Second Chance Summer

by Irene Hannon

  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.

  Books by Irene Hannon

  Love Inspired

  *Home for the Holidays

  *A Groom of Her Own

  *A Family to Call Her Own

  It Had to Be You

  One Special Christmas

  The Way Home

  Never Say Goodbye

  Crossroads

  †The Best Gift

  †Gift from the Heart

  †The Unexpected Gift

  All Our Tomorrows

  The Family Man

  Rainbow’s End

  **From This Day Forward

  **A Dream to Share

  **Where Love Abides

  Apprentice Father

  ††Tides of Hope

  ††The Hero Next Door

  ††The Doctor’s Perfect Match

  ††A Father for Zach

  Child of Grace

  §Seaside Reunion

  §Finding Home

  §Seaside Blessings

  Second Chance Summer

  *Vows

  †Sisters & Brides

  **Heartland Homecoming

  ††Lighthouse Lane

  §Starfish Bay

  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.

  SECOND CHANCE SUMMER

  Irene Hannon

  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

  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

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Questions for Discussion

  Excerpt

  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 pe
ered 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.

  Her aunt’s dog had tackled a man with one leg.

  Was there any possible way she could transform herself into a sand crab and disappear into the beach?

  As Rachel stared at his leg, a blue Frisbee held by long, lean, sun-browned fingers appeared in her field of vision.

  She jerked her head up, heat rising on her cheeks.

  Smart move, Rachel. Add insult to injury by gawking.

  “I think this is yours.” He passed her the Frisbee.

  She couldn’t read his eyes behind his dark glasses, but she had no trouble deciphering his tone.

  He was ticked.

  Big-time.

  Clenching the fingers of one hand around the edge of the disk, she leaned down, took the flipper from Bandit and handed it over. “Look...I’m really sorry about this. Are you hurt?”

  “I’ve had more painful falls.”

  Her first instinct was to glance back at his leg.

  She quashed it.

  “That flipper does look kind of like a Frisbee.” She aimed a distracted wave toward the appendage in his hand.

  “A swim fin doesn’t look anything like a Frisbee.”

  At his correction, her chin lifted a notch. Flipper, fin, who cared? “Maybe it does to a dog. And for the record, Bandit is very friendly. But when he’s focused on retrieving, he tends to be oblivious to everything else.”

  The man regarded the dog. “Bandit. An apt name. I can see why you picked it.”

  Rachel appraised him. Was that a touch of amusement in his voice?

  Maybe.

  She softened her tone. “Actually, he belongs to my great-aunt. So on behalf of both her and Bandit, I apologize again. You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep her gaze from flicking down to his leg.

  The sudden stiffening of his posture was subtle but unmistakable. “I’m fine. But you might want to keep that guy on a leash around kids. A forty-pound child wouldn’t have fared as well.” He leaned down and patted Bandit, but his cool tone suggested he was far less willing to forgive her faux pas. “And for the record,” he parroted her own words back at her, “I’m no more prone to injury than a man who has two good legs.”

  With that, he turned away and headed toward his towel.

  Rachel watched his retreating back, fanning her burning cheeks with the Frisbee.

  That had gone really well.

  Bandit nudged her leg, and she looked down at her canine friend. At least her aunt’s dog liked her.

  “Sorry, big guy. I think we’d better cool it for a while.”

  Tail drooping, he skulked back to the beach chair and flopped down, chin on paws, angled away from her—the same cold treatment she’d gotten from the other occupant of the beach, who was packing up his gear to make a fast exit.

  With a sigh, Rachel trudged back to her chair and sat. As she did, one of the slats emitted an ominous crack.

  Three seconds later, she found herself sprawled on the sand, staring up at the dark clouds invading the blue sky.

  And hoping her rocky start to this year’s vacation wasn’t an omen of things to come.

  * * *

  Why in the world had he gotten so bent out of shape because some stranger had been taken aback by his prosthesis?

  Jack Fletcher strode toward his SUV, stabbed the remote on his key clip and tossed his beach gear into the backseat.

  After two and a half years, he should be past all that. He was past all that. It had been months since an awkward or uncomfortable or shocked reaction had rankled him.

  So what had happened back on the beach just now?

  He slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine and cranked up the air. Instead of putting the car in gear, however, he rested his arms on the wheel and considered that question.

  Most of the women he’d socialized with since reentering the dating game a year ago had never suspected he had a prosthesis. Why would they? After months of painful practice, he’d mastered a natural gait. And the couple of women he’d told—the ones who’d seemed as if they might have potential for more than a few laughs on a Friday or Saturday night—hadn’t appeared to be too bothered by the news.

  Then again, they’d already known him when he’d dropped the bombshell. He’d made certain of that.

  Too bad he hadn’t had an opportunity to lay the same groundwork with the woman on the beach.

  Expelling an annoyed breath, he shifted the SUV into drive. What did it matter, anyway? His mission here was straightforward and twofold: help Gram until she regained use of he
r broken wrist and try to keep his clients happy, despite the remote location. That was more than enough to occupy him for the next six or eight weeks. Impressing a shapely blonde with a friendly dog wasn’t part of the plan.

  Besides, the woman had been wearing a wedding ring. In all likelihood, she was here for a short family vacation. Maybe she’d dropped her kids at the Sea Turtle Center for one of the youth programs and decided to grab a few rays while her husband played golf. Assuming she was like most Jekyll Island visitors, she’d be gone in a week.

  If he was smart, he’d forget about her.

  Fletch pulled onto the main drag—such as it was—and pointed his SUV back toward Gram’s. Not a single car passed him as he cruised down the island’s two-lane circular road...a nice change from the Norfolk traffic. And in less than five minutes, he was swinging into the driveway of the tidy cottage Gram now called home. The short distances between destinations were also nice.

  He set the brake, snagged his duffel bag and exited into the heat. All was quiet in this octogenarian neighborhood. That, too, was welcome. He’d heard enough loud noises to last a lifetime.

  Still...this island’s gentle, laid-back nature could drive someone who was used to action stir-crazy—unless there was an interesting diversion or two.

  Like an attractive blonde.

  Not going to happen, Fletcher. Suck it up and just do your duty.

  Duty.

  A twinge of regret echoed in his soul as he closed the car door and started for the house. Duty...obligation...responsibility—yeah, he knew all about those. They were part of Navy SEAL DNA, on and off the job. Forever.

  He stepped up onto Gram’s porch on his artificial leg.

  He was here for the duration. That’s how SEALs operated. They didn’t let people down. No matter the cost.

  * * *

  “Did you have a pleasant time, dear?”

  Rachel pushed through the outside door to the screen porch and dropped her tote bag onto a wicker chair before responding to her great-aunt’s greeting. “It doesn’t get much better than an afternoon on a Jekyll Island beach.”

  “True enough. Why do you think I moved here twelve years ago?”