"To goad my sister and all the Dallas fans in the salon."

"Well it goads me!" He wanted to touch her, but he knew he was already s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g everything up. Badly. "At least tell me you're wearing your Blaze panties," he asked.

No reaction. Not even her telltale blush.

"You didn't come all this way to discuss my panties, Brody."

He'd come all this way to get her out of her panties, but he figured now was not the time to bring that up. He reached a hand behind his neck to rub at the muscles that were squeezing so hard they were cutting off his circulation and common sense.

"No, I came here to bring you your Christmas present."

She arched a delicate eyebrow at him. "I wasn't aware we were exchanging Christmas presents, Brody."

He pulled an envelope out of his pocket. "Not exchanging. I'm just giving." He handed it to her.

Shannon was careful not to touch him, taking the envelope between her fingers as if it had cooties. Carefully, she pulled out the contents and unfolded the papers inside and scanned them.

"You paid off Mama's mortgage?!?" Her angry tone and wild eyes were definitely not what he expected.

A gasp at his back alerted him that they had visitors. d.a.m.n you, Jerry Maguire, for making this look so easy. Shannon swatted him with the paperwork that freed up the rest of her life.

"h.e.l.l's bells, Brody! What in the Sam Hill did you do that for?"

"So you wouldn't have to work in a prison!" He seriously thought she might be more grateful.

"Oh, Brody. I don't even know if I am going to work in a prison, Teryn and I haven't flipped the coin yet."

"What? Flipped what coin?" He was having a little trouble keeping up.

She shook her head at him. "Never mind. It doesn't matter because you've done this." She waved the papers again. "I told you that I'm not one of your girlfriends who you can just pay off when you're through with her!"

"I'm not trying to pay you off, because I'm not through with you!" he yelled. There was another gasp behind him. He grabbed the paperwork out of Shannon's hands and went to the door where her mother and her sister, Teryn, stood and he shoved the papers at them. "Here. Merry freakin' Christmas." Then, he slammed the door in their faces, drowning out Teryn's laughter.

When he turned to face Shannon again, there was a definite softening of her att.i.tude.

"Now, can we get to the real reason you're here, Brody."

He rubbed a hand through his hair.

"I'm an a.s.s," he said quietly.

"Tell me something I don't know."

He muttered softly to himself. Hooking a stool on wheels with his foot, he pulled it directly in front of Shannon and sat down. This would be a lot easier if she wasn't slaying him with those eyes. Reaching up to span her hips with his hands, he leaned his forehead against her belly. The familiar scent of her filled his nostrils giving him the strength to go on. He could feel her heartbeat against his head, its steady rhythm calming him. Her hands stayed fisted by her side, but this was his big move and Brody figured she was going to make him work for it.

"This is hard and you know I don't do hard," he said.

"Mmmm. You're going to have to grow up sometime, Brody."

Yep, he definitely had to work for it. But since she was still allowing him to hold her, he figured he was safe to go all in.

"All this time, I kept thinking there was something more I'm supposed to be in life, something more I'm supposed to be doing," he began, relieved that her hands had unclenched and found his shoulders. "But I've been chasing something that doesn't exist. What I should have been looking for is something I'm supposed to have. Well not a thing exactly. It's you. What's been missing in my life is you, Shannon."

He looked up into those eyes he loved, now damp with unshed tears, and he made the greatest leap he'd had to make in his life. "If I'm going to grow up, I want to do it with you. Alongside you."

Straddling his legs, she crawled into his lap, so her face was level with his. She draped her arms around his neck. "But do you trust me, Brody?"

He leaned his forehead against hers. "I must. Because I love you madly."

She was silent for a long moment and Brody's breathing stopped.

"By all means, keep me hanging here, Shannon."

Her whiskey eyes danced as she wrapped her legs around his waist. "I've never had a man tell me he loved me before. I'm just savoring the moment."

"d.a.m.n it, Shannon," he growled. "You'd better not have any other man tell you he loves you."

"It wouldn't matter if they did. Because the only man I'll ever love is you, Brody Janik."

And then she kissed him. The feel of her sweet mouth was like coming home. At last, he'd unraveled the conundrum and found what he'd been looking for.

