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Praise for the Out of Bounds Novels
RISKY GAME
“The hero and heroine play well off one another as sexual sparks snap and fizzle . . . Readers who enjoy introspection and intelligent handling of trust and family obligations over courtship will relish this emotion-driven story.”
—Publishers Weekly
FOOLISH GAMES
“The sexual tension was off the charts.”
—The Book Pushers
“Caught my interest, and maintained it throughout the book with a beautiful, fun love story . . . The characters, writing, and plot lines made me very interested in reading more from this series.”
—Insightful Minds Reviews
“Definitely a book that you need to pick up if you love a wonderful romance or love those guys in their football gear, or better yet with the football gear on the floor.”
—Dark Faerie Tales
GAME ON
“A winning romantic thriller . . . Empathetic characters and heartbreakingly plausible scenarios that move at a fast clip, with a heart-pounding finale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Solid storytelling, sharp dialogue, and genuine, sympathetic characters . . . [An] enjoyable and very entertaining read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A wonderful debut novel.”
—The Book Pushers
“Purchase this book ASAP!”
—Dark Faerie Tales
“Tracy Solheim will have you laughing and cheering and crying as her football hero butts up against the one woman who doesn’t find the Devil of the NFL to be irresistible hot stuff. If you’re missing Susan Elizabeth Phillips’s Chicago Stars, then it’s time to meet Shane Devlin.”
—Rendezvous Books
“Refreshing contemporary . . . A surprisingly deep romance.”
—Bookaholics
“Game On is a novel that has a lot going for it.”
—Book Binge
Berkley Sensation Titles by Tracy Solheim
Second Chances
BACK TO BEFORE
Out of Bounds
GAME ON
FOOLISH GAMES
RISKY GAME
A NUMBERS GAME
(A Berkley Sensation Special)
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
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A Penguin Random House Company
BACK TO BEFORE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with Sun Home Productions, LLC
Copyright © 2015 by Sun Home Productions, LLC.
Excerpt from Foolish Games by Tracy Solheim copyright © 2013 by Sun Home Productions, LLC.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-16552-6
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2015
Cover art by S. Miroque.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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This one is for Mom. Love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My name may be on the cover, but it wouldn’t be there without a lot of support from some wonderful people.
It goes without saying that I couldn’t do this without the love and support of my family, particularly my husband, Greg, and our two works-in-progress, Austin and Meredith. Love you guys.
Thanks, as always, to Cindy Hwang and the wonderful staff at Berkley who guide me through the writing process.
To my agent, Melissa Jeglinski, thanks for keeping me sane!
Also, I couldn’t do this without some wonderful beta readers—Melanie, Allison, Chris, Kathy and Mary—thanks, ladies!
Thanks to all the wonderful bloggers who’ve taken the time to promote my books and introduce me to new readers. Many of you have become friends whose kindness I value immensely.
Most of all, I’d like to thank all of you who’ve taken the time to read one of my books. It’s you, the readers, who make this the best job in the world!
CONTENTS
Praise for the Out of Bounds Novels
Berkley Sensation Titles by Tracy Solheim
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
Sneak Peek at Foolish Games
ONE
Like a recovering addict counting the days of sobriety, Ginger Walsh calculated the amount of time remaining until her triumphant return to financial independence: eighty-four days. If she were more like the woman she’d been before she was cast as an evil teenager on a television soap opera, she’d optimistically mark the time as only twelve weeks or just three short months. But Ginger had become as jaded as her alter ego. Real life had toughened her up. It was eighty-four days any way she looked at it.
Every morning, she gave herself a pep talk to mark the passing of another day. She blamed the economy, the industry, and her own stupid decisions for her current situation. But she always told herself she’d find her way out. Her way back. If that didn’t work, she blasted Kelly Clarkson on her iPod and went for a run.
Presently, Ginger’s road to career redemption passed through a greasy diner in Chances Inlet, North Carolina: a small, historic coastal town situated at the junction of the Cape Fear River and the Atlantic Ocean. It might as well have been a million miles from Broadway.
“Is it possible to get turkey bacon on my BLT?” Ginger asked, her fingertips sticking to the laminated menu. She tried to infuse just the right amount of deference to her tone while pasting a gracious smile on her face. The tactic never failed her when requesting special orders.
Until now.
The waitress glanced up from her pad, a p
ained expression on her face. “This isn’t the Carnegie Deli in New York, Destiny. You’re in North Carolina and this is swine country.” Her tone implied Ginger was either an idiot or a traitor for requesting anything else.
