Second Chances Boxed Set: 7 Sweet & Sexy Romances in 1 Book

by Tracey Alvarez

  Shaye cut her an embarrassed glance and Piper knew her sister would be having words with Holly later. The slender woman with the fuchsia streak in her sable colored hair fussed with her fringe. Currently working in Oban’s grocery store and moonlighting as a hairdresser, Holly had been Shaye’s bestie since primary school, and was still loyal to a fault.

  Holly partially turned with a clipped, “Hi,” before resuming her grooming.

  Bree, the third member of Piper’s schoolgirl cronies, continued to apply another coat of mascara, her parted, gloss-slicked lips reflected in the mirror. Only Queen Bee would think to touch up her make-up before getting down and dirty on a rugby field.

  Un-freaking-believable.

  Bree’s mascara wand made a sharp click as she jabbed it back into the tube. Smoothing non-existent wrinkles in her pink tee shirt, she turned and leaned against the sink.

  “So kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to help our little team.”

  Honestly. There were half a dozen snarky remarks she could choose from to remind Bree she was just the biggest fish in a teeny-tiny pond, but the déjà vu of high school struck her right on the funny bone.

  “Happy to help—so long as you’re not planning to reenact the shower scene from Carrie where you start hurling sanitary products at me.”

  Mouths dropped, and a couple women made choked snorting noises. Bree uttered a sharp bark of laughter before moving to the center bench and snatching up a pink shirt. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your good taste in humor.” She tossed the shirt over Lani’s and Kezia’s heads.

  Piper snagged the shirt with one hand. “And I’m glad to see you still insist on picking a color that appeals to the six-year-old princess trapped inside you.”

  Bree raised an immaculately shaped brow. “Since my business is sponsoring the women’s team uniform, I got to choose the color.”

  “Such a sophisticated choice.”

  That almost forced a genuine smile out of her. “Are you still fast on your feet, Piper? Or has your bum gotten fat after years of coffee and donut stakeouts?”

  “Think you’ve been watching too many cop shows.” Erin rose on tiptoes to angle a better view out the window. “Now, take our local lawman, Noah, out there—nothing wrong with his bum at all, not from where I stand.”

  Holly raced to the window and elbowed Erin over. “Praise Jesus—he’s doing lunges now!”

  “I bags full body tackling him,” Tarryn said.

  “Nobody tackles anybody,” Bree said. “That’s why it’s called ‘touch’ rugby.”

  The other three women who weren’t ogling ignored Bree and made a beeline for the window. Piper stripped off her tee shirt and slid her arms into the sleeves of the pink monstrosity.

  “Oooh… are there any bits we can’t touch?” Kezia said, turning back to give Piper a quick wink. “And can someone explain why we have to wear bike shorts, while the guys wear ordinary rugby shorts?”

  “Men don’t look good in Lycra hot pants, Kez.” Shaye had given up on the cluster of women by the window and climbed onto the bench for a better view.

  “West does,” Piper said.

  Ohhhh…crap. A total brain-edit-fail moment.

  Piper stretched the tee shirt over her head. Maybe no one heard amongst all the lusting noises. Pink knit fabric, probably close to the shade of her burning face, slid past her nose as she looked up to seven pairs of unblinking eyes.

  “Really?” Holly said, with an utterly evil grin. “How good?”

  Piper’s disgustingly accurate memory did a u-turn back to West rising out of the pool in those snug training shorts. Or West wearing nothing but his yoga pants.

  Her face flamed hotter as she hauled the tee shirt down over her sports bra. “Aren’t we meant to be out on the field by now? They’re all waiting for us.”

  “Piper and West sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n—” Piper shoved Shaye off the bench.

  Various other lewd comments were directed Piper’s way before Bree silenced them with three sharp claps and an imperious voice. “Ladies? We have a game to win—out, out, out!” She hustled the others from the changing rooms with a pointed look back at Piper, leaving her alone with Shaye.

  Piper clapped her hands over her face and sat down on the bench.

  “Bet you wish they had thrown tampons,” Shaye said.