Epilogue.

THE GIRLFRIENDS' GUIDE TO THE NFL Well, girlfriends, it's official. Everyone's favorite tight end tied the knot today. Looking s.e.xy in a Versace tux, number eighty's blue eyes were focused solely on his brainy scientist bride. It turns out the homely PhD cleans up quite nicely. Of course, she had a little help from bridal gown designer Julianne Connelly, who decked her out in a stunning sleeveless sheath gown that transformed the gawky nutritionist into an elegant woman worthy to be seen on sinfully s.e.xy Brody Janik's arm.

Until she pulled on a pair of cowboy boots for the reception. Can you say tacky? Several of the guests, including the bride's twin, former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader Teryn Everett, and the groom's sister, high-profile environmental lawyer Bridgett Janik, as well as an elderly nun, took to wearing boots for the dancing. Not that the rest of the guests weren't pretty raucous during the after-party as well. Lots of two-stepping and twelve ounce curls by the Blaze players and their WAGs.

The only dateless member of the organization was the team's hot, young new owner, Jay McMa.n.u.s, which just goes to show you, girlfriends, women aren't attracted to coldblooded reptiles.

Brody was deliciously naked. Again. He carefully stepped over Shay's discarded wedding gown that was pooled on the floor where he'd peeled it off of her an hour earlier. Smiling his wicked grin, he prowled toward the bed carrying a flute of champagne in each hand. Shay shivered with antic.i.p.ation as she snuggled deeper among the silk sheets. Darkness had fallen over Dallas and the lights of the skyline framed his tall body as he paused in front of the windows of the honeymoon suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

"You do realize you don't have to get me drunk to have your way with me," she teased.

Brody chuckled as he handed her a gla.s.s before sliding beneath the sheets and leaning his broad shoulders against the headboard. "You are delightfully easy, doc. It's one of the many things I love about you." He draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her in close to him. "But I wanted to make a toast. A private one."

A warm glow settled over Shay as she peered into her husband's blue eyes, now reverent and serious as he held her gaze. Brody brushed his lips along her hairline, lingering a moment before he spoke softly.

"From this day forth, you are all that matters to me. You are the most important thing in my life. Whatever happens after football, I'll face it because all I ever need to make my life complete is you. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy. Wherever you are I want to be. You're my everything, Mrs. Dr. Janik."

Tears stung Shay's eyes as Brody clinked his gla.s.s against hers. "So, I've gone from Shannon to Mrs. Dr. Janik. Are you always going to be so formal with me? Will you ever call me Shay?" she whispered.

Brody shook his head. She watched as he swallowed deeply. "Everybody calls you Shay. And I don't ever want to be lumped in with everybody."

"I don't think that could ever happen to you, Brody Janik," she laughed through her tears. "Because you're definitely one of a kind. And you're my everything."

And with those words, she proceeded to show her husband how lucky they both were.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Back in the days when local television news actually dedicated a portion of its program to sports, I was privileged to grow up watching a guy named Glenn Brenner. A pitcher in baseball's minor leagues and briefly with the Philadelphia Phillies, Brenner left baseball when his arm gave out and went on to earn fame as a sportscaster for WUSA-TV, the CBS affiliate in Washington, D.C. For fifteen years he made his viewers-and anyone sitting alongside him at the broadcast desk-laugh as he delivered his sportscast with a style and wit that rivaled a late night comic. Often times, he was cracking up right along with everyone else. He never took himself or his subject matter too seriously, making him a rarity in the ego-filled world of professional sports.

