About Her: Second Chance Romance, #1

By Elizabeth Seckman

Shelley Ward doesn't know what she wants out of life, but she knows being a broke, accidental home-wrecker isn't it. Her whole life, she did what was easy. Her dad coached; she chose a career in football. A guy hit on her; she slept with him. The path of least resistance was leading to a cliff.

 

Broadway producer, Mark Salvan is a man who keeps his life under control—until he spots Shelley, his high school crush being dragged out of LaGuardia Airport by TSA. He rescues her from security, offers her a job, and gives her a place to stay. He's certain their chance encounter will be her grand-third-act-closing and the start of their story.

 

In Shelley's heart, it feels like destiny—like someone finally sees her. But logic tells her this perfect man can't be in love with her, that her true destiny will be that of a lonely spinster who'll be lucky to have the affections of her cat.

 

Shelley can't see it, but there's something special about her, and Mark is determined to prove it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Seckman
• Release date: Jul 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201767617

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Her decision to leave Poland and return home to the states was made in usual Shelley Ward style—rashly and without any consideration for the consequences. Maybe her mother was right to nag and lecture her incessantly. Her life was a train wreck. Although, if Freud was worth his salt at all, wasn’t it her mother’s fault she was off the rails?

Enough was enough. This time, she would return home confident and ready to start yet another new job. One that her favorite ex-boyfriend got her after she called him homesick and miserable, after her last impulsive life change took her from their excruciatingly quiet—well, quiet until there was hot gossip to shout from the mountain tops—little burg in their hometown of West Virginia to the bustling city of Warsaw. It had taken her from a position on her father’s college football team, where Papa Ward watched over her and her every move, to an upstart, semi-pro football team in Europe, where no one ever bothered to check to see why she was late. Like the time she had to walk three miles to the field because she had a flat and no cell service.

Every step of those three miles—every blister—every cramp—every tear—was a reminder that she had nobody.

After that miserable day, she cried to her ex, Cam Vorelli, one of the few good guys in this universe. She had no friends in Warsaw. Sure, there were the guys who hit on her, but they didn’t count. Knowing that most of them didn’t understand a damn word she said was positive proof that they weren’t out to connect with her mind, much less her heart.

A depression had settled in and lasted months. Finally, unable to take it a moment longer, she called her ex. Cam Vorelli, and sweet, perfect guy that he was, he suggested she come home. He would help her. He could get her a job. Hell, she could even stay with him until she got on her feet.

It was the perfect solution. The whole plan seemed flawless, until she was riding in the taxi, imagining Cam’s wife’s reaction to Cam’s ex moving in with them.

The chick was gonna flip.

Shelley plopped her monster purse in her lap and hugged it. Maybe her mother was right. There was something seriously wrong with her. Cam was married because she’d gotten bored with him. And why? Was it because he was too good to her? Was she only attracted to guys who were awful to her?

A wail from the left followed by a foot shoving against her arm shook her out of her thoughts. A blonde woman and her child were in the seats next to her. Mom wrestled the very small, very wiry child. Coach section of the plane didn’t offer the woman much room to work. The child flailed arms and legs like an octopus on speed.

I’m so sorry, the woman said. My daughter. She’s autistic. The woman took an elbow to the face. My husband booked the flight—more screams from the child— and he didn’t get her a window.

Shelley grabbed her purse and her carry-on. She can have my seat.

No, I—

Seriously. It doesn’t matter to me one way or another. I plan to sleep.

As soon as Shelley stood, the child climbed into window seat and pressed her head against the glass staring at the world outside.

Shelley made herself comfortable in the aisle seat.

Thank you, the woman said handing the child a blanket. The little girl tucked it under her chin and hugged it like a teddy bear. I’m Emily Philips. Little Miss Fit Thrower is Chloe.

Nice to meet you, Emily. Shelley held out her hand. Shelley Ward.

My husband booked the flight. . .saved us thirty-five dollars by not choosing a window seat. Men. The woman chuckled.

I wouldn’t really know, Shelley said. I’ve never dated a man longer than a few months; I’m not sure I’ve ever had a man book me a dinner, much less a flight.

Oh. . .well. . .

Shelley smiled. I’m like a butterfly—here, there, and everywhere.

Well, I’m glad you were here now.

A flight attendant stopped by Shelley’s seat. Ma’am?

Shelley looked up. The woman stood above her with pursed ruby-red lips and makeup so thick Shelley could see the cracks in her foundation.

You are in the wrong seat.

I traded—

You can’t trade seats. You have to sit in the seat that corresponds with your ticket.

