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…
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.
didn’t have a book in her hand. Or in her head. But it wasn’t until she turned
forty that she confessed the reason the laundry never made it out of the dryer
was because she was busy writing.
from teaching with the arrival of her second son, she’s remained an educator in
some form. As a volunteer, parent club member or para educator, she finds the
most satisfaction working with emergent and developing readers, helping foster
confidence and a lifelong love of books.
Northern California with her husband of more than twenty years, two sons and a
black lab. A veteran road tripper, amateur renovator and sports fanatic. She
hopes to one day travel all 3,073 miles of Highway 50 from Sacramento, CA to
Ocean City, MD, replace her carpet with hardwood floors and serve as a “Ball
Dudette” for the San Francisco Giants.