by Tracy March
“Congratulations.” He raised his cup to her. “Ms. Commissionperson.”
Jessie blushed. She hadn’t gotten used to being someone. She hoped she never would.
“Was that politically correct?” he asked with an impish smile.
“Much more than what I’ve heard or read from other people. I’ve gotten President’s Girl, Nimble-minded Neophyte, and my favorite from a blog, Fresh Crumpet on a Tray of Crusty Scones.”
He grinned. “How do you work in a food analogy on a bioethics blog?”
She shook her head and shrugged.
Rocking in rhythm, they looked out over the vineyard—rolling hills with endless rows of grapevines, dormant and waiting for spring.
Michael finished his coffee and handed her a section of the newspaper—a fresh-off-the-press Washington Post—that he’d folded into a rectangle. She scanned the headlines of two small articles.
City Council to Increase Snow Removal Budget.
Yacht Arsonist Identified.
Her stomach lurched. She stopped rocking.
Robert Durand, a Canadian native and ex-convict, has been identified as the man who used Molotov cocktails to set fire to the yacht of deceased Counselor of Science and Technology for Canada, Louis Philippe Lesort, in late January. Durand subsequently set himself aflame, and his body was later recovered from the Washington Channel. Authorities used dental records to confirm Durand’s identity.
Jessie curled her toes inside Sam’s boots and looked at Michael. He’d also stopped rocking.
“Turns out Durand had a War and Peace–length rap sheet,” he said. “My guess is that Philippe hired the guy—probably to drive the SUV that hit you, and definitely to torch the yacht. Because Philippe was aboard, too, he probably figured he could make himself look like a victim and get rid of you at the same time.”
Jessie thought about how she’d gone aboard the yacht with Philippe so willingly. She started to berate herself but stopped short, reminding herself, as she often had to, that it was all behind her. Philippe was dead. Michael had shot him.
“How are you feeling…about Philippe?” she asked.
Michael gazed at the horizon. “I’m okay. His death is certainly on my conscience. I can’t help but feel sorry for Liam, and even for Elizabeth, to some degree.”
“She’s been through a lot,” Jessie said, “and she’s handled it with grace. She’s actually bringing Liam to visit next weekend.”
Michael smiled approvingly, then his expression turned serious. “Living with the guilt is worth it.” He reached over and clasped her hand. “You’re alive.” After a few moments he asked, “How are you holding up?”
She rocked, slowly and steadily, finally ready to have this conversation with him. “I wish I’d done things differently. I wish I’d stayed away from Talmont and hadn’t asked you to break into Ian’s lab. I wish you hadn’t had to kill a man because of me. I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve forgiven you for all that,” he said, his sincere tone soothing her almost as much as his words.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m trying to forgive myself. For lots of things. For letting Sam go. I have regrets.” She looked at him and held his gaze, hopeful. “But I also have dreams.”
He stood and tugged at her hand. “Let’s go inside.”
Jessie led him into the cottage and he closed the door behind them. He took her face in his hands and smoothed his fingertips over her cheeks.
She had longed for this moment and imagined it countless times. But she couldn’t have imagined the anticipation that rose within her, the quickening of her pulse, the tingling in her blood.
He touched his lips to hers with a kiss so tender it brought tears to her eyes.
How she wanted this man.
His lips lingered, and she melted into him, their kisses building with passion and urgency. He wrapped her in a strong embrace, pressing her tightly against him.
She clutched his hair in her fingers and arched into him. He drew in a sharp breath and lifted his mouth from hers.
“Michael,” she said breathlessly.
He tipped his head toward the bedroom, his lips glistening. “Want to show me around?” He grinned seductively.
Knees shaky, she led him into the bedroom. But he bypassed the high, queen-sized bed and stopped her in front of the cheval mirror. They faced their full reflections. He stepped behind her, swept her hair aside, and trailed velvety kisses up her neck. Heat surged through her body as he reached her ear and whispered, “You’re beautiful.” He gazed at her in the mirror, his eyes full of promises she couldn’t wait for him to keep.