Bullshit. Who said?

The FTA.

Well, I’m in my seat. I’m Emily.

No, you’re not. A bead of sweat bubbled its way through the makeup. The woman was probably red-faced, but who could tell? I know exactly who you are, Shelley Ward.

Shelley was dumbstruck. Did the woman actually know her, or did she memorize the passenger list?

Ma’am, Emily leaned over Shelley to talk to Pancake Face. My daughter is special needs, and this kind woman let her have her seat so we could all fly in peace.

That’s not my problem, Pancake Face said.

What the fuck IS your problem, then? Shelley asked so loud the question reverberated off the walls of the narrow cabin.

Don’t your raise you voice to me, Shelley Ward, especially when you use vulgarities.

Daaaammnn lady, why don’t you leave the woman alone? the man in the seat in front of Shelley turned and asked. Shelley’s neighbor across the aisle repeated the question.

This is just like you, the attendant snapped. Do whatever you want with no regard for the rules or how your decisions affect other people. Pancake Face’s voice cracked; her eyes sparkled with tears.

Do I know you? Shelley asked.

I swear, your kind go through life destroying lives, and you don’t even give a damn enough to remember all the names.

I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.

You—the woman’s voice trembled— you homewrecking slut.

Oops. Was Gary your husband? Gary. Such an asshole of a human and not at all worth fighting for.

Gary? No, his name is Mike. The woman stomped her foot in the aisle.

Shelley took a deep breath and gathered her purse and carry-on. How about I catch another flight and make things less awkward for all of us? Whispers behind her made her palms sweat and her cheeks burn. Excuse me, she said as she made her way down the aisle.

You can’t just leave, Pancake Face said. The door is already closed.

Shelley flipped her the bird and kept walking.

Fine. Coward. Run away. That’s how women like you are. Sneak around and steal husbands, and when you’re challenged. . .off you go.

Shelley turned and yelled, Look lady, I’m just trying to fly home. I don’t need your bullshit.

The woman crossed her arms over her chest, tapped her foot, but said no more.

That’s what I thought. Shelley turned and marched toward the door. People stared up at her and moved their arms and legs out of the aisle as she made her way to the exit. For crying out loud, Shelley mumbled. You’d think I’d brought a bomb on the plane.

CHAPTER 2

Red-faced and mortified, Shelley Ward wasn’t at all surprised that her plan to get her life on track went south because one of her many, man-induced, bad life choices came back to bite her in the ass. What a fiasco. Talk about a bad day turned horrible. Even her carry-on refused to roll up the carpeted gangway. As she picked it up to check the offending wheel, she spotted two burly security guards coming toward her.

Maybe they were on their way to arrest the bitch stewardess who publicly humiliated a paying passenger by screaming to everyone inside the tin-can fuselage that said passenger had possibly boinked bitch stewardess’s husband—a charge that Shelley could neither confess nor deny, because she did not remember which freaking Mike the woman was screeching about. What the hell was it with Mikes? They were everywhere, and unfortunately, she’d dated her fair share of them.

Shelley changed direction, trying to slide to the far left of a starry-eyed young couple holding hands. Shelley thought about tripping one of them, to rouse them back to reality. Poor dipshits were yet to learn that a rose by any name withered off the vine and stabbed you with its thorns.

But that was a lesson for another time. Right now, she had to get out of the airport uncuffed, and, sadly, juking left hadn’t dropped her off the guards’ radar. They still came toward her, eyes focused in her direction. No doubt, she was their target. Well, hell, Shelley sighed, stopping in front of Romeo and Juliet, forcing them to break apart in order to step around her.

Ma’am, the security guard who had a wide split between his front teeth and damp circles under his pits said to her, you need to come with us.

Why? she asked as they each took her by an arm and practically carried her from the gangway through the airport. Neither answered her question, but Sweaty Pits was nice enough to take her bag for her, or was he taking it from her? Panic made her heart skip a beat.

Yes, she’d imagined big changes in her life, but they never included a trip to jail. She tried to explain to her blue-clad escorts, I didn’t cause any trouble, I swear. I was the one who was harassed. I left the plane of my own accord, to calm people down. Please, you’re hurting my arms.

You said ‘bomb’ on the plane.

No. Oh, I did. But not like—Bomb!! More like it’s NOT a bomb. I was being absurd.

You should never say bomb on a plane. It’s no joke.

I wasn’t joking.

Sweaty pits shot her a glance.