  “God, yeah.”

  “Your face is very red.”

  “Thank you for that insightful observation, dear sister. Now leave me to my humiliation.” Piper unzipped her kitbag and dragged out the spare pair of rugby boots Shaye loaned her.

  Shaye sat down next to her and laid a cool palm on her leg as Piper slid her foot into the cleated boot and started lacing. “You like West, huh? Like him a lot.”

  “You’ve come to that conclusion on the basis that I said he looked good in Lycra?” Did her tone sound incredulous? Probably not enough to fool Shaye.

  “I came to that conclusion because you sometimes use snooty words when you’re covering something up. And because I’ve seen the way you look at him when you think no one’s watching.”

  “Shaye—”

  “Have you slept with him yet?”

  Piper gawped.

  “That’s a no then. Well, have you kissed him?”

  “What makes you think I kissed him? Maybe he kissed me!” Then her brain caught up and she stopped in the middle of lacing her boot. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

  Shaye giggled. “For a hardened police officer, you’re surprisingly easy to interrogate.”

  “I’m not hardened.” Hardened on the outside, maybe. If only she could harden herself on the inside, where it mattered.

  “Most of the girls think you are.”

  “I bet most of the girls think a lot of things about me right now.” Piper dropped her elbows to her knees and rested her forehead in her cupped palms.

  “Yep, and they’ll expect to hear all the deets at the beach bonfire tonight.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Course you are.”

  “No.” Piper lifted her head. “I’m not. A group of women who’d gain orgasmic pleasure witnessing my ongoing humiliation at the Westlakes’ annual bonfire after this morning’s slip of the tongue, are not people I’d voluntarily hang out with.”

  “You’ve got some weird ideas about your friends, sis.”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  “Yeah, they are. And the ones you don’t know could be, if you’d let them.”

  “Puh-lease, Pollyanna.”

  Shaye shrugged and squeezed Piper’s knee. “You’re coming tonight, Pipe, or I’ll tell everyone you’re crushing on West and want to have his babies.”

  Piper hoped the glare she turned on her sister disguised the lurching thump of her heart. “You’re such a brat.”

  “Agreed. Now let’s go chase some good-looking men around a muddy field.”

  Muddy hair, muddy face, and mud plastering his shorts and top to his skin. Twenty minutes into the game and all was good with the world.

  West swiped a hand across his forehead as a light rain began to fall. A bloom of multi-colored umbrellas sprouted up at the sidelines. He glanced to the other end of the field where the women’s team clustered in a circle, his gaze automatically honing in on Piper’s rangy, thoroughly mud-covered form. The guys’ team was at a serious disadvantage with six hot females in tight, wet clothing running around. Or maybe he was the only one distracted by a certain hot female.

  He dragged his gaze away from the curve of Piper’s ass as she bent down to re-lace her boot, and glared at the huddle of men around him.

  “Right. Kip and Joe, you’re on the bench until the last ten minutes, then we’ll sub you in to win this thing.”

  Opposite him, Gav Reynolds spat on the trampled grass. “Women are kicking our sorry asses out there.”

  “Would help if you’d stop getting so many penalties,” Ford said.

  Gav swore, his Due South t
eam shirt straining over his puffed-out chest.

  Ford’s dad, Rob, grunted and shook his head. “Chill, Gav.”

  Ben, complete with his plastic bag covered cast and crutches, elbowed further into the group from where he’d watched the game on the sidelines. “The ref’s already threatened to send you off for misconduct, Gav, so stop acting like such a douche and leave Kezia and Piper alone.”

  Gav swung toward Ben. “What business is it of yours?”

  “It’s my sister and her friend you’re gunning for.” Ben refused to budge.

  So even Ben noticed Gav’s amped-up aggression toward the two women—accidently shoving Piper out of the way, taking the term “touch” to mean grabbing Kezia’s ass. And it hadn’t escaped his attention that Piper kept heckling Gav, putting herself between him and Kezia. Like a rodeo clown distracting a pissed off bull.

  The ref’s whistle blew a long continuous blast. End of half-time break.