Jessie breathed in the fiery scent of him and exhaled slowly, wanting to remember this feeling of possibility. To relive it again and again and again.
Acknowledgments
Girl Three was plotted on the balcony of an eleventh-floor condo with a view of the U.S. Capitol. At the time, I was a new resident of Washington, DC, inspired by the city’s energy and charisma—the people, the places, the power. I’ll always remember fondly the hours I spent on that balcony, contemplating this story and gazing over the city that stole my heart.
Soon after our arrival in DC, my husband and I visited Congressional Cemetery, one of the most captivating settings in Girl Three. While the once majestic cemetery was left to ruin for many years, The Association for the Preservation of Historic Congressional Cemetery is making progress restoring and preserving this national treasure. The site is now in better repair than I presented it in this novel, yet it’s still in need of funding and work. For visitors and residents of DC, it’s worth the trip to Congressional Cemetery to see the beautiful rolling landscape, magnificent statuary, and Dickensian chapel, and to learn about its famous inhabitants.
I owe special thanks to Liz Pelletier and Heather Howland of Entangled Publishing for seeing the potential in my manuscript, and for the insightful guidance of my remarkable editor, Stacy Cantor Abrams. I want to thank Nancy Naigle—fellow author, positive motivator, and fun-loving friend—for keeping me smiling and writing.
I am grateful to my amazing mom for her unwavering belief in me and her love and encouragement along the way—and I wish my father and my mother-in-law, who have both passed away, were still here with us. I hope they would be proud. To my husband, Mike, thank you for your incomparable patience, steady support, and crazy love. My favorite love story is ours.
Read on for a sneak peek
at Tracy March’s short romance
The Practice Proposal:
A date, a proposal, and a double-deal…
Liza Sutherland isn’t looking for love, not from a charity-auction date she didn’t even bid on. And especially not with sexy Washington Nationals first baseman Cole Collins—the guy she obsessed over when she was a gangly, awkward teenager. She’s already had a once-in-a-lifetime romance. Now she’s focused on rooting for the Orioles, running her baseball charity, and avoiding players like Cole.
Cole Collins is up for contract renegotiation, but after too many late-night parties, he’ll need a reputation adjustment before he can make the roster. His agent, Frank, pitches Liza as the perfect prop to get Cole his new contract, despite Cole’s rocky past with her family.
When Frank makes Liza a deal she can’t refuse—a bet she will fall in love with Cole Collins or her charity gets a cool half mill—the game is on. But neither bet on the real feelings that surface. Could a practice romance turn into an official forever?
Chapter One
Liza Sutherland would much rather be in a ballpark than a ballroom, and tonight’s black-tie charity gala had gone on way too long. She hoped the who’s-who patrons at her table hadn’t noticed her fidgeting, rolling the tiny beads on her dress between her fingertips. Which baseball teams had won and lost while she’d listened to big-band music and eaten fancy banquet food? She’d have been fine with a foil-wrapped hot dog with mustard and onions and an umpire calling balls and strikes.
Instead, the emcee stood onstage,
waving a large white envelope, teasing the audience. The envelope was the last of a big stack, and everyone was wondering whose name was in it. Everyone but Liza. The gala was almost over, and that was all that mattered to her.
She hoped to get home in time to catch a few highlights on the post-game shows.
The emcee cleared his throat loudly. “And the winner of the grand prize in our silent auction tonight—an evening with the Washington Nationals’ All-Star first-baseman, Cole Collins—is…” The audience murmured with hushed chatter, while seemingly every woman there secretly fantasized that their name was about to be called.
The emcee tore open the envelope. With a dramatic flourish, he removed the card inside. “Congratulations to…Miss Liza Sutherland.”
Liza’s stomach did a backflip. What the…?
After a split second of stunned silence, the crowd erupted with applause and wolf-whistles. She quickly shook her head, heat rising in her face. “I didn’t even bid. There has to be a mistake,” she said, but the only person who heard her above the noise was her mother, who sat next to her.
