False Start (29 page)

"Where?" she gasped.

"There," John pointed to an area just beyond the finish line that was clear save for a few race officials.

And Nick.

He was standing there, in his coach clothes, complete with a stopwatch, shaking his head back and forth. If it weren't for the grin on his face, she would've thought he was still angry with her.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled, "You call that a kick? Have I taught you nothing, Mathilde Jean?"

She let out a laugh. She squeezed John's hand and, summoning the last ounce of energy she had in her, she rushed to the finish line. After she crossed it, she put her hands on her hips and walked towards him.

"Seriously?" she panted. "How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?"

Handing her an open water bottle, he walked alongside her and asked, "OK, how 'bout M.J.?"

She took a long swig of her water. "M.J. Ross? Nah, I don't think so."

"How about M.J. DeRosa?" He stopped and faced her, taking her hands in his.

Mattie gasped. She was still sweating, but somehow trembling at the same time. When she noticed several familiar faces come out of the crowd, she covered her mouth with her hand. Claudia and Tom, Lucy and Lorenzo, Dianne, and John, along with several guys from the shelter and several members of Nick's Knollwood Knights cross-country team, all stood nearby, smiling ear to ear.

With hundreds of spectators and runners looking on, and Charlie Clarke clicking his camera all around them, Nick knelt down before Mattie right there in the middle of Columbus Drive.

Looking up at her, he asked, "Mathilde Jean Ross, will you marry me?"

Blinking back the tears, Mattie took a deep breath and replied just loud enough for the hundreds of spectators to hear, "Yes, Nicoli Giovanni Francesco DeRosa, I will marry you."

Laughing, Nick stood, his own eyes watering. Gently taking the bandaged fingers of her left hand in his, he pulled a reset and resized diamond ring from his pocket that he had threaded with a red, white, and blue Olympic medal ribbon and placed it over her head.

 The crowd burst into applause.

Before she could even catch her breath, he locked his mouth onto hers in a kiss.

Then he lifted her into his arms and posed for a picture that ran on the
Gazette's
front page the very next day under a headline Lester himself had readied weeks before: "Comeback Kid Wins Marathon Mattie."

* * * * *

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Barb is a freelance writer, corporate minion, over-scheduled parent, and connoisseur of fine chocolate. A second-generation journalist, her work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune and its affiliates as well as Mom.Me. Three of her pieces were included in a Tribune Media e-book collection entitled, Love Notes: Stories of Love, Loss, and Coming Together (Agate, 2014). Having spent the whole of her thirties pregnant, she has five boys to show for it. Their exploits provided fodder for her column, The Plate Spinner Chronicles, a long-running feature in the Chicago Tribune, which snagged her a runner-up spot in an Erma Bombeck Humor Contest. A member of RWA's Windy City chapter, she still dreams of the day when her to-do list includes "Send NY Times book critic thank you note" and "Accept Godiva's request to be a taste-tester."

To learn more about Barbara Valentin, visit her online at:
http://theplatespinnerchronicles.blogspot.com

* * * * *

Assignment: Romance novels

False Start

* * * * *

If you enjoyed the Assignment: Romance series, check out this sneak peek of another funny, romantic read from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

MY EX-BOYFRIEND'S WEDDING

by

T. SUE VERSTEEG

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

Jemma Keith let the heavy box she'd lugged up the stairs slam to the floor with a loud thump
.
Flopping onto her couch, she nestled into the overstuffed cushions and took what comfort she could from her familiar surroundings. Dust clung to the things she'd left behind in the tiny apartment after being closed up for a few months.

She made the mistake of closing her eyes in the hopes of escaping to her happy place. You know, sprawled on a beach chair, palm trees rustling in the soft breeze, gentle ocean waves sweeping the sand, scantily clad Johnny Depp manning the margarita blender, Tom Hiddleston and Bradley Cooper, one on each side, fighting over who gets to put on her sunscreen.

