Praise for the novels of Deirdre Martin
Icebreaker
“[Icebreaker] made me laugh, swoon, and just enjoy myself.”
—About Happy Books
“Icebreaker is a smart and down-to-earth romance…Deirdre Martin has an absolute winner on her hands…Utterly enjoyable and genuine.”
—A Romance Review(Five Roses)
“Deirdre Martin’s books are always enjoyable, full of life…Great read!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
Straight Up
“Delightful…Filled with Irish charm and dialogue…An excellent novel.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Ms. Martin writes stories about real people in real relationships, which is refreshing in a world of fantastical plot setups and contrived conflicts.”
—All About Romance
“Straight Up abounds with energy, Irish humor, a little melancholy, but also plenty of love and happiness. Aislinn and Liam take a chance on love and it pays off in spades.”
—Romance Junkies
With a Twist
“Natalie and Quinn are excellently written as total opposites who are helpless against the attraction between them…A first-class contemporary romance.”
—Romance Junkies
“Funny, energetic, and loads of fun.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Power Play
“Contemporary romance doesn’t get much better than this.”
—All About Romance
“Deirdre Martin has another hit on her hands.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Sparkling banter and a couple with red-hot chemistry.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Just a Taste
“Another victory for Martin.”
—Booklist
“Be prepared to get a little hungry…Pick up Just a Taste for a tempting read you won’t want to put down.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Chasing Stanley
“Martin has a way of bringing her dissimilar characters together that rings true, and fans and curious new readers won’t want to miss her latest hockey-themed romance.”
—Booklist
The Penalty Box
“[Martin] can touch the heart and the funny bone.”
—Romance Junkies
“Martin scores another goal with another witty, emotionally true-to-life, and charming hockey romance.”
—Booklist
“Fun, fast.”
—Publishers Weekly
Total Rush
“Deirdre Martin is the reason I read romance novels.”
—The Best Reviews
“Martin’s inventive take on opposites attracting is funny and poignant.”
—Booklist
“Makes you feel like you’re flying.”
—Rendezvous
Fair Play
“Martin depicts the worlds of both professional hockey and ethnic Brooklyn with deftness and smart detail. She has an unerring eye for humorous family dynamics.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Makes you feel like you’re flying.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Body Check
“Heartwarming.”
—Booklist
“One of the best first novels I have read in a long time.”
—All About Romance (Desert Isle Keeper)
“You don’t have to be a hockey fan to cheer for Body Check.”
—The Word on Romance
“A dazzling debut.”
—Millie Criswell, USA Today bestselling author
Titles by Deirdre Martin
BODY CHECK
FAIR PLAY
TOTAL RUSH
THE PENALTY BOX
CHASING STANLEY
JUST A TASTE
POWER PLAY
WITH A TWIST
STRAIGHT UP
ICEBREAKER
BREAKAWAY
Anthologies
HOT TICKET
(with Julia London, Annette Blair, and Geri Buckley)
DOUBLE THE PLEASURE
(with Lori Foster, Jacquie D’Alessandro, and Penny McCall)
Breakaway
Deirdre Martin
BERKLEY SENSATION, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
BREAKAWAY
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / February 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Deirdre Martin.
Cover art: Photo of couple by Lott Reps; photo of background by Shutterstock.
Cover design by George Long.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
EISBN: 9781101559932
BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
For my best friend of forty years,
Jane Dashow.
I love you.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to:
Jane Dashow, without whose help this book could not have been written.
Additional thanks to:
My husband, the ever patient Mark Levine.
My extremely patient editor, Kate Seaver.
My terrific agent, Miriam Kriss.
&nbs
p; Fatin Soufan, Binnie Braunstein, Eileen Buchholtz, and Dee Tenorio.
Mom, Dad, Bill, Allison, Frankie, Aine, Sinead, Dave, and Tom.
Table of Contents
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2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
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18
19
20
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26
27
28
29
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32
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35
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37
38
39
40
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42
Acknowledgments
1
Lord, please don’t let there be any truth to the saying, “This is the first day of the rest of your life,” thought Erin O’Brien, as she shoved guests’ dirty sheets into the massive washer in the basement. Ever since her parents had purchased Ballycraig’s sole B and B, she’d come to feel like an indentured servant. Helping her mother run the place was supposed to be temporary until they found “the right kind of help.” Apparently, no one in the village was right for catering to the PJ Leary fanatics who made up the bulk of the visitors. Months had crawled by, and Erin was still here, relegated to the less glamorous tasks: laundry, housecleaning, dishes. The worst part was, she did it all for free, out of what mother liked to term “family unity.”
Unity? I guess Da and Brian are exempt.
She envied her brother: Brian had left town as soon as he got married, an IT job waiting for him in Liverpool. It was a great career opportunity, except it left their father all alone to run Ballycraig’s sole auto shop, which he’d bought from Ned Sykes when the old man retired. For years, her father and brother had worked as mechanics in nearby Balla. Now, her poor father was working with a very green assistant who’d already come close to crushing himself under a number of cars.
“How’s it going down there?” her mother yelled from the top of the basement steps.
