For the First Time (One Strike Away #$) Read online

  FOR THE FIRST TIME

  ● ● ●

  ONE STRIKE AWAY BOOK FOUR

  ● ● ●

  MARY J. WILLIAMS

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary J. Williams.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the Copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  First Ebook Printing, 2017

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Writing isn't easy. But I love every second. A blank screen isn't the enemy. It is the opportunity to create new friends and take them on amazing adventures and life-changing journeys. I feel blessed to spend my days weaving tales that are unique—because I made them.

  Billionaires. Songwriters. Artists. Actors. Directors. Stuntmen. Football players. They fill the pages and become dear friends I hope you will want to revisit again and again.

  Thank you for jumping into my books and coming along for the journey.

  HOW TO GET IN TOUCH

  Please visit me at these sites, sign up for my newsletter or leave a message.

  http://www.maryjwilliams.net/

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  https://www.instagram.com/2015romance/

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5648619.Mary_J_Williams

  MORE BOOKS BY MARY J. WILLIAMS

  Harper Falls Series

  If I Loved You

  If Tomorrow Never Comes

  If You Only Knew

  If I Had You (Christmas in Harper Falls)

  Hollywood Legends Series

  Dreaming With a Broken Heart

  Dreaming With My Eyes Wide Open

  Dreaming Again

  Dreaming of a White Christmas

  (Caleb and Callie's story)

  One Pass Away Series

  After the Rain

  After All These Years

  After the Fire

  Hart of Rock and Roll

  Flowers on the Wall

  Flowers and Cages

  Flowers are Red

  Flowers for Zoe

  One Strike Away

  For a Little While

  For Another Day

  For All We Know

  WITH ONE MORE LOOK AT YOU

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  HOW TO GET IN TOUCH

  MORE BOOKS BY MARY J. WILLIAMS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DEDICATION

  With gratitude, I dedicate For the First Time to ELIZABETH SCOTT. Thanks to her, Murphy found the perfect name for his adorable adopted puppy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  JORDYN KRAIG CURSED when she heard the unmistakable noise. Not even Bruno Mars and the beat of his Uptown Funk could drown out the sound.

  Damn it. She always had her car checked out from top to bottom before a road trip. Unfortunately, the most thorough mechanic couldn't prevent a flat tire.

  With a sigh, Jordyn pulled to the side of the deserted rural road. Up before the sun, determined to miss the worst of the morning commuters, she'd left her brownstone on Seattle's Queen Anne Hill with a spring in her step and a familiar sense of anticipation.

  The dark clouds overhead couldn't get her down. Jordyn was a Western Washington native. Born, bred, and entrenched for the long haul. Despite the exaggerated cliché of Seattle weather as rain, rain, and more rain, they did get their share—and more.

  Early spring in the Pacific Northwest could be wet—very wet. This year, if the amount of early April showers was anything to go by, they would find themselves swimming in May flowers—literally.

  Resigned to the delay, Jordyn turned off the ignition. The console on her car's dashboard flashed, asking for confirmation. Yes, she responded, hitting the button with more force than necessary. I have a flat tire. Yes. I need roadside assistance.

  Modern technology saved Jordyn the trouble of calling for help. In a pinch, she could have changed the tire herself. Her father made certain his children—boy or girl—knew the basics of auto maintenance before they were allowed to drive solo.

  Jordyn admired her newly manicured nails—Alluring Apricot—before glancing out the window as the sky chose that moment to open—a fresh deluge drenching her car. Yes, she could change a tire. However, could and would were two very different beasts.

  Why chip her polish or ruin a brand-new pair of Italian leather boots when she could sit in the warm, dry comfort of her luxury SUV while somebody else took care of the frustrating, yet hardly life-altering inconvenience?

  Jordyn checked her watch. She had an appointment in two hours. No matter how quick the repair, she still had another fifty miles to drive. Up, into, and over mountain terrain she'd never traveled.

  In need of advice, Jordyn took out her phone and hit the number at the top of her contacts list.

  "I didn't expect to hear from you until tonight."

