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Second Chance Summer
Irene Hannon
Restoring HeartsWhen Rachel Shaw and Jack Fletcher meet on a sunny Georgia beach, it seems like the perfect start to a romance. There's just one problem–neither one is the least bit interested in falling in love. They're just looking for peace, and time to work through their losses. But Rachel's aunt Eleanor and Fletch's Gram have other plans. Their meddling matchmaking would drive Rachel and Fletch nuts if they weren't busy restoring a house for one of Gram's charities. Yet as they repair the house, it's their hearts that begin to mend. Soon Rachel and Fletch realize they might be able to build a second chance at a great love.
Restoring Hearts
When Rachel Shaw and Jack Fletcher meet on a sunny Georgia beach, it seems like the perfect start to a romance. There’s just one problem—neither one is the least bit interested in falling in love. They’re just looking for peace, and time to work through their losses. But Rachel’s aunt Eleanor and Fletch’s Gram have other plans. Their meddling matchmaking would drive Rachel and Fletch nuts if they weren’t busy restoring a house for one of Gram’s charities. Yet as they repair the house, it’s their hearts that begin to mend. Soon Rachel and Fletch realize they might be able to build a second chance at a great love.
“We meet again.”
As he parroted her words from Sunday back to her, she came to an abrupt halt.
Fletch gestured toward the overstuffed tote bags. “You look like you could use a hand. Where are you parked?”
Rachel finally looked up—and his breath jammed in his lungs.
Her jade eyes shimmered, and when she swallowed and moistened her lips, a twinge of some unidentifiable emotion tugged at his heart.
He cleared his throat—and softened his tone. “Your car?”
Rachel gestured to her right. “The silver Focus.” As she led the way soft wisps of hair that had escaped her braid whispered at the neck of her sleeveless knit top, calling out to be touched.
While she popped the trunk with the remote, he took a deep breath.
Don’t go there, Fletcher. Rachel Shaw might be attractive, but you don’t need a summertime romance. She’s the niece of your grandmother’s best friend. This would only complicate your life.
IRENE HANNON,
who writes both romance and romantic suspense, is the author of more than forty novels. Her books have been honored with two coveted RITA® Awards, a National Readers’ Choice Award, a Carol Award, two HOLT Medallions, a Retailers Choice Award, a Daphne du Maurier Award and two Reviewers’ Choice Awards from RT Book Reviews magazine. In addition, she is a Christy Award finalist, and Booklist named one of her novels a “Top 10 Inspirational Fiction” title for 2011. A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, Irene now writes full-time from her home in Missouri. For more information, visit www.irenehannon.com (http://www.irenehannon.com).
Second Chance Summer
Irene Hannon
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Many are the plans of the human heart,
but it is the decision of the Lord that endures.
—Proverbs 19:21
To the Hannon clan—
Mom & Dad
Jim, Teresa, Catherine & Maureen
My husband, Tom (an honorary Hannon!)
And to Jekyll…our special island
Thanks for the memories.
Contents
Chapter One (#u167cf0e4-647c-5506-904b-f3ffc0bec1fe)
Chapter Two (#u9882614d-2d97-5c4b-8eae-18ec84f35811)
Chapter Three (#u0306c4a8-c988-5204-bb66-3ebbd725d017)
Chapter Four (#ud817caf0-ac0e-5727-a898-9b0fc1fc75bf)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Man, could that guy swim.
Under cover of her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, Rachel Shaw kept a discreet eye on the powerful shoulders cutting through the water a hundred feet beyond the crashing surf. The swimmer was moving as fast and effortlessly as the ubiquitous Jekyll Island dolphins that had been cavorting in almost that same spot yesterday.
And he’d been at it since before she’d arrived on the beach twenty minutes ago. Yet other than the few brief times he’d floated on his back while switching strokes, he showed no sign of tiring or slowing down.
Impressive.
A soft, snuffling sigh sounded close to her ear, and she looked over at the golden retriever flopped down next to her low-slung beach chair. He, too, was watching the figure in the water—until he turned to her with a pleading “Can we please swim, too?” look.
“Sorry, boy.” She patted his head. “I promised Aunt Eleanor I wouldn’t bring you home sopping wet. But we’ll play a quick game of Frisbee in a few minutes.”
At the word Frisbee, his ears perked up and his tail began to sweep the sand.