Ginger tried not to cringe at the waitress’ use of her soap opera character’s name. Giving up on getting something a little healthier to eat, she let out an anguished sigh. “Well, is the mayonnaise at least fat free—ow!”
Diesel Gold, her companion at the small window table, kicked her in the shin. Hard. He raised his tattooed arms along with his eyebrows in either impatience or contempt; she wasn’t exactly sure which. Clearly, his blood sugar had dropped substantially because he was normally pretty laid-back.
The waitress shifted from one sneaker-clad foot to the other. Next to them, gaffers and grips, boom operators, and the cameramen who completed their production crew sat in silence, their faces shifting expectantly between the waitress and Ginger. Apparently their order wouldn’t be filled until she had Ginger’s.
“Just bring me wheat toast and put the mayo, the bacon, the lettuce, and tomato on the side.” She handed over her menu in defeat.
“Do you want fries with that?”
“Ugh!” Diesel dropped his head in his hands.
Ginger shot him a withering look before pasting a polite smile on her face for the waitress. “No, thank you.” It was always best to be kind to the waitstaff, her mother had taught her. Being nice ensured excellent service. In this case, Ginger figured it might ensure the woman didn’t spit into her food. “You can give him my fries.” She gestured at Diesel. The crew nearly broke out in applause as the waitress headed for the kitchen.
“I liked you better when you weren’t such a food weenie,” Diesel said.
“For your information, I’ve been a food weenie all my life. It’s the cornerstone of a dancer’s existence. And I liked you better when you were Elliot Goldman and not some tattooed, spike-haired, wannabe music video producer who took his name from a Chippendale dancer.”
“Shh!” Diesel quickly glanced around to see whether any of the crew were listening, but the opposite table had gone back to discussing the logistics of the go-karting expedition they had planned for the evening.
“Oh, please.” Ginger carefully inspected a lemon slice before squeezing it into her water glass. “They all know your dad owns the network. You’re twenty-six years old. You look like the lead singer for Maroon Five—aside from your glasses, of course—and suddenly you’re the producer of a network home improvement show when your only experience is creating a small indie film that never made it off YouTube. Face it. You’ve got nepotism written all over you. Maybe you should get it in a tattoo.”
Her friend of nearly a decade wasn’t amused. The two had met as teenagers when both were freshmen at Juilliard. He was the awkward but musically gifted son of a television mogul, and she was the scholarship dance phenom living out her mother’s dream. Partnered up on a literature project—Plato’s Allegory of the Cave—they’d been best friends ever since. Their friendship survived not only the class, but also the destruction of each of their dreams.
“This isn’t funny, Ginger.” Diesel leaned across the table, his gravelly voice a near whisper. “The crew has to respect me. I need this gig. My dad won’t give me another chance if I screw it up.” He gestured to the tables around to them. “So far these guys have been pretty tolerant letting me call the shots, but we still have a few months to go.”
Eighty-four days to be precise, Ginger thought. She contemplated Diesel, taking in the stress lines bracketing his mouth and the weariness of his eyes. Marvin Goldman, Diesel’s narcissistic jerk of a father, took great pleasure in bending his son to fit his own ideal. He was dangling a carrot on a string and would likely yank it away instead of giving it to his son. It was a frequent pattern between the two. But Diesel continued to hold out hope his father would reward his hard work by allowing him to produce the network’s new music reality show. Ginger wanted to tell her friend not to count on his father, but it was difficult not to hope along with him. Because if Diesel got the job, he’d promised she’d get the position of choreographer.
“Hey.” Reaching for his hand, she gave it a squeeze. “It’s gonna work out. These guys are really good at what they do. They won’t let you down.”
“You’ve been here one day and you already know the crew is made up of Emmy winners?” At least his face had begun to relax.
“What can I say? I know my way around a television production.”
“It must be those seven months you spent on the soap opera set. I guess you noticed a lot during the ten weeks your character was in a coma.”
“Very funny.” She sat back as the waitress plunked down a bowl filled with what looked like fried egg rolls. Ginger picked one up between her thumb and forefinger and looked at it quizzically.
“They’re called hush puppies and, no, I’m not going to tell you what’s in them. Just eat one and enjoy.” He popped two of them in his mouth.
Ginger pulled out her iPhone and searched for “hush puppies.” She really hoped the bowl didn’t contain diced-up shoes.