Instead, she ended up replaying the morning's events just as clearly as when they'd happened. Curiosity had nagged her to follow her boyfriend, Dalton Blackwell, after he cancelled their lunch plans at the last minute, yet again. Common sense attempted to side with her stomach, pleading to drive through for a burger instead.

Curiosity won.

She kept her car at a safe distance, following from his office along the familiar route to the home of his secretary, Stacy.

Jemma parked a block away, feeling guilty as she walked toward the two-story Victorian she'd visited for many office parties. She brushed her finger along the silver striping of Dalton's car at the curb as she passed it. A beautiful afternoon, the late fall breeze briskly whipped the fallen leaves across the lawn as she walked up the front steps. The bright sun warmed the air of the Indian-Summer's day, making her tug at the collar of her heavy wool sweater.

This is ridiculous; he's only visiting her since she called in sick, just like he said.

But, curiosity prodded her across the porch to the front door. As she hovered a finger over the doorbell, fluttering curtains at an open window caught her attention. The garish, blood red fabric billowed inward, framing Stacy on her knees in the living room. Dalton stood in front of her, pants undone, his fingers tangled in her dirty blond hair, guiding her movement. Jemma sucked in a harsh gasp, fighting a myriad of emotions and one hell of a gag reflex.

Curiosity: one. Common Sense: zero.

"Jemma Rae Keith!" Her father's booming voice snapped her from her self-induced nightmare and back to the present task at hand.

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Am I to assume that you plan to lie there while I cart the rest of these boxes up three flights of stairs?"

Jemma flashed her dad a lopsided, half-hearted smile, as he walked through the door and joined her on the couch. Her father was a large man, with salt and pepper hair, brown eyes, an infamous bad temper, and a rumored connection with the Mob. Anyone with any sense would move heaven and earth to stay on the man's good side.

"Sorry, Daddy, I'm…" Jemma paused, tossed a frantic look around her box-infested apartment for any excuse, and flipped her hands in the air. "I've got nothing. I guess I just needed a break."

"Don't give that asshole one more second of your time. I tried to tell you from the beginning he was a waste of pretty much everything, including air." Michael Keith crossed his arms over his massive chest.

"That's probably part of the reason I convinced myself I loved him."

Jemma and her father exchanged accusatory glares before he scooped her into his embrace, a snort of derision punctuating his hug.

"There is undoubtedly more truth in that statement than I care to admit. However, I will take great pride in asking if you're glad I insisted on keeping your apartment after you moved in with the waste of skin," he said, his words a statement more than a question.

"Okay, you win on that one." Jemma dropped her head back against the couch, breaking from his grasp in an overstated act of defeat. The tears had stopped after the shock, but the longer she sat still, the closer they bubbled to the surface. Bounding to her feet, she added, "I'll try to listen, if there's ever a next time."

Her father broke out in a long belly laugh, drawing out until he gasped for breath. "I highly doubt it," he sputtered between gulps of air.

Jemma walked to the door, muttering, "I didn't say it would happen. I just said I'd try."

They spent the remainder of the afternoon carting boxes up to her apartment, ignoring the melody coming from Jemma's cell phone. Dalton had tried calling all afternoon, like he always did, evidently oblivious to what Jemma had witnessed. Getting her stuff out of his place was the only thing that'd kept her from interrupting them. Dalton never did fight fair, and this instance would, more than likely, be no different.

Jemma made the final trip down for the last of her clothes.

Her mother pulled up, hastily parking with two wheels on the curb.

"Sweetheart," her mother bellowed as she sprang from her vehicle and dashed toward her. Though small in stature, she was strong, in both body and spirit. She had to be to keep up with Jemma's father. The silver streaks in her mother's fire red hair glistened in the sun as she closed the gap between them. "I came as soon as I got out of my meeting." Her mom wrapped her in a warm bear hug, and Jemma returned it twofold. She breathed in the familiar, comforting combination of her mom's perfume and hairspray.

"I thought Dad told you we had it covered?" Jemma mumbled into her shoulder, not wanting to let go of her happy place.