I didn’t say bomb as a threat. I said I didn’t have a bomb. I was only— Shelley sighed. Look, I’m sorry. Her apology did nothing to make them loosen their grip on her. Look, she said a bit too loudly. She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. The stewardess was being a— It probably didn’t win her any favors to call the woman, a co-worker of the men in blue, names. The stewardess accused me of sleeping with her husband in front of everyone on the plane. I was embarrassed and decided to leave. No bombs.

The attendant said you were noncompliant and said you had a bomb.

No. That’s not how it happened. Ask people on the plane. Ask that lady— Emily is her name. I traded seats with her little girl. She wanted the window, and I didn’t care about the window; I was going to sleep anyhow. Ouch. Shelley glared at Sweaty Pits. Could you please slow down? You’re dragging me.

Fortunately, it was New York. People seemed more annoyed at having to navigate around the trio than they were curious about the spectacle of a woman being dragged by security. More than one dirty look was cast their way—which was a far cry better than people grabbing for their phones.

They marched her toward a private corridor. Shelley’s mind flew to cavity searches and handcuffs. Her feet stopped, but it didn’t slow down the guards. It only increased the pressure on her upper arms as they practically carried her, her toes dragging against the tile. Shelley’s next words were breathless and near panic. It was the stewardess. She said it was illegal to trade seats. I told her I wanted to see that in writing, and she freaked out on me. She started calling me names and accused me of cheating with her husband—it was a personal attack. On me. I didn’t—

Holy Mona Lisa covered in cupcake, a man’s voice interrupted her pleas. Shelley Ward, is that you?

Shelley looked up. At first glance, she thought it was her ex, Cam Vorelli, and her heart soared; but she quickly realized the man in front of her was too polished and well-groomed to be Cam. Then it dawned on her. Mark Salvan. Cam’s wife’s bestie and one of the few guys from Morgan County Class of 2010 whom Shelley knew nothing of on a personal level. In a class of less than a hundred students, there was always some sort of playground or backseat shenanigans to report between classmates, but never anything about Mark, which seemed to confirm the rumors that danced around their hometown of Morgan.

Mark played for the other team.

Shelley sighed inwardly. Mark grew up to be tall dark and damnededly handsome. As her mother told her, over and over again—at her age, all the good ones were either gay or married. Shelley felt her sensual spidey-sense tingle quickly when Mark appeared like a Greek god swooping down from Mt. Olympus; he was most certainly both gay and married.

Mark?

In the flesh. He flashed his model-worthy smile at her before making eye contact with the security guard holding her arm. What’s going on here?

The man said nothing, so Shelley answered, A huge misunderstanding. That’s what’s going on. One I don’t need an escort for.

We’re taking her to the head of security, the guard carrying her bag said. If she’s lucky, she’ll only be forced to leave the airport.

I have to leave? I can’t leave. I need to book another flight.

Bag Carrier looked down at her. Ma’am, you were thrown off your flight. You can’t book another one.

Mark’s smile was so broad she figured he was stifling a laugh. How in the world did you get kicked off an airplane?

Heat pooled in her cheeks. I kicked myself off my flight.

Doomsday premonition? Mark asked.

Nothing like that, Shelley said. It was an awkward flight. The stewardess announced to everyone in coach that I was a homewrecking slut.

Mark’s eyes widened. Dear me, you were flying coach?

His words left her dumbfounded for a moment. Her brain cells kicked in, and she considered punching him in his smug face, but the guard’s grip on her arm reminded her that, even if she could take a swing at him, it wasn’t a good idea. An escalation of drama would probably end up with her in a cell or worse.

Mark grinned at her, and she shot him daggers back. He rubbed his chin and looked to the guard holding her. Okay, fellas, the joke’s over when the lady loses her sense of humor. Let me take her off your hands before we have to complicate things with calls to your supervisor. If I have to, Doug, who—Mark checked his watch— is probably at the gym about now and won’t be the least bit happy to be interrupted with a call about work.

The two guards looked at each other as if trying to decide if Mark was bluffing. Finally, one caved and shrugged. The other said, Do you promise to get her out of here?

It will be my pleasure.

They let go of Shelley, and she moved quickly to Mark’s side, before security changed their mind or figured out he was most likely bluffing about Doug—whoever in the hell that was.

Mark wrapped an arm around her shoulder and grabbed her carry-on from the guard. Thank you. He leaned toward Sweaty Pits and the other. Pat, he said with a head nod to each Michael. He looked to Shelley. You ready to go, my dear?

Absolutely.

Sorry for the mix up, ma’am, Sweaty Pit Pat offered.