Brenner was often described as a big kid and viewers loved his contagious smile, his irreverent style and his shtick that included the Weenie of the Week, Encore Wednesdays and the Mystery Prognosticator. When I was plotting this book, I couldn't help but base a character-Sister Agnes-on one of Brenner's more famous mystery prognosticators: Sister Marie Louise, a myopic, elderly nun who was prolific at picking the winners of that week's NFL match-ups. Brody's line to Sister Agnes about cheering against the Cardinal's echoes a quip Glenn Brenner used with Sister Marie Louise. (Several of Sister Agnes' lines come from another man I respect tremendously, Pastor Rick Barger, President of Trinity Lutheran Seminary.) At the height of his popularity in 1992, Glenn Brenner died prematurely from an inoperable brain tumor. He was forty-four years old. His death saddened us all and left a huge void in local sports reporting. Members of Congress paid tribute to his life in speeches on the House floor. Then President George H. W. Bush also honored Brenner with an official tribute. The Washington Redskins, who were in the midst of a dominating Super Bowl run at the time of Brenner's death, dedicated their NFC Championship win over the Detroit Lions to him. Veteran sports columnist for the Washington Post, Leonard Shapiro, reported that Sister Marie Louise was one of Brenner's final visitors. Brenner was said to have lifted up his head to wink at her, which would be so typical of the Glenn Brenner we all loved.

Read on for a special preview of Tracy Solheim's all-new SECOND CHANCE SERIES.

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation Like a recovering addict counting the days of sobriety, Ginger Walsh calculated the amount of time remaining until her triumphant return to financial independence: eighty-four days. If she were more like the woman she'd been before being cast as an evil teenager on a television soap opera, she'd optimistically mark the time as only twelve weeks or just three short months. But Ginger was much more jaded than her alter ego. Real life had toughened her up. It was eighty-four days any way she looked at it.

Every morning, she gave herself a pep talk to mark the pa.s.sing of another day. She blamed the economy, the industry, and her own stupid decisions for her current situation. But, she always told herself she'd find her way out. Her way back. If that didn't work, she blasted Kelly Clarkson on her iPod and went for a run.

Presently, Ginger's road to career redemption pa.s.sed through a greasy diner in Chances Inlet, North Carolina; a small, historic coastal town situated at the junction of the Cape Fear River and the Atlantic Ocean. It might as well have been a million miles from Broadway.

"Is it possible to get turkey bacon on my BLT?" Ginger asked, her fingertips sticking to the laminated menu. She tried to infuse just the right amount of deference to her tone while pasting a gracious smile on her face. The tactic never failed her when requesting special orders.

Until now.

The waitress glanced up from her pad, a pained expression on her face. "Sweetheart, you're in North Carolina. This is swine country." Her tone implied Ginger was either an idiot or traitor for requesting anything else.

"Oh." Ginger regarded the woman, willing her to offer up a more nutritious option. When none was forthcoming, she let out an anguished sigh. "Well, is the mayonnaise at least fat free-owwh!"

Diesel Gold, her companion at the small, window table, kicked her in the shin. Hard. He raised his tattooed arms along with his eyebrows in either impatience or contempt, she wasn't exactly sure. Clearly, his blood sugar had dropped substantially because he was normally pretty laid back.

The waitress shifted from one sneaker clad foot to the other. Next to them, the table filled with gaffers and grips, boom operators, and the camera men who completed their production crew sat in silence, their faces shifting expectantly between the waitress and Ginger. Apparently their order wouldn't be filled until she had Ginger's.

"Just bring me wheat toast and put the mayo, the bacon, the lettuce, and tomato on the side." She handed over her menu in defeat.

"Do you want fries with that?"

"Ughh!" Diesel dropped his head in his hands.

Ginger shot him a withering look before pasting a polite smile on her face for the waitress. "No, thank you." It was always best to be kind to the wait staff, her mother taught her. Being nice ensured excellent service. In this case, Ginger figured it might ensure the woman didn't spit into her food. "You can give him my fries." She gestured at Diesel. The crew nearly broke out in applause as the waitress headed for the kitchen.

"I liked you better when you weren't such a food weenie," Diesel said.

"For your information, I've been a food weenie all my life. It's the cornerstone of a dancer's existence. And, I liked you better when you were Elliot Goldman and not some tattooed, spike-haired, wannabe, music video producer who took his name from a Chippendale dancer."

"Shh!" Diesel quickly glanced around to see if any of the crew were listening, but the opposite table had gone back to discussing the logistics of their go-carting expedition planned for the evening.

"Oh please." Ginger carefully inspected a lemon slice before squeezing it into her water gla.s.s. "They all know your dad owns the network. You're twenty-six-years-old. You look like the lead singer for Maroon Five-aside from your gla.s.ses, of course-and suddenly you're the producer of a network home improvement show when your only experience is creating a small indie film that never made it off YouTube. Face it, you've got nepotism written all over you. Maybe you should get it in a tattoo."

Her friend of nearly a decade wasn't amused. The two had met as teenagers when both were freshmen at Julliard. He was the awkward, but musically gifted son of a television mogul, and she was the scholarship dance phenom living out her mother's dream. Partnered up on a literature project-Plato's Allegory of a Cave-they'd been best friends ever since. Their friendship survived not only the cla.s.s, but the destruction of each of their dreams.

"This isn't funny, Ginger." Diesel leaned across the table, his gravelly voice a near whisper. "The crew has to respect me. I need this gig. My dad won't give me another chance if I screw it up." He gestured to the table next to them. "So far these guys have been pretty tolerant letting me call the shots, but we still have a few months to go."

Eighty-four days to be precise, Ginger thought. She contemplated Diesel, taking in the stress lines bracketing his mouth and the weariness of his eyes. Marvin Goldman, Diesel's narcissistic jerk of a father, took great pleasure in bending his son to fit his own ideal. He was dangling a carrot on a string and would likely yank it away before giving it to his son. It was a frequent pattern between the two. But Diesel continued to hold out hope his father would reward his hard work by allowing him to produce the network's new music reality show. Ginger wanted to tell her friend not to count on his father, but it was difficult not to hope along with him. Because if Diesel got the job, he'd promised her the position of ch.o.r.eographer.

"Hey." Reaching for his hand, she gave it a squeeze. "It's gonna work out. These guys are really good at what they do. They won't let you down."

"You've been here one day and you already know the crew is made up of Emmy winners?" At least his face had begun to relax.

"What can I say? I know my way around a television production."

"It must be those seven months you spent on the soap opera set. I guess you noticed a lot during the ten weeks your character was in a coma."

"Very funny." She sat back as the waitress plunked down a bowl filled with what looked like fried egg rolls. Ginger picked one up between her thumb and forefinger and looked at it quizzically.

"They're called hushpuppies and, no, I'm not going to tell you what's in them. Just eat one and enjoy." He popped two of them in his mouth.

Ginger pulled out her iPhone and searched for hush puppies. She really hoped the bowl didn't contain diced up shoes.

"Fried batter, yuck!" She placed it on the paper placemat, wiping her hands on her napkin.

"Food weenie," Diesel mumbled with a shake of his head. He was right, of course, although Ginger preferred to think of herself as someone more evolved in her nutritional standards. Years of her mother micro managing her diet had left her with a few food hang-ups, but she was working on that. Sort of. For the millionth time in her life, Ginger marveled at the unjustness of her body's metabolism as Diesel devoured the bowl of deep fried calories.

"So, what exactly are my responsibilities here?" she asked. "I've done most of the research on the Dresden House and it's fascinating. Imagine if those walls could talk. What sorts of stories could they tell about the last two hundred years the building has been standing? And, the woman it was originally built for never lived to see it; such a tragic love story." Ginger looked over at Diesel who had a finger to his head as he feigned shooting himself. "Okay, clearly, you don't see the romance in the project at all. So let's talk about me. What else besides research do I do as your production a.s.sistant?"

"Anything I ask you to do." He gave her a wolfish wink just as the waitress set a plate of barbeque in front of him.

"We've already been there and we both know it wasn't a success." She carefully a.s.sembled her BLT with mostly lettuce, tomato, one slice of bacon, and a small smear of mayonnaise.

"Okay, if you're not willing to sleep with me, my second choice is for you to handle makeup."

Ginger nearly choked on her sandwich. "Excuse me? Did you say makeup? I thought this was a show about restoring an eighteenth century mansion. What do you need makeup for?"

"The hot contractor doing the renovations. And, lest you think I play for the other team, hot is the network's term, not mine."

Ginger rolled her eyes. "Why is it men always have to reinforce their masculinity?"

"Testosterone," he said between bites of his sandwich. "Anyway, the suits in L.A. are hoping the hottie contractor will be a hit with the ladies and increase network viewership. Apparently, he was once Cosmo's Bachelor of the Month, back in his days as a New York architect."

"But doesn't the network have a staff of makeup people?"