Pushing her back to arms length, her mother tucked her hair behind her ear, and Jemma leaned into her palm. "He did. But, when have I ever listened to your father?"

"True." Jemma nodded. "I'm actually glad you're here. Dad's good for the manual labor. Arranging things? Not so much."

Alexis Keith grabbed her daughter's hand and exchanged a knowing glance with her, expressing much the same sentiments her father had earlier, only without words. Kind of an 'I-told-you-so-but-I-knew-you-had-to-learn-for-yourself-before-you-would-listen-to-me,' complete with pursed lips, cocked head, and high, crinkled brow.

Jemma rolled her eyes. "Thanks for not
saying
it, at least."

"I'd never do that." Sarcasm dripped from each word. "That's why I keep your father around." The girls giggled as they walked arm in arm, sharing the load of clothes on the trip back up.

"I was beginning to think you'd left me to do all the unpacking," her dad grumbled as he dumped a box of framed pictures haphazardly onto the rug.

Jemma's stomach clenched at the sight of her precious cargo scattered on the floor. She lunged to the pile, arranging them into neat stacks, while checking for cracks in the glass.

Her father walked over and greeted his wife with a kiss that would make even newlyweds blush. To the best of her recollection, her parents had always enjoyed a marriage made in heaven. Sure, they fought, and yes, there were hard times, but it was always obvious they loved one another. They'd set the relationship bar so high, Jemma sometimes wondered if she'd ever even come close to pole vaulting high enough to clear it.

Her parents' miniature love fest ended, and her mother walked over to her. She smoothed Jemma's bangs from her face. "You realize your brother is going to bust something when he finds out what happened. We can only pray the
something
he busts isn't attached to a person."

"Unless it's attached to Dalton," her father seethed.

The man was doomed if those two showed up on his doorstep, not that part of her wasn't on board with it. She grabbed her father's hand. "Please, let me handle this. I'm not a little girl anymore. You and Mikey don't need to fight my battles."

He scowled, a huge vein popping at his temple. "I'm your father. That's what I do."

"Daddy, we weren't married, there aren't any kids involved, he didn't beat me, and I'm leaving with everything I went in with." She paused, looking down, pretending to admire the old, wooden trim before turning her big doe eyes back toward him and continuing, "Minus my pride, of course."

Her mother rubbed her dad's shoulders. "She's right, Michael. Let her at least
try
to handle it herself."

Jemma rode the self-confidence roller-coaster up with her mother's first words, the last half flinging her back down. Flashing an evil eye at her mom, a wide-eyed stare of innocence was promptly returned.

Focusing on the more pressing matter, she returned her attention to her father's pending meltdown. "If you want to go to Duke's Club at the corner, I'll call you if I have any problems. You'll be less than a block away. Deal?"

Her father's jaw set, his face flushing red, deep in thought. Softening into a teddy bear demeanor, he said, "Anything for my little girl."

Jemma raised a skeptical brow. "Promise?"

Releasing a deep sigh, he conceded, "Promise."

Mikey shoved the apartment door open. The door handle slammed into the wall, the resounding
whomp
echoing off her high ceilings. "What's the Jemma emergency?"

Her mom quickly reached Jemma's side, grabbing her arm before she could protest or strangle someone. "I'd already called him, honey. I didn't tell him all the details on the phone, though. He has the same temper as your father, and I knew he would be dangerous without someone talking sense into him first."

Jemma bobbed her head in agreement then switched to fervently shaking it. Mikey and sense weren't a likely combination no matter how much you talked to him.

Collapsing onto the couch again, her apartment walls seemed to close in on her. Though, she could be standing in the Grand Canyon at that particular moment and still feel confined. Her family meant well, but they were making the whole situation worse. She wanted to fast forward through time, through the mess, to regain some semblance of a normal life. Starting over alone would be a challenge, but it was one she could handle. Her heart may have been broken, but seeing Dalton and Stacy firsthand had helped, leaving no room in her mind for lies or excuses. And then there was the intense anger, which always did assist the healing process.