Yeah, whatever. Shelley stepped closer to Mark, who gave her shoulder a squeeze and lead her away. So, who’s this Doug fella that made them so friendly?

Doug Hofsass. It’s his rubber-stamped signature that’s on their paychecks.

How in the world would you know that?

Lucky guess. Tell me; how much am I like Rhett Butler rescuing Scarlett from trepidation? Is your outfit fashioned from parlor curtains?

Shelley looked down at her faded jeans and cat shirt. More like the sheets from a Motel 6.

He gave her a grin and a wink then pulled her body close. Let’s get the hell out of here. I’ll buy you a drink, and you can tell me all about it.

As they made their way out of the airport, Mark kept his arm around her. It was protective and pleasant, especially after the fiasco on the plane and the humiliation of being dragged through the airport. Mark would be a wonderful catch for some woman…or man. Disappointment dragged at her as she reminded herself that all the best guys were already taken or most likely gay.

CHAPTER 3

Mark’s body was firm, warm, and comforting. Walking out of the airport with his arm over her shoulders was like being rescued at sea and dropped safely on a sunny beach. He even smelled like fresh air.

Where were you flying to?

Pittsburgh. Oh shit, my bags are headed to Pittsburgh.

Don’t worry about it. I’ll call my office and have the travel desk take care of it for you.

You’ll help me get my luggage?

Mark nodded.

That’s so nice of you.

That’s me. Mr. Nice Guy. He smiled at her. A smile so dazzling it made her heart skip a beat. She swallowed and reminded herself again that Mark was most likely gay. Falling for a gay man would be the perfect add to her list of crash-and-burns in the romance department.

Have you had dinner?

Shelley’s stomach rumbled; she shook her head. No, and I’m starving.

Me too. Bobby Van’s has excellent fries. Steaks aren’t bad either.

I was thinking more like a cheeseburger or a slice of pizza. She was broke. Well, not completely broke, she still had a hundred dollars in her wallet and some credit left on one or two of her credit cards. She’d had to pay a fine for breaking her contract early with the Warsaw Dragons, and the flight home cost more than she’d expected. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be begging her parents for money. Or prostituting herself. She bit her lip. How did one set up a call girl service? The classy kind, where she could charge a lot of money and only service really hot clients. . .

My treat.

You don’t have to do that.

I know I don’t, but I want to. I mean, how often do I have the opportunity to run into one of Morgan County’s finest-looking women getting a full police escort out of LaGuardia Airport? This is a reason for celebration.

I’m not sure it’s a reason for celebration.

Of course, it is. One day, when you’re old and gray—this will be the story you tell your grandkids.

Shelley thought of the fury in the woman’s face, and her own cheeks burned hotter. She could not imagine a scenario in which she would ever be proud of this moment in her life enough to share it with anyone, ever, but she didn’t tell Mark that. He was buying her dinner and rescuing her luggage.

Walking through the parking lot, Mark fell in behind her but kept a gentle grip on her elbow, pulling her left and right through the maze of parked cars. Normally, Shelley would balk at a man leading her like a wayward pup, but with Mark, it was comforting. It made her feel like she had a friend in this world. She relaxed and hung close to his tall form until they reached his car. A shiny, black, sporty-looking thing.

It was a short drive across bridges and busy intersections. In the restaurant, they were immediately seated at a table in a secluded corner of the dining room. The host lit the votive candle on their table and handed them menus before wishing them a good evening and heading back to the front of the restaurant.

Without bothering to open it or even look at it, Mark slid the menu to the edge of the table.

Shelley looked over both pages. The steaks were higher than she expected. She wasn’t comfortable taking advantage of his hospitality.

Ma’am, did you need more time?

Shelley looked up at the waiter and blushed. It wasn’t as if he could read her mind, but her brain rarely functioned on a logical level when she was in a flux. It was one of her flaws.

I could come back. . .

No, I’ll take the single burger with ketchup, mustard, and pickle and a water with lemon.

Get her a steak also, Mark chimed in. And the cheese fries. I’ve seen her eat; she’s being polite.

The waiter’s smile was a twitch. He looked from Mark to her as if he expected her to be outraged.

Shelley smiled. Cancel the burger, and be sure to put all that on his tab. I’ll pay for the water.

Mark laughed. Again, with that smile. Charming gay men should be banished. It was like window shopping when broke—no one in their right mind truly enjoyed that.

How would you like that steak?

Well done. Like really well done. No pink.

Mark shook his head.

The waiter nodded, gathered the menus, and promised to return shortly.

Why are you shaking your head at me?

"I should’ve let you get the burger.