Irene Hannon - Second Chance Summer

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 her 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.”