Making a Comeback

With a divorce in the works, Annabelle Jones heads out to Southern California, the land of sun and starting over. She wants to prove to herself and her young daughters that she still has what it takes to turn heads as a swimsuit model—that she doesn’t need a man to take care of her. Until an accident forces her to rely on the hunky, yet mysterious man next door...

Nathan Cooper is trying to revive his own career. Once a top left-handed relief pitcher, he tried to get over a hidden injury with the aid of banned substances. Not only was he caught and suspended, he was traded and missed out on winning the championship. Now he’s a free agent without a contract, and that means life is ready to play ball…

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More Than A Game Series

Better Than Perfect

Worth the Trade

Making A Comeback

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

More Than A Game Series

Kristina Mathews

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

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Copyright © 2015 by Kristina Mathews

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First Electronic Edition: July 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-999-6

eISBN-10: 1-61650-999-6

First Print Edition: July 2015

ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-462-1

ISBN-10: 1-60183-462-4

Printed in the United States of America

To my grandmother, who passed down her love of books to me.

I’m truly grateful for the overwhelming support I’ve received from family and friends since I started this journey of becoming a romance writer.

Today was a good day. A glorious day. Sitting at the stoplight in the Southern California sunshine, Annabelle Jones did a drum solo on the steering wheel of her convertible Mercedes. She didn’t care if people stared at her singing along to “Don’t Stop Believing.” She hadn’t stopped believing, and look at her now, fresh off her first modeling job since filing for divorce. So it wasn’t the cover of
Sports Illustrated
, still, it was a job. Something she could be proud of. Her daughters could be proud of her.

It wasn’t about the money. The income she earned from this modeling job was more about pride. Having something to offer the world, even if it was just her face.

Annabelle wanted to show her daughters that a woman didn’t need a man to take care of her. She could stand on her own two feet, and return to the career she’d given up when she married Clayton Barry. She might not fly off to exotic locations or work with the world’s most famous photographers, but she was working.

She lifted her face to the sun, soaking in its warmth. It was as if the fog of the last few years had finally lifted. Nothing but blue skies ahead for her and her six-year-old twin daughters.

Today’s shoot was just the beginning. Her agent had two more jobs lined up for her before the end of the month. He’d also scheduled her to attend the televised celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the
Sports Illustrated
Swimsuit issue. She hadn’t been able to make the photo shoot last fall in New York for the magazine, but he thought making an appearance on the live show would give her plenty of exposure.

Hopefully, she’d be able to juggle it all. Part of what appealed to her about today’s job was that it was close enough that she’d be able to shoot for a few hours and still get home in time to meet her daughters when they got off the school bus.

Annabelle glanced at the clock. If the light didn’t change soon, she wasn’t going to make it to the bus stop in time.

The song ended and Annabelle turned down the volume. She’d started listening to Journey during the Goliaths’ World Series run. So the song was five years older than she was, the message still rang true. It was about hope. Starting over. Believing.

The traffic light turned green, and she pulled into the intersection. A flash of yellow appeared out of the corner of her eye. She turned in time to see an SUV blow through the stoplight. Before she could react, the vehicle struck her Mercedes just behind the driver’s side door.

Her head slammed into the side window. Glass shattered and she looked down at the blood on her blouse. A thousand black pixels danced before her eyes.

And then nothing.

* * * *

Nathan Cooper was almost home. He’d gotten his miles in, had lunch at his favorite restaurant, and he’d spent the early part of the day working his shoulder to the point of fatigue, but not pain. What a concept. How many times in the last two years had he told himself to toughen up? Work through the pain? He’d been in denial enough to believe he could overcome the injury to his shoulder by working harder, longer, stronger.

When that hadn’t worked, he’d tried herbal supplements, powders, creams, and potions—just about anything that promised one more inning, one more pitch. He’d been desperate enough that he’d believed in the so-called experts until he couldn’t be sure what he was putting in his body.

He slipped his hand under his collar to run his fingertips over the tiny scar. He should have started with the surgery. It would have saved him a whole lot of time and trouble. Hell, it might have even saved his career.

Standing at the corner, he waited for the school bus that had been sitting there idling for almost ten minutes. But he hadn’t seen any passengers unload. The red flashing lights were to stop vehicular traffic. On foot, he could go around the bus, but he was determined to be a model citizen. To keep from making another mistake.

Finally, the doors opened and two little blond girls waved to him. The bus driver nodded, and the girls bounded off the bus.