Sylvia Sutherland’s knowing look immediately solved the mystery for Liza. “You. Did. Not.”
Of all people, her mom should understand that she wasn’t interested in dating. Not now or ever again. But Sylvia had probably thought she was doing Liza a favor, encouraging her to get out and “meet another nice young man.” In fact, she’d been “encouraging” for much of the last two years. An excruciating two years when Liza had grieved Wes Kelley, her former fiancé, who had been a dedicated Secret Service agent. So dedicated that he’d taken a fatal bullet for a third-world dictator…who was assassinated five months later.
The band began another brassy tune that sounded the same to Liza as all the others they’d played tonight. Thankfully, it sent people hurrying toward the dance floor, diverting attention from her.
“It was for two good causes,” Sylvia said proudly. “You.” She squeezed Liza’s hand and despite her frustration, Liza relished the warm comfort she’d relied on through her grief. “And the BADD Athletes Foundation.”
Her mother had founded the organization several years ago, shortly after she’d been appointed to Major League Baseball’s Health Policy Advisory Committee. Sylvia practiced sports medicine, loved baseball, and she hoped BADD—Be Aware of the Dangers of Doping—would make a difference in the lives of young athletes.
Liza felt the same way, and she even worked for the Foundation, but she wished Sylvia would’ve kept her money to herself tonight. She leaned close to her mom so she wouldn’t be overheard. “For starters, I’m not a cause. And I don’t think it’s appropriate for someone who works for BADD to win the grand prize. That wasn’t the point of the auction.” It was hard enough for her to go to work every day and have to prove she was more than capable of doing her job, regardless of who her parents were. Now there was this.
“Nonsense.” Sylvia waved her hand airily. “The point of the auction was to raise money and have a little fun.” She winked.
“But you and Dad would have given that money to BADD anyway. If someone else had won the stupid date, we could’ve had double the funds.”
Sylvia grinned. “But you won the stupid date, sweetheart.”
She just doesn’t get it. Liza didn’t want a date. She’d had a once-in-a-lifetime romance with Wes, and she’d lost him. Everyone expected her to move on, but grief had its own timeline, and Liza’s heart still ached for him. Living with his memory would be her ever after, and she was satisfied with that.
“What makes you think I’d even want to go out with Cole Collins?” The idea alone tied Liza’s stomach in a knot.
“Because ever since you met him at your father’s camp,” Sylvia said, “you’ve cherished that autographed baseball he gave you like it was a diamond the same size.” Of course Sylvia remembered all of the most embarrassing times of Liza’s awkward teenage life, and seemed determined to remind her of them.
Liza scrunched her face. “I packed that ball away years ago.” But she remembered vividly that day at the camp where she’d hung out for weeks just to watch Cole Collins breathe.
Her father had been a professional baseball player. After he’d retired, and before he became co-owner of the Orioles, he ran a summer camp for promising young players. Cole had attended three summers straight.
“I was all knees and elbows, and he was all full-blown ego.” Liza shook her head. “The only reason I kept that ball was I hoped it’d be worth something someday.” She took a deep breath and blew it out loudly. “I should sell it on eBay.”
“You don’t need the money, sweetie,” Sylvia said. “And you and Cole aren’t teenagers anymore. You’ve both had your struggles. Maybe he’s changed—you certainly have. Just go out with him and have a nice evening.”
Liza toyed with one of the straps of her peridot-green cocktail dress. It had been Wes’s favorite because it matched her eyes, and it fit “just right.” She remembered wistfully how he’d sometimes called her Goldilocks—despite her dark red hair—because everything about her was “just right” for him. After the love she’d shared with Wes, how could she even think about going out with a guy like Cole Collins…even to raise money for charity?
“I’m not interested in dating, Mom—especially a player like Cole. He’s lucky he didn’t get arrested last weekend with Nikki Barlow.”
Sylvia pursed her lips. “I think Cole just happened to be with the wrong wayward starlet at the wrong time. Nikki was the one driving under the influence, and they found the drugs in her purse. She’s the one who was charged, not Cole.”