  Blue O'Hara. Best friend since childhood. Staunch, unwavering supporter of all ideas—from the possible to the downright crazy. From schoolyard bullies to jerk first boyfriends, Blue stood beside her, fists clenched.

  Just the sound of her voice loosened the fiercest knots that had clustered at the base of Jordyn's neck.

  "Flat tire." Blue understood her better than anybody, which gave Jordyn the leeway to jump right in without a bunch of unnecessary chit-chat. "I've spent three months charming a meeting out of Anastasia Perkins. I rehearsed my pitch until I'd achieved the perfect balance of charm and hard-nosed businesswoman."

  "Breathe," Blue interjected.

  "Right." Jordyn filled her lungs. In. Out. In. Out. Sometimes when she worked herself up, she forgot. Another reason she loved Blue.

  "You always give yourself a ridiculously padded cushion of time."

  "I know. Before the early bird could think about getting the worm, I was on the road. Herbal tea in the cup holder. But you know these off-the-beaten-track towns. The Cascades are full of them."

  Jordyn didn't understand the desire to get away from it all. For centuries, people worked their butts off to improve their lot in life. She was all for a hike through the woods, if at the end of the trail waited indoor plumbing, a hot shower, ultra-soft cotton sheets, and a big bowl of microwave popcorn to eat while she binge-watched the latest season of Chopped.

  To each his own, Jordyn sighed. Or her own. The problem was, to keep her high-end beauty boutiques supplied with the latest can't-do-without lotions and potions, often, she had to go to the source.

  Today was a perfect case in point.

  "My car's GPS system is state of the art. The roads aren't. Three wrong turns and my cushion's been reduced to a fast-closing window."

  "You have no choice. Call the woman—Anastasia Perkins? Tell her your situation. And remind her—in a gentle, yet firm manner—that you have the power
to make her a lot of money. Enough to keep her in granola and Birkenstocks for many years to come. Or, Manolos and caviar." Jordyn could almost see Blue's live-and-let-live shrug. "Whatever her weak spot."

  Sympathetic friend one second, no-nonsense business executive the next. Jordyn could count on Blue. Whatever. Whenever.

  As the head of public relations for the Seattle Cyclones baseball team, Blue had to deal with one crisis after another—sticky situations that often involved pulling high-salaried athletes' balls out of the fire.

  Team owners or petulant jocks, Blue never blinked first.

  "You're right." As usual. "I can always find another miracle cream. I simply need to remind Anastasia Perkins that she needs me more than I need her."

  Blue chuckled. "Jordyn Kraig. Barracuda businesswoman."

  "Damn right."

  As little girls, Jordyn and Blue used to share their dreams—future world beaters—determined nothing would stand in their way. Not even thirty years old, and they were on track straight to the top.

  "How are things in Arizona?" Jordyn asked.

  "Sunny and eighty-one degrees."

  Jordyn felt her newly restored good mood dip—slightly. She might envy Blue for the weather, but not the accompanying baseball.

  "Spring Training games. Is there anything more boring?"

  "Just off the top of my head, I can think of a few. Sitting in a car—in the pouring rain—waiting for a tow truck tops the list."

  "Touché. At least you have a devoted fiancé to help pass the time."

  "Spencer is in Arizona to hone his considerable athletic skills and get ready for the regular season. He isn't here to entertain me."

  Jordyn felt a glow of happiness every time she remembered her best friend and her brother were back together and planned to marry next fall. Their story proved that true love could conquer all.

  "Come on," Jordyn teased. "You and Spencer can't keep your hands off each other. You can't tell me the two of you aren't enjoying a little fun in the sun."

  "Maybe. A little." Blue turned the teasing back on Jordyn. "Want details?"

  "About you and Spencer? Not on your life."

  The only drawback to the Blue and Spencer love fest? Jordyn couldn't enjoy a vicarious thrill from her friend's very active sex life. Anything about her brother was strictly off limits. Just the thought made her shudder.

  The computer on the dashboard of her car flashed, drawing Jordyn's attention.

  "Tow truck is approximately a mile away."

  "Good. With any luck, you'll make your appointment." Blue's optimism was contagious.

  