“Miss Nora said we couldn’t get off until we had an adult waiting for us. I told her you were our neighbor.” They were five or maybe six years old. He’d seen them next door, playing with their mother, heading down to the beach. This one wore jeans, running shoes, and a San Francisco Goliaths sweatshirt. Not exactly a popular choice in this part of the state, but they had won the World Series last October. Without him. “I’m Sophie. This is Olivia. We’re twins.”

Olivia was pink, from the giant pink daisy clipped into her hair to some kind of tutu she wore over leggings tucked into pink cowgirl boots. She moved closer to her sister and looked up at him almost as if she thought he was the big, bad wolf.

“My sister’s shy.” Sophie gave her twin a shove. “Say ‘hi’ to our neighbor.”

“Hi.” Olivia looked down at the ground. Her little cheeks turned the same color as her tutu.

“So do you know where our mom is?” Sophie was not shy at all.

“No. I’m afraid I don’t.” He knew who their mom was. Annabelle Jones.
The Annabelle Jones.
One of the hottest models to ever grace the cover of
Sports Illustrated
. Damn.

He’d taken one look at her picture and fallen instantly in lust with her perfect combination of girl-next-door sweetness and a rocking hot body. Blonde, blue-eyed and… well,
built
was quite an understatement.

When the real Annabelle Jones moved in next door, he’d kept his distance. Partly because she was the picture of perfection in the pages of a magazine. She was his fantasy. Untouchable. Flawless. He didn’t want to see her taking out the trash in her pajamas. Not even in silk pajamas from Victoria’s Secret.

But mostly, he didn’t get too close to her because he didn’t want her to get too close to him. He didn’t want her to figure out who he was. And how he’d let down his teammates, his sport, and his fans.

So he’d smiled and waved when they saw each other on the street, nodded politely when she’d suggested they get together for coffee sometime, but he always found an excuse to put her off.

“She’s s’posed to meet us at the bus stop, but she had a job.” Sophie put her little hands on her hips. “I thought she asked you to come instead.”

“No. I haven’t talked to her today.” He’d spoken to her maybe a half dozen times since he’d received her mail by mistake. She hadn’t recognized him, so he’d pretended not to recognize her. He had grown his former military-cut hair out, and was contemplating a beard. She was as gorgeous as always, and way out of his league.

“That’s okay. I know where the key is.” She shrugged and grabbed her sister’s hand to start walking home.

“Sophie!” Olivia’s eyes widened. “We’re not supposed to cross the street without a grown-up.”

“He’s a grown-up.” Sophie tilted her head in his direction.

“Yeah, but he’s not our grown-up.” Olivia snuck a glance up at him before turning back to her sister. “He’s a
stranger
.”

“You’re not a stranger, are you mister?” Sophie looked at him with an innocent, trusting expression. “We’ve seen you talking to our mom and stuff.”

“I’m Cooper, from next door.” He had no business taking charge of two little girls. But he couldn’t exactly leave them there at the bus stop. “Let’s go find your mom.”

He checked the traffic, looking both ways. Sophie took his hand without hesitation as they started to cross. But it was when Olivia slipped her tiny hand in his that he realized just how fragile trust was.

When they got to the house, Annabelle’s Mercedes was still missing from the driveway. Sophie marched up the steps and tried the door. It was locked. She trotted around the house to the back door. Cooper had no choice but to follow.

“Sophie, you shouldn’t show anyone where Mom keeps the key.” Olivia’s trust wasn’t complete. She was fine with him helping them cross the street, but drew the line at him knowing where they kept the spare key.

“I’ll close my eyes.” He stood between the girls and the driveway, closed his eyes, and listened as Sophie rummaged through the flowerpot next to the back door.

“I got it.” The little girl proudly held the key in her hand. He tried not to notice the frog figurine that had been knocked over. Not the most secure place to keep a key. But then, he supposed having a hide-a-key anywhere wasn’t a good idea. Especially for a woman living alone with two young girls. A protective instinct rose inside him.

This was already more than he’d bargained for. It was one thing to get them off the bus and help them cross the street. He didn’t want to follow them into their home, but they were too young to be left alone. The only other choice would be to take the girls to his place, but that wasn’t an option. He had a lot of weights lying around and nothing kid-friendly to eat. What little kids liked almonds, avocados, and kale?

He followed the two girls through the back door into their kitchen.

It was a warm, friendly space, with hand-picked flowers in the window over the sink, candid photos and the girls’ drawings pinned to the fridge. A bowl of fruit sat on the center of the round kitchen table. He could almost smell cookies baking, but he knew the oven wasn’t on. No one was home.