  “Watch your step, Reynolds,” was all West said as they jogged onto the field—when what really burned on his tongue was, “Touch Piper again and you’ll be pissing blood for a week.”

  “Bunch of pussy-whipped little girls.” Gav moved to his position as left wing on the sideline.

  West walked onto the field, spectators clapping and bellowing advice. Blocking out the rush of super-heated testosterone that made him want to punch something until his knuckles were bloody, West looked down the opposite end of the field where Piper jogged in place, calling out last minute instructions to her teammates.

  A short whistle blast pierced the air and they were off.

  The women flew across the grass toward them, determination to make it to the men’s try line etched in the stubborn set of their jaws. Gav homed in on Kezia, who had the ball, his teeth bared. Pumping his arms faster, West charged after him, until he was close enough to spot Piper coming up on Kezia’s left side, her gaze also rooted to Gav’s murderous expression.

  “To your left, Kez,” Piper shouted and to Kezia’s credit she didn’t hesitate, tossing the ball left in a textbook on-the-fly pass. Piper caught the ball and put on a burst of speed— straight toward Gav.

  It happened so fast, so smoothly, that if he hadn’t watched with such vested interest in the son-of-a-bitch now targeting his woman, he would’ve missed it. Piper feinted left and immediately changed direction and ducked right, intending to dodge past Gav. Gav, having wised up to her modus operandi, didn’t fall for it and slammed his body right, his elbow connecting with Piper’s stomach and knocking her clear off her feet.

  The ref’s whistle shrieked, the crowd roared, and voices shouted all around him.

  A red haze blurred his vision as he covered the last few feet to where Gav smirked down at Piper, who curled on her side in the mud. West dived, hammering Gav in a full body tackle.

  Kill him. He’d bloody kill him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rough arms pulled him up, and blood, bitter and warm, flooded his mouth. Voices hollered his name—Ford, Joe, and Noah—and someone pinned his arms so he couldn’t swing at Gav again.

  Noah’s deep growl finally penetrated beyond the rasp of his labored breathing. “Don’t turn this from fisticuffs into an assault, West. I don’t want to arrest you.”

  He glared at Gav, hauled to his feet by Rob, Kip, and even West’s skinny dish-hand, Fraser, who looked a little grossed out at the blood pouring from Gav’s flattened nose. His gaze flew to where he’d last seen Piper, curled in the mud. She sat a short distance away with her head drooping between her bent knees, arms wrapped around her stomach. Kezia and Shaye crouched at her side, the other four women in a unified circle behind them, shooting venomous glances at Gav.

  West rolled his shoulders to loosen his wire-taut muscles and met Noah’s gaze. “I’m done.”

  Joe released West’s right arm and slapped him on the back. “Jaysus, that’s a killer right hook you’ve got there. Knuckles okay?”

  “I’ll live, Doc.” West flexed his hands but didn’t bother looking at them. “Have you checked out Piper?”

  “The prick hit her like a Mac truck,” Ford said from West’s other side, he too letting go of his arm and thumping West’s back. “He was due a good hiding anyway.”

  “Now you’ve got yourself under control, I’ll check the state of her, but it seems your lady’s just winded.” Joe walked over to the cluster of women.

  If his jaw, knuckles, and stomach—where Gav got in a couple of lucky punches—hadn’t throbbed like a mother, West might’ve had the energy to correct the doctor.

  Piper was not his lady. Or his girl, his woman, or his frickin’ girlfriend.

  He didn’t know what she was. But seeing Reynold’s plow into Piper smashed open a floodgate of protectiveness and, okay, he confessed, a gut-clawing possessiveness.

  The referee appeared in front of them, red-faced and harried. “The other bloke’s gone off field already, but sorry, mate, you’re out too.”

  West raised his palms. “No worries. Just let me make sure the lady he hit is okay.”

  The ref nodded. “Couple of minutes, then.”