“I thought you’d like that. But give me five more minutes to veg.”
Leaning back in her chair, Rachel tossed her book into her tote bag, abandoning any pretense of reading. It wasn’t every day a woman got treated to such a demonstration of athletic prowess. And a quick scan left and right confirmed she had the show all to herself. Ah, deserted beaches—one of the beauties of summering on an off-the-beaten-path barrier island in Georgia.
Well, not quite deserted.
Her gaze swung back to the man in the water—who suddenly changed direction and headed for shore.
As Rachel followed his progress, her canine companion put his chin on her knee.
“Getting anxious, are we?” She gave him a distracted pat, her focus still on the dark-haired swimmer as she waited for him to stride from the sea like some mighty Greek god, all muscles and brawn and sinew.
Didn’t happen.
Instead, he washed up on shore like a limp piece of seaweed, then scuttled backward with his hands, away from the frothy surf.
Sheesh.
Talk about a letdown.
Adjusting her glasses, Rachel watched him fiddle with his ankle as he sat at the waterline. Maybe he’d had a close encounter with one of the jellyfish that were sometimes a painful nuisance here.
At the soft whimper beside her, she tugged the Frisbee out of her tote bag. Whatever was going on with that guy, he seemed well able to take care of himself.
“Okay, boy. You’ve been patient. Time for a quick game.”
After settling her hat more firmly on her head, she stood and moved away from her chair. Throwing against the stiff breeze would be nuts; better to face the swimmer and aim the Frisbee his direction.
As she made the first toss, the man rose to his feet, diverting her attention.
Squinting into the sun, she peered at his left knee. Was that an elastic bandage?
Even as the question echoed in her mind, he sent her a quick look, picked up the towel that was draped over his duffel bag...and turned his back without the merest hint of appreciative interest.
Huh.
That wasn’t the usual male response when she wore her swimsuit.
At the unexpected twinge of disappointment, Rachel huffed out a breath, straightened her shoulders and smoothed a hand over her hip. She might not be eighteen anymore, but her thirty-three-year-old body had held up fine.
Besides, why should she care whether a stranger noticed her? It wasn’t as if romance was on her agenda for this visit. Her goals were the same this year as they’d been for the past three summers: rest, recharge and renew. And a broad-shouldered guy who swam like a fish wasn’t going to change that—no matter how good-looking he might be.
She took the Frisbee from her eager companion and tossed it again, doing her best to give the other occupant of the beach the same I-couldn’t-care-less treatment he was giving her.
Except a gust of wind snatched the Frisbee and hurled it straight toward the man’s back as he pulled a T-shirt over his head—and her canine friend, in hot pursuit, was focused only on the soaring blue plastic disk.
Uh-oh.
“Hey!” Rachel jogged forward, waving her arms. As the distance between man and dog shrank at a frightening pace, her pulse tripped into fast forward and she doubled her volume. “Hey, mister!”
Just as the man turned, seventy pounds of golden fur took flight toward the broad chest.
Rachel came to an abrupt halt, cringed and closed her eyes.
Five seconds ticked by before she had the courage to peek at the scene.
It wasn’t pretty.
The man was flat on his back. Her aunt’s dog—not her dog, she’d be clear about that—was nosing through the guy’s stuff, which must have flown out of his duffel bag in the melee.
“Bandit! Get back here! Right now!”
Excellent retriever that he was, her aunt’s dog snatched up the Frisbee and streaked toward her, leaving the guy in the dust...er, sand.
“Hey! Bring that back!” Anger nipped at the man’s voice as he righted himself, yanked down his T-shirt and slammed on a pair of sunglasses.
Bandit bounded up, tail wagging, and sat at her feet—holding a flipper that was the same color as the Frisbee.
Great.
But, hey. Anyone could make a mistake, right? The flipper looked a lot like the Frisbee at first glance. Sort of. To a dog. Maybe.
Somehow, though, Rachel doubted the man striding toward her was going to see it that way.
Especially since he’d just been flattened by the dog in question.
Better to jump in fast and get the apologies over before he reamed her about losing control of her dog and threatened a lawsuit for bodily injuries. Although other than that bandage on his knee, he appeared to be in fine condition.
Her gaze lingered on the bandage. Dropped lower.
Wait.
It wasn’t a bandage.
It wasn’t even a real leg.
The man was wearing a prosthesis.
Good grief.
