Penalty Kicks

By D. S. Dehel

India Roberts can’t wait until her divorce is final, when she’ll be Ms. Jackson again. At forty, she’s waited long enough to pursue her goal of becoming a fashion designer.

What she doesn’t need is a new romance. But when soccer player Matt Bettony rescues her from a bad date and makes her night oh-so-much better, she discovers she’s ready for something else. Thirteen years her junior, he’s the perfect fit for a no-strings love affair that won’t interfere with her dream… until Matt gets other ideas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Jul 29, 2021

Book preview

Chapter One

They faced each other across the vast expanse of the bed, and for a second, her brain asked what she was doing here. It must have reflected on her face, because he climbed on the bed, arms open. C’mere.

How could she resist an invitation like that? She climbed onto the mattress and melted into him. Enough thinking. This isn’t my first one-night stand. Just go with it.

Nothing could have prepared her for this. So many strange things had already happened to her today, and to think that only hours earlier her life had been remarkably different…

* * *

India felt like skipping, but she strode down the sidewalk instead. Her attire really didn’t lend itself to frolicking, and more likely than not, she’d have fallen on her face if she attempted a hop, but she felt like it, and that was enough. The March sun warmed her skin, and she hoped it wasn’t a false spring. It had been a long, harsh winter on many levels, but the snow had melted, and buds swelled on the trees that dotted the city sidewalk.

She glanced at her watch. Even wasting time by walking to the courthouse, she’d be early. Her sister, Mara, and her family had left as soon as they’d emptied the moving van. India stared at the half-empty boxes and decided to be irresponsible for once. Spring waited just outside, and besides, she had a divorce to celebrate, so she jumped in the shower… only to discover there was no hot water. Fortunately, she hadn’t gotten her hair wet. Unfortunately, the superintendent wouldn’t be able to install a new hot water heater until tomorrow.

Thank God for dry shampoo.

India slowed to a stroll and took in the sights. She’d always wanted to live in a city and had chosen her neighborhood based on a friend’s recommendation. The streets were late afternoon busy, but would quiet before long, and even better, her apartment was close to the Fashion District.

Not that she could afford anything there.

But it might inspire design, and that inspiration could lead to greatness. Or something. Anything that would get her out of her dead-end job at an accounting firm. No more dull rows of numbers, black and red on white. Besides, she’d already designed this dress from pattern to sewing to finishing. Nolan -- her soon to be ex -- had hated the fabric. In fact, his reaction had been the last straw in their already fraying marriage, to mix a metaphor.

Bold, spring-like colors called to her from a nearby storefront. The understated exterior and Georgian design told her this place was expensive, but oh, the color. Shoes in Day-Glo blue, yellow, and green perched on fake grass like so many flowers, and there in the middle, in the exact shade of pink, stood the perfect pair of shoes for her dress.

Well, almost perfect. She’d have designed them differently. The color, though, was spot on. India glanced at the saffron and white awning. Arriva Atelier. Bespoke Shoes. They would be more than expensive; they’d be outrageous, but she’d never heard of the brand, so maybe the designer was new.

And it never hurt to look, right?

A behemoth of a guard ignored her presence. A second man in a blue suit, also a guard, looked her up and down, then nodded. She’d passed the first test.

India wrenched open the heavy metal door, squared her shoulders, and stepped inside. At least she could appear as if she belonged in a store like this, so she tucked her beat up purse further under her arm and looked around. That brown espadrille is both funky and functional, and ooh, look at those sandals in cotton candy colors. She flipped one over. A thousand dollars. What are they made of? Gold and Dodo feathers?

A woman in an artfully splattered T-shirt and Farrah Fawcett feathered hair flitted over and hovered nearby. She took in India’s outfit. May I help you?

Something about the smug, insincere smile on the girl’s face made India want to slap her, but she smiled instead. I am curious about the shoes in the window. Are they for sale or display only?

Salesgirl flapped her hand at the far side of the store. There are several pairs over there.

So they aren’t actually bespoke? The words slipped out before India could catch them.

"That’s exactly what I was thinking."

Salesgirl frowned, glanced around India, then her eyes grew wide. Uh, well, no two shoes are alike, so they technically are bespoke.

India turned to see who could fluster the girl so badly. A curvy West Indian woman in cheetah print pants that did not suit her stood holding a black stiletto. India winced at the thought she might pair that shoe with those pants and the pain that heel would cause. The woman raised her eyebrows and smiled. "That’s not what bespoke means."

The girl paled under her bubblegum pink blush. She skittered over to the woman. Well, Miss Pelham, I am certain that Niccola would be more than happy to create something especially for you.

Ignored, India went in search of possible shoes. She wasn’t upset that she’d been cast aside. Miss Pelham -- that name sounded so familiar -- clearly had more money than India did. Only high fashion could make pants so tacky.

The shoes arranged in a pastel rainbow festooned three walls in the second room. It didn’t take long for India to see the shoe she wanted, the proper bright pink, but this with a shiny black patent heel. Much better.

