Hanna Martine - Long Shot

Each loop around was punched with a crazy power that pulled out every line in every muscle of his arms. Just when it seemed like the hammer movement would carry him off his feet, he brought it across his left shoulder and . . . released.

Leith roared, fists slapping to his sides.

Jen held her breath.

The ball sailed back and back over the empty space, looking far too heavy and strange to ever be airborne. It landed hard in the grass and a kilted judge jogged over to give it a measure, but it was clear to everyone in attendance that he’d blown away all the other competitors.

Only then did Leith swivel around, and it was to great applause, perhaps none louder than Duncan’s masculine grunts of “Yeah! Yeah!”

The judge called out a distance to the announcer, who said into the microphone, “Seventy-three feet, one and a quarter inches.” As a new round of cheers went up, Leith finally smiled, his shoulders dropping in obvious relief. In clear pride. He melted into his group, and the other throwers pounded fists on his back.

Duncan threw one foot shorter than Leith on his first attempt, then six inches longer on his second.

Leith never beat his first hammer throw, but he also never stopped smiling or laughing. And Jen thought that the only time she’d ever seen him look happier was the night they’d first kissed, all those years and miles away.

Leith wheeled his truck into the parking lot of the address Jen had thrown at him back at the games. It was a small, well-kept strip mall on the outskirts of the seaside community of Norwalk. He sat behind the wheel in the lot, staring at the suite number she’d indicated, confused by the dark windows with the drawn shades. A sign was taped to the glass— For Rent. Call Sheryl. And then Sheryl’s number—but Leith double-checked the address and, yep, this was where Jen had told him to go.

He got out of the truck. Even though the sun was setting, the day was finally cooling off, and he’d showered back at his motel, he started to sweat.

Seeing Jen across the field like that . . . He’d written her off weeks earlier. She’d gone to London, just as he’d predicted. She hadn’t called before leaving, just as he’d predicted. She never came back, exactly as he’d predicted.

So he’d done what any lovesick, pissed-off, heartbroken American male would do. He punched a hole in the wall of his motel and had to pay damages, then he’d gone out and gotten drunk. And then he’d tried like hell to get over her. Again.

To do that, he knew he couldn’t go back to Gleann. At least, not to live. He’d keep what few accounts he had left there, with Chris on staff. Maybe if things picked up in the town as Mayor Sue hoped, he could expand and open a full branch, with Chris in charge. While he had no set jobs to speak of in Connecticut, he did have his talent and determination. And even though Hal Carriage had nixed Leith’s best start, Leith still had Rory’s support, and she’d given him some serious leads, talking up his name in her new circle of friends. He’d made a few contacts at the games today, too, and he’d follow up with them this week. He was hopeful.

So he was staying in Connecticut. Starting over. And he was throwing again, which sent him flying high in a way he’d nearly forgotten. How could he have done that? How could he have ever turned his back on something that fed both his competitive nature and his spirit?

In a way, Jen had been right all those weeks ago. He had been afraid of not winning, thinking that second place would never fill him up like first. What a fucking moron. He’d held his own against Duncan and it had felt so, so amazing. He would make time to train now. No more excuses.

No more worrying that he’d let his father down.

But then there was the matter of Jen Haverhurst. He couldn’t describe how exhilarated he’d felt seeing her face in the crowd that afternoon. She was so damn good at that: disappearing then reappearing in shocking, dramatic ways that had his heart pummeling his ribs and his head telling him to not fall for her again.

Only he had. And this was the second time she’d come back. What was that old saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? Yeah, no matter what she was going to say to him in there, he had to remember who she was, her MO. He had to protect himself a hell of a lot better this time.

He crossed the short lot and tried the door. Locked. What the—

The latch clicked and the door opened inward. Jen stood before him.

“Hey—whoa.” He couldn’t hold back his verbal reaction as he eyed her strict black skirt and fitted black short-sleeved sweater with the severe V-neck that did killer things for her tits. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail and she wore those glasses, the ones he’d first seen on her through Mildred’s kitchen window.

She cleared her throat and extended her hand, not an ounce of emotion on her face. “I’m so glad you could make it, Mr. MacDougall. Come in.”

He let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Okaaaay.” As he took her hand, he noted absently that she had a great, firm handshake. But of course she did.

She widened the door to let him enter, then locked it behind him. Inside it was strangely dark, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust. Only three pieces of furniture—two cushioned chairs facing a long, narrow table—were set right in the center of the room. On the table was Jen’s fifth limb, her open laptop, connected to a small projector. A square of bright, white light streamed from the lens and struck the empty, back office wall.

“What is this place?” he asked.

But she just gave him a polite smile and said, “Please have a seat.” She gestured to one of the chairs facing the lit wall.

As he lowered himself to the chair that smelled and felt brand new, she walked around the table. It was impossible not to notice her legs in that skirt, how they ended in towering black heels with red soles, a delicate strap wrapped around her ankle.

Focus, Dougall. Keep your head.

“So what’s up?” Anticipation mixed with frustration, and that wasn’t the best combination. Especially since lurking just underneath it, ready to stab its way through to the surface, was base lust and . . . hope.

Why are you here, Jen? Why are you back? Why?

Jen picked up a small remote from the table and stood just to one side of the square of light. “I am a businesswoman. I love staying busy. I love making clients happy. I love laying out a plan and carrying it out.”

He opened his hands. “Yes. I know.”

“And I love my phone and this computer, as you can attest to.” He had to crack a smile at that. “But what I don’t love—something I’ve come to realize over the past weeks and months—is working for someone else. I thought once that dragging as many pretty, vapid models to a product rollout actually fulfilled me, that it would be what set me on top.”

Leith held his breath and straightened in his chair.

“But I was wrong.” Jen clicked a button on the remote and the screen burst with understated, simple color.

Jen Haverhurst. Strategic Planning and Events.

“You’re sitting in my new world headquarters,” she said with a smile. “Here. In Connecticut. Not New York.”

Holy shit.

“My new company will focus on bringing suburban and rural communities, small businesses, and entrepreneurs together to put on fantastic events within their budget. I will meet with clients to strategically plan functions that enhance their brand, expand their influence, and are just plain fun.”