“Fine,” Erin shouted back, peering up at her mother’s creased, anxious face. “Dad did a great job fixing the washer. Could be a second career for him.”
“No need to be cheeky.”
“I’m not!”
“Nevertheless, watch yourself.” Her mother checked her watch. “Christ, the first of the weekend guests will be here in three hours. Would you be a love and go to the supermarket in Moneygall for me?”
Erin’s shoulders slumped. “Mam—”
“Asking too much, am I?”
Erin felt guilty. “No, it’s just you’ve more than enough time to go to the market yourself. You’ll be back here and baking before they’ve even arrived.”
“Assuming the buses are running on time.” She looked fretful. “Normally I wouldn’t ask you to shop on such short notice, love. You know that. It’s just that I’ve got so much to do…”
God help me, Erin thought. I really need to get my license. If I don’t, I’m always going to be hostage to a bus timetable, or worse.
“Relax, all right? You know I’ll do it.”
“You’re a good girl, Erin.”
“A patsy, more like,” Erin grumbled to herself. Her mother was still peering down at her with a distressed expression. “Mam, calm down. I just said I’d do it, so why do you still look so upset? All you achieve by fretting and wringing your hands is driving yourself, and everyone around you, mad. You’re going to give yourself a stroke, and for what?”
“I know, I know,” her mother agreed distractedly. “It’s just that I want it all to be perfect, you know?”
“Perfection doesn’t exist.”
Her mother snorted. “Oh, so now you’re a philosopher, I see. You should be down at the pub with that Holy Trinity of Dimwits, sitting at the bar, each one thinking they’re the next Stephen Fry.”
The criticism stung, but Erin refrained from saying what she was thinking: I can never win with you. She didn’t want things to escalate, especially since her mother could go from zero to fifty in the rage department in seconds. Also, that same thought had been running through Erin’s head since she was twelve. It would sound pathetic coming from the mouth of a grown woman. Still, she did have a right to defend herself.
“I’m not being philosophical. I’m just trying to point out that you drive yourself mad unnecessarily.”
Erin could tell by her mother’s lack of response that this conversation was going in one ear and out the other. Her mother had always been anxious, but now she bordered on high-strung. Erin worried that one day, she’d just keel over dead from a stroke.
“I’ll leave you a list on the kitchen counter, all right?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a good girl,” her mother repeated.
Too good, Erin thought. She took comfort in knowing her escape plan was firmly in place and that she would, sooner or later, be free. She double-checked behind her to make sure the washer was still tumbling properly and headed up the stairs.
* * *
“Chores” done, Erin went to her room, locking the door behind her. She and her parents now occupied the top floor of the guest house, the sale of their family home and some land having provided the bulk of the money to buy the B and B.
She caught her reflection in the mirror atop the scratched bureau from her childhood. You’re no great shakes, she told herself. Nothing special to look at. But in the career she’d be pursuing, looks didn’t matter.
Her eyes traveled the room, caressing the reproductions of some of her favorite artwork that she’d pinned to the walls to help fend off dreariness: Frida Kahlo, the bright reds of Henri Matisse, fields of heart-lifting bright yellow sunflowers by van Gogh, and Irish landscape artist Henry McGrane’s gentle impressions of spring. Erin was pursuing an art history degree online with the Open University. Most people would think it impractical, even odd. Erin didn’t care: she loved art, and it was something she’d pursued off and on while Rory was away at college. Now that Rory was out of her life, she could do as she wanted, no putting her dreams on hold for that selfish bastard. No one knew she was almost done with her degree but her best friend, Sandra.
Rory Brady. Just thinking about him sometimes made her feel like a twit. Ballycraig’s local idiot, that’s who she was, too stupid to tell when she was being played. How many times had she replayed their years-long relationship in her mind? Why did she insist on torturing herself? The story always ended the same way: her life in tatters and his looking brighter and brighter, the first Irish-born man playing in the NHL for the New York Blades.
Rory’s face swam up in her mind’s eye. Her mam had always said he looked like David Beckham, and it was true. If he were a pop star, girls would be breaking into his house just to catch a glimpse of that dirty blond hair and blue eyes. It was a sin that a man should have eyes that beautiful and be such an SOB.
They’d started dating when they were just babies, fourteen years old. It was casual at first, but soon turned serious. Very serious, then committed, even when his family moved to America a year later. They spent eight years of trying to find a place to be alone when his family returned to Ballycraig for the summer, eight years of her arguing with her parents about going to visit him in the States. One memory in particular dashed back at her: It was early evening, and the sky had gone all gray dusk and pink. She and Rory were lounging beneath the big oak tree in Old Man McDonagh’s field, the sun filtering through the latticework of the leaves. The Lover’s Tree, it was called, because the old man never minded couples loafing beneath it. Rory was leaning back against the tree, and she was stretched out with her head in his lap. It felt like they were in a p
oem.
Rory looked down at her, smiling. “I was thinking it might be nice if our wedding ceremony was just you and me, and some old padre saying the words in an ancient church, the only light coming from a blaze of candles surrounding us.”
Erin settled into his lap dreamily. “That’s very romantic.”
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