  Around him the crowd murmured and a few people pointed over his shoulder, wide-eyed and whispering, but West blocked the rising chatter of voices and strode toward Piper. Spotting her mud-covered legs and the crown of her short hair sticking up in wet spikes, the urge to scoop her up and cradle her into his chest kicked his heart into a mad gallop.

  Her head lifted, those clear hazel eyes zeroing in on his. Could she see what he thought? How much he wanted her, how deep she undermined every wall of resistance he threw up? He froze, locked in place. Before he could take another step, a hand grabbed his forearm. He started, so caught up in his single-minded purpose to reach Piper he’d been unaware of anyone else nearby.

  “Ryan.”

  There were only two people who ever called him Ryan and only one of them still held the flat, monotone drawl of a Californian accent.

  His head whipped around. “Ma? What the hell are you doing here?”

  Steady blue eyes looked back at him. Eyes that hadn’t changed, although his mother’s rosy skin had wrinkles, and her hair—in his memory glossy brown and falling in waves to her waist—now cut in a sensible bob, streaked with fine threads of dulled silver. “We need to talk, Ryan.”

  Tension ratcheted up his spine. Holy hell—his father! What would he think of Claire’s sudden presence back in Oban? Adding a heart attack to Bill’s kidney issues when he came face to face with his ex-wife wasn’t something West wanted to contemplate. “You need to leave before Dad finds out you’re here.”

  “Bill already knows I’m here. I went straight to him when I got off the ferry this morning. I’m not leaving and the three of us need to talk.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. This had turned into his year for women showing up unwanted and refusing to bloody leave. “I’m busy—right in the middle of a rugby game in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  His ma cut him a sharp glance. “Looks to me your game was over the moment you pounded the Reynolds boy.”

  “He’s not a boy, he’s a hundred kilo wanker who slammed into my—” dammit, she was not his woman, would never be his “—into Piper.”

  Why had his brain fixated on this when his mother, who he hadn’t seen since he was twenty-one, stood two feet away? And, what—Bill knew she was here?

  His father lumbered across the field toward them, a thunderous expression on his face. This just kept getting better. A frickin’ Westlake reunion. “Don’t tell me Del is here too.”

  “No, Del’s still in LA, but…” His mother’s voice trailed off the same instant he sensed Piper behind him.

  Sidestepping, West shook his head at them, trying to find some relief from the pressure crushing his skull, the adrenalized blood surging through his system. He needed to get away from his prodigal mother and the curious stares of the locals, away from the pain his father must be suffering at seeing Claire again, but most of all,
away from Piper, quietly watching him while the walls closed in.

  “I can’t deal with you at the moment. Give me a break, all right?” He raised a hand, his bones feeling like they’d been hollowed out and filled with lead. “Just give me a break.”

  Without meeting Piper’s eyes again he spun around and jogged off the field, pretending he wasn’t doing exactly what he always accused Piper of—running away.

  Piper stormed up to West’s house, his mother’s tears fresh in her mind. She’d come to look after Bill, Claire had told her after West stormed off. And while Piper understood why West wouldn’t be happy to see his mother—honestly—shouting at her and stomping off the pitch?

  Assuring Claire she’d talk some sense into West, or at least, calm him down enough to listen to reason, she left the field five minutes after his departure. She hadn’t even stopped to change out of her rugby gear. She paused in West’s downstairs hallway, toeing off her boots. Well, too bad about the trail of mud across West’s floor.

  She climbed the stairs and pushed open his bedroom door, the splash and hiss of his en suite shower the only sound in the stillness. A quick, curious glance around the masculine pewter and white color-schemed room revealed no surprises, but the polished walnut piano beside the French doors tugged a gasp from her chest. Claire’s piano—he still had it. And from the exposed keyboard and scatter of sheet music on top, it wasn’t just decoration. He still played. But not since she became an unwelcome houseguest.

  “Hey,” she shouted. “I wanna talk to you.”

  “Leave me alone, Piper,” West’s voice rose above the running water.

  He hadn’t told her to “piss off” or “stop bitching at me and go back to the city.” Progress, right?

  “Not this time.” Catching West in the shower meant she’d have a captive audience.