair. “Stick your arms through.” His gentle voice was a balm to her.
And the warmth from his body trapped in the fabric bathed her in heat.
“Max,” the young man hollered. “Now, bro!”
He waved them off. “Go on without me. I’ll catch up.”
The long line in front of the sports bar moved now as the doors opened and the crowd surged forward. Annabelle brushed him off. “Thanks,” she muttered. “Gotta run.”
Without another thought, she dashed down the sidewalk, dodging people. A smile tugged up the corner of her lip; she could hear Joey say she could be one of those football players—in heels, no less—scrambling for the end zone. She had enough mud and grime on her to earn her a ready grin from him, too.
Her son needed a hero. A living one to look up to. If only she could bring home the autographed football from his favorite player. That would be the first step. He deserved the chance to hope again. .
The goal was in sight. If only she could get there in time.
“Yo, wait up!” the guy they called Max hollered.
She ignored his shouts and picked up speed when the big glass doors began to close. “Nooooo!” Joey needs this. I need to do this for him.
There were dozens of people in line, complaining when they were shut out. She slowed her pace as she neared and came to a sudden stop, bumping into the barricade. The metal pole wobbled, and then hit the ground. The loud clank rang in the air.
“Miss, step back. You can’t go in there.” The big, burly guy looked as if he’d played defense in his day.
“Just let me slip in and I’ll be forever grateful.”
“No can do.”
Beside her, Max halted. “Good sprinter,” he murmured. His warm breath feathered over her cheek. “Even drenching wet.”
A shiver went through her. She glanced away. “Come on. Just this one time.”
“Max, my man,” the guard said. They did the man shake/half hug. “Good to see you.”
“You, too. Long time.” He seemed to size up the situation. He glimpsed at her, and then reached out to untangle the long strands of her soaking hair off her face. His warm fingertips brushed her cheek and tucked the hair behind her ear. “She’s with me.”
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He shook his head. He shifted the other metal pole out of the way and escorted them through.
“Really?” Annabelle asked under her breath. “You have special powers.”
He chuckled. The sensation it created tingled over and through her. “Just call me Super Max.”
She gulped hard. When she asked for a hero for her son—a living one—to not replace his late dad, but to show him there were great male role models out there for him to appreciate and maybe even emulate, Annabelle did not have a guy like Max in mind.
Nope, not at all.
But he’d shown her chivalry.
And compassion.
Deep down, the crusty barnacles she’d erected crackled and she could feel something stirring awake after all these years.
Her son and his needs and his dreams came first and foremost. Above all else.
Not going to let my guard down. No way would she even jump off that cliff again.
One best friend. One marriage. One burying the love of your life. Once was more than enough for Annabelle in a lifetime.
Loving someone always ended up with her being hurt!
Chapter 2
Max Whitfield’s heart
tugged the moment he came upon her, drenched and soaked to the bone. Those big green eyes hadn’t helped, either.
Distraction!
Why couldn’t he think straight?
The moment she hit the door to Whitfield’s Sports Bar, she raced through and out of his reach. “Hey, wait up! I don’t even know your name!”
She didn’t even hesitate; she hurried away.
“My jacket.” He groaned, realizing his wallet was inside the top front pocket.
The football!
He scanned the sleek, modern sports bar, smiling at the amazing transformation his brother and his partners had created in such a short time frame. The warehouse look was a thing of the past. Big screens littered the walls, sections for private parties sat near the back, the bar—glass and gray slate—took up a large portion of the other side, and tonight fans and celebrities crammed the place.
People milled about, talking and drinking. Excitement rippled through the atmosphere. There, near the back, he saw Jay smiling and signing a—chest! He groaned. Some dude shaved his hairy self and allowed Jay to scribble his John Hancock. No doubt the guy would get it tattooed there; they’d seen some pretty ridiculous things before, signature tattoos being one.
Max headed in that direction, hoping he’d find the wet mystery woman. In the back of his mind, he wondered if she were just a groupie. That disturbed him.
Back in the day when Jay played, there were a lot of fans trying to get a piece of his brother. Max understood it, but didn’t like the invasion of privacy many thought they had the right to breach.
Had he made a mistake in allowing her in the place?
How far would she go to get Jay to sign the football?
He slowed his steps. Maybe he’d just hover around the area to see what she’d do, how she’d act around Jay—you know, the normal security scan.
At that thought, something nudged his conscience. When would he drop the bombshell on his family?
Hey, guys, you know law school? Well, I’m not really into that whole thing. But being a cop, now that I am. Max could imagine the looks he’d get, the way it would hit them; they’d turn pale and pasty at the thought.
Dangerous!
Not to mention, his throwing away a promising future.
Max, we don’t want to lose you, too. The last one would come from his special needs brother, Danny.
The Whitfield brothers’ wounds ran deep from losing their dad to a criminal repeat offender toting a gun when they were just boys. The moment that changed them all. Their mom’s cancer robbed them of her a few years later. Jay stepped in and raised them. Now, they were fiercely protective of one another.
Sometimes overprotective.
Max spotted the telltale signs of the mystery lady’s wanderings. One wet footprint after another and a few bigger splotches on the charcoal floor led him through the crowd and to the middle of the line.
“Excuse me,” she said, nudging her way closer.
“No cuts, lady,” some overgrown kid barely said, his voice cracking.
“Sorry…oops,” she squeaked out, lurching forward.
She disappeared, diving to the floor.
Max muttered under his breath. “Did she slip and fall?” He dodged an overzealous guy and his buddy as they whooped and hollered and he came out on the other side of the line.