After the well-publicized drug-related drama Cole had been involved in, there had been some debate at BADD about pulling from the auction the “evening out” grand prize he’d donated. But considering the funds the item was expected to raise, and that Cole hadn’t actually been arrested, the auction committee had decided to move forward. Besides, all of the advertising for the gala and auction had included the listing and had gotten BADD plenty of press.
“You seem pretty quick to defend him,” Liza said, careful not to sound accusing. She just wondered why.
“He’s hanging around with the wrong people.” Sylvia was always good for a classic mom-quote. “But I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.” She pulled at a lock of Liza’s long hair. “And trying to reintroduce him to a nice girl who used to think he was pretty special.”
“He’s interested in movie stars and models.” Liza shrugged. “Not women like me.”
“So you’ve been keeping tabs on his social life?” Sylvia teased.
“No. All I have to do is flip on E!, wait five minutes, and they’ll run a clip showing him with some Victoria’s Secret model.”
“You’re as beautiful as any of those girls,” Sylvia said. “And smart, too.”
Liza smiled, appreciating the compliment and wishing—not for the first time—that brains translated to curves. “But no one’s ever paid me to model sexy lingerie and wear angel wings.”
Sylvia shook her head, her expression turning serious. “Wes would want you to find love again. He’d want you to be happy.”
Liza swallowed the lump in her throat. “What’s Dad going to think? The Nats are our rivals in the Battle of the Beltway.” She always talked about the Orioles as if she were one of them. “And there’s a real possibility the Os and the Nats will go to the World Series this year. That makes things even more uncomfortable right now.”
Sylvia swept a section of her ash-blond bob from her face and shrugged casually. “It’s a friendly rivalry, and your dad will be fine—especially if the Os make the Series.” She put her arm around Liza and pulled her close. “He’d be pleased to see you happy.”
Happy hadn’t been in Liza’s emotional repertoire for a long time. She couldn’t imagine a date with Cole Collins changing that. “I can’t,” she said.
The hurt in Sylvia’s eyes tugged at Liza’s heart. “If you won’t do it for you,” her mom sa
id gently, “will you do it for me?” She gazed at Liza with all of the hope and great expectations that a mother has for her daughter, and Liza knew she had suffered, too. Surely she’d felt helpless as she tried to ease Liza’s grief in so many ways. From mother/daughter weekends to coming over in the middle of the night to listening and drying Liza’s tears. If she could’ve figured out how to bring Wes back to life, she would have, and sacrificed herself to do it.
Liza really wanted to say no to the date with Cole, but the look on her mom’s face wouldn’t let her. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she squeezed Sylvia’s hand and said, “Okay, Mom. I’ll go.”
…
Cole Collins glanced up from his menu and caught the too-cheery young waitress staring at him. He gave her a lazy half smile and left it at that. She was cute enough, and he was all about flirting, but this wasn’t the time.
For starters, it was way too early, and he was still half asleep. He didn’t have a game until tonight, and he could’ve slept in if his agent hadn’t insisted on meeting him for breakfast. So here he was at Ted’s Bulletin, an incredibly popular upscale diner on Barracks Row in DC’s Capitol Hill. Cole glanced across the booth-for-two at Frank Price, knowing he’d set up this seven thirty breakfast to try to keep Cole from staying out too late last night.
It hadn’t worked.
“Are you guys ready to order?” the waitress asked.
Cole nodded at Frank, who was built like a bear and took up every bit of the space on his side of the booth.
“I’ll have the beer biscuits and sausage gravy.” Frank’s Virginia-gentleman baritone carried up into the rusted pressed-tin ceiling. He took a gulp of his Bloody Mary. “With two eggs sunny-side-up and hash browns.”
“And you, Mr. Collins?” the waitress asked.
Cole bunched his lips. He would have liked her a lot better if she would’ve just let him enjoy his breakfast incognito.
“I’ll have the Walk of Shame burrito,” he said.