“Fried batter, yuck!” She placed the hush puppy on the paper place mat, wiping her hands on her napkin.
“Food weenie,” Diesel mumbled with a shake of his head.
Ginger sighed. No matter what she did or said, people always seemed to mistake her motives about her diet. Sure, she was diligent about what foods she put in her body, taking great pains to ensure that whatever she ate was clean and healthy. Years of her mother micromanaging her diet so that Ginger could perform at her peak made her picky eating habits hard to break. Not if she wanted to work as a dancer again. For the millionth time in her life, Ginger marveled at the unjustness of her body’s metabolism as Diesel devoured the bowl of deep-fried calories.
“So, what exactly are my responsibilities here?” she asked. “I’ve done a lot of research on Dresden House and it’s fascinating. Imagine if those walls could talk. What sorts of stories could they tell about the last two hundred years the building has been standing? And the woman it was originally built for never lived to see it—such a tragic love story.” Ginger looked over at Diesel, who had a finger to his head as he feigned shooting himself. “Okay, clearly you don’t see the romance in the project at all. So let’s talk about me. What else besides research do I do as your production assistant?”
“Anything I ask you to do.” He gave her a wolfish wink just as the waitress set a plate of barbecue in front of him.
“We’ve already been there and we both know it wasn’t a success.” She carefully assembled her BLT with mostly lettuce and tomato, one slice of bacon, and a small smear of mayonnaise.
“Okay, if you’re not willing to sleep with me, my second choice is for you to handle makeup.”
Ginger nearly choked on her sandwich. “Excuse me? Did you say ‘makeup’? I thought this was a show about restoring a nineteenth-century mansion. What do you need makeup for?”
“The hot contractor doing the renovations. And, lest you think I play for the other team, ‘hot’ is the network’s term, not mine.”
Ginger rolled her eyes. “Why is it men always have to reinforce their masculinity?”
“Testosterone,” he said between bites of his sandwich. “Anyway, the suits in L.A. are hoping the hottie contractor will be a hit with the ladies and increase network viewership. Apparently, he was once Cosmo’s Bachelor of the Month, back in his days as a New York architect.”
“But doesn’t the network have a staff of makeup people?”
“Yes, but the one assigned to the show is having a problem with her pregnancy and just when I was about to hire another one”—he pointed a fry at her—“you called and said you were down to your last five hundred bucks. Now you have a job—with all your expenses paid for the next three months, I might add.”
“But you said I was your assistant!”
“You are my assistant, Ginger. But you’re als
o gonna have to be the makeup artist. I can’t afford both. It’ll look good to my dad if I come in under budget, so before you ask, I’m not paying you both salaries. I’ve already earmarked that money for a couple of other upgrades to the show.”
“I don’t want both salaries, Diesel. And I’m very grateful for the job, but what makes you think I’m qualified to be a makeup artist?”
Diesel swallowed another bite of his sandwich. “You took two years of stage production at Juilliard. And you did your own makeup all those years when you were in your mom’s ballet company. I’ve seen your work. It’s magical.”
Magical, yeah, if they were filming Beauty and the Beast, she thought to herself. Somehow Ginger didn’t think that was what the network had in mind. She stared at Diesel. His enthusiasm—like his confidence—was so fragile right now. She didn’t dare let him down. Not when she owed him so much. She forced her lips into a tight smile meant to reassure him. At the same time, her mind whirled with fear. And possibilities. Her dad often said she was like a cat, graceful and fluid and always landing on her feet. Which, in a way, was true. Ginger Walsh did always land on her feet. Of course, at the rate she was going, she’d blow through the nine lives before she hit thirty.
“Okay.” She pushed her half-eaten sandwich to the side. “The B and B has Internet access, right?”
“Sure.” Diesel dragged a fry through some ketchup before putting it in his mouth.
“Great.” She was still friends with several of the makeup artists from the soap. If she was lucky, she could Skype with one or two of them later that night to pick up some pointers. “I’m going to head back, then.” Ginger hoisted her messenger bag off the floor and stood up from the table.
“Give me a minute to finish my lunch and I’ll drive you,” Diesel said. “It’s clear across town.”
He was right; the inn was clear across town. But since Chances Inlet boasted only one stoplight, “clear across town” barely equaled three New York City blocks. Obviously, Diesel had gone soft in the six weeks he’d been in North Carolina for the show’s preproduction.