“The ball!” He saw it tumble and roll away from her outstretched hand.
Crouched on all fours on the ground, she scooted to it. But each time she’d nearly have it within reach, someone’s foot brushed it or it bumped against someone else’s ankle, sending it in another direction.
Hightailing it around several clumps of fans and the end of the line, Max went in from the opposite angle and scooped up the ball. Squatting in front of her, he shot her a grin. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
“You! How did you…” She glanced from the entrance and back to him. “Fast.”
Holding out his hand, he waited for her to let him help her up. She declined. “Stubborn,” he muttered.
“That’s my middle name. And I’m Irish,” she said, pushing herself to her feet and standing before him.
The swelling crowd jostled them and he found they were pressed together. He cupped her elbow.
“Don’t let go.”
“I’ve got you,” he said.
“Not me. The football.”
Max chuckled. “One-track mind.” She felt soft and looked like a strong wind could knock her over.
“Mind?” Her sarcasm made him smile. “Watch your hands.”
“I’ve got one on the football and the other on your elbow—”
“I mean…You didn’t just grab me…my butt?” She twisted to look around. “You?” She practically snarled at the smiling thirtysomething guy behind her.
He glanced away.
“It was you!”
“Look, line’s moving,” he said, strolling a foot forward.
She pulled away from Max’s hold and toward the guy. Max was wrong. There was an underlying strength in her. Tough. Tenacious.
“Not a good idea, Irish,” Max warned, snatching her back to his side. “Do you want to get kicked out?”
Her hiss carried. The guy jerked back and moved another step from her.
“That’s right.” She held up two fingers to her eyes and then pointed them to his and then back at hers. “I’m watching you.”
Max’s lip twitched as he tried to suppress a chuckle. “Round two goes to you. Now, why don’t we…ah,” he looked down to his feet, feeling drips of water splash on him and his shoes, “get you to the ladies’ room, get you cleaned up, and back in line in no time.”
“And lose my place?”
“He’ll save it for you. Right, sir?”
“S-sure, I will.”
“Yeah, right!” Her mutter echoed Max’s thoughts.
“No worries. I’ll make sure you get Jay to sign the football for you. How’s that?” He tried to appease her and calm the situation.
She looked him up and down, and then met his eyes. Heat traveled where she’d gazed. “You?”
He waited for the ha to come next, but she had the good grace to keep that to herself. “You’d be surprised.”
Her snort spoke volumes.
“First-name basis,” he baited. Live down the hall from him, too, but you think I’m telling you that?
“What a line! And here I thought I had to worry about Mr. Grabby Pants over here.” She tugged away from him. “If you don’t mind, I’d like my football back.”
“And if you don’t mind, I’d like my jacket back.”
Her big snapping green eyes widened even more and her mouth formed an adorable O.
“Yep, that’s right. I’m all you have at this point. We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. Which do you prefer?”
His thoughts ricocheted with hopes she wouldn’t call his bluff. How could he take away her last piece of protection from prying eyes?
To serve and protect. The motto he lived by since seeing the police officer’s car pull up alongside his dad’s that fateful night rang in his head now.
“I will hunt you down if you’re lying to me,” she warned.
“I believe you would, too,” he said with a grin in his voice.
He didn’t even know her name, but he liked her fiery attitude. Sassy. Spunky. Tingles of anticipation rippled over his skin.
“You can take that to the bank.”
“And deposit it, too.”
How could one spitfire in distress—or so he thought she was—make him feel more alive than he had in years?
Chapter 3
Annabelle’s choices were slim and none.
This Max guy lifted an eyebrow.
A cheer rose from the front of the line. She twirled around to see nothing but back. Ugh!
She jumped up and landed with a squish. Droplets flew.
“Hey, watch it!” This from the handsy guy.
A slow simmer brew
ed in her. She growled and took a step to charge him.
A big, firm arm clamped around her waist, lifting her clear off the floor. Her legs did that wheel thingy.
“Let me at him.”
“That will only get you—” Max groaned, taking a heel on his shin.
His grip loosened and she landed hard. She wobbled and her foot slid. She pitched forward and smack-dab into the grabby guy.
He half caught her and reared back at the same time. “Help!”
His breath reeked of beer. They teetered together for that long awkward moment when her boobs were shoved against him. His chest expanded. A loud, disgusting, and foul smelling burp erupted right in her face.
Annabelle blinked and coughed, picturing a large vapor cloud hanging between them.
“Irish,” Max cautioned and tugged her upright and to her feet. “Back away, slowly.”
Good advice!
“It’s your lucky night, buddy,” she said, jabbing a finger at the guy who now held up his hands.
“You finished?” Max asked calmly. “Football, remember?” He held it up for her to see. When she turned back to him, he nodded to the jacket. “Trade you.”
It was her turn to groan. The dress, wet and clingy, surely would still be transparent. Having her hoo-hahs on display would not be ideal, especially in this testosterone riddled environment.
“Glad you see things my way.” Max smiled and she couldn’t help but see the humor in the whole thing.
“Ten minutes and you hold my place in line,” she shot back. “No matter what, get that Whitfield jock to sign it to Joey. Spell it for me.”
He chuckled.
“Repeat after me. J-o-e-y. Got it? Now, come on,” she coaxed. Heaven forbid he get the name wrong.
“You’re funny, you know that?”
“J…” she began.
“O-e-y. No worries.” He shrugged, his lips twitching.
“You’re laughing.”
“Not entirely.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and that made him laugh out loud. The sound jolted her, sending delicious tingly sensations clear to her toes.
once upon a romance 08 - making a splash Page 1