Back to Before (A Second Chances Novel, Band 1) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Tracy Solheim is the author of international bestselling contemporary romance novels featuring hot football players and the women who love them. In addition to writing novels, she is a regular columnist for USA Today's Happily Ever After Blog. She lives in Georgia with her husband, two nearly adult children, a Labrador retriever who thinks she’s a cat and a horse named after her first novel: Game On. When Tracy's not at the barn with her daughter or working out with friends—i.e. lifting heavy bottles of wine—she’s writing. Except for when she’s reading, but that’s just research.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

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 she was 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 had become as jaded as 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 passing 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 passed 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. “This isn’t the Carnegie Deli in New York, Destiny. You’re in North Carolina and this is swine country.” Her tone implied Ginger was either an idiot or a traitor for requesting anything else.

Ginger tried not to cringe at the waitress’ use of her soap opera character’s name. Giving up on getting something a little healthier to eat, she let out an anguished sigh. “Well, is the mayonnaise at least fat free—ow!”

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 which. 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, gaffers and grips, boom operators, and the cameramen 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?”

“Ugh!” 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 waitstaff, her mother had 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 whether any of the crew were listening, but the opposite table had gone back to discussing the logistics of the go-karting expedition they had planned for the evening.

“Oh, please.” Ginger carefully inspected a lemon slice before squeezing it into her water glass. “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 glasses, 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 Juilliard. 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 the Cave—they’d been best friends ever since. Their friendship survived not only the class, but also 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 tables around 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 instead of 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 she’d get the position of choreographer.

“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 hush puppies 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 the hush puppy on the paper place mat, wiping her hands on her napkin.

“Food weenie,” Diesel mumbled with a shake of his head.

Ginger sighed. No matter what she did or said, people always seemed to mistake her motives about her diet. Sure, she was diligent about what foods she put in her body, taking great pains to ensure that whatever she ate was clean and healthy. Years of her mother micromanaging her diet so that Ginger could perform at her peak made her picky eating habits hard...