And it was her size.

She flipped it over and nearly dropped the shoe. It cost two weeks’ pay. Less than those outrageous sandals, but more than she’d ever paid for anything except a car.

But they’re so pretty, and perfect with this dress.

Her entire adult life she’d been ruled by the whim of her husband -- her ex-husband. He would never have permitted her to buy these. Time and time again she’d forgone things she’d really wanted, but he never had, not really. Somehow, he always had season tickets, traveled with the supporters, had a better car, and each time she’d been promised that her turn was coming, but it never happened. Not once.

India looked at the shoe. It really was perfect. Besides, after court today, she’d get alimony, and this month’s check would cover the cost of these shoes. Before she could talk herself out of it, she strode across the store and tapped Salesgirl on the shoulder, interrupting her obsequious prattle to Miss Pelham. I’d like the mate to this. She held up the shoe.

Salesgirl turned, eyes and mouth wide. I’m with a customer.

Over the girl’s shoulder the other woman grinned and mouthed thank you.

Seeing she had an ally, India forged ahead. Miss Pelham isn’t going to be happy with that heel. She pointed to the shoe in her hand. The mate?

Salesgirl looked back at Miss Pelham. The other woman dismissed her with a wave. Go on. I’m considering.

Well then. Salesgirl glanced at the pink shoe again and trotted off.

India and Pelham stared at each other a moment. The other woman spoke first. What do you mean I won’t be happy with this heel? It’s pretty. A faint West Indian accent sang through her words, just enough to give the whole speech a dash of spice.

It is definitely pretty, but it’s so high that your back will ache in no time and your feet will swell and compound the pain, and if you’re like me, your knees will bother you for days. Turning forty meant that India had to give up anything over three inches. Besides, most of the shoe will be hidden under the pants, so you’d suffer all that pain for nothing.

Miss Pelham snorted. You’re not wrong. But the heel on your shoe is high.

Not really. India flipped the shoe in her hand so it lay horizontally. The front has a platform, so overall it’s only about two and a half inches.

And you’re wearing a skirt.

Exactly. She considered the shoe. I just wish it had something more, maybe a big black patent bow on the heel.

Did I just say that aloud?

One look at Miss Pelham confirmed that she had. The woman stood arms crossed, head tilted. You’re right. A bow is exactly what it needs. Tell me, where did you get that dress? I love the fabric.

India could see genuine interest in Pelham’s eyes, so she slipped off the jacket to expose more of the dress. I made it. Isn’t this fabric to die for?

You made this? Pelham reached out and rubbed India’s sleeve between two fingers. India might have been put off by the intimacy, but the fabric really was to die for.

Mm-hmm. Once I found the fabric, the rest was easy. Mostly easy.

Could you make another?

I could if I could find more fabric. But this would look horrible on you.

Pelham must have read her expression. Or something else?

Sure --

The door to the shop chimed, and Pelham glanced in that direction. A whip-thin African American woman, followed by the two hulking men who had to been stationed outside, was just coming through the door. Luella, come see this.

Maida, why are Ned and Jamie outside? Luella shook her head. Judging by the overflowing messenger bag and understated clothing, this had to be Maida’s assistant.

Maida Pelham? The R and B singer burning up the charts with her Aretha Franklin smooth voice? That Maida Pelham is holding on to the sleeve of my dress?

Her heart began to beat faster, but Maida gave her another conspiratorial grin, and India began to relax. This was just another woman, after all. One who could buy this entire store and not miss the money, but still a woman like herself.

Maida tugged India towards the group. Those two are outside because they scare off all the other customers, and what’s this little thing going to do? She shook India’s arm to indicate she meant her. Rob me? I could push her down and crush her by sitting on her. Forget that. Look at this dress, Luella, look. Maida dropped her arm and indicated that India should turn.

Wondering at the weird trajectory her life was taking, she slowly rotated.

Miss -- Oh, I forgot to ask your name. Maida tilted her head again.

"India Roberts. No, wait. I’m on my way to my divorce hearing. It’s soon to be India Jackson." She was sharing too much information, but it felt good to correct the record.

Well congratulations, Ms. Jackson. You best buy them shoes. Maida waved at Salesgirl, who had appeared from somewhere in the back and stood with a saffron and white box in her hands. Show your man what he’s lost, and Luella, get her information. I want her to design a dress for me.

Design a dress for her? Oh, I’m not a professional designer. India didn’t want to make a fool of herself or disappoint Maida Pelham.

You are now. Maida grinned. C’mon, boys. We’ve got more shopping to do. She looped her arm through Jaime’s, or maybe it was Ned’s.

But what about your heels? Salesgirl’s plaintive voice carried further than it should have.

Maida didn’t even turn around. That heel is too high for me. What were you thinking showing me that? And with a hearty laugh, Maida Pelham exited the store.

Luella dug a pen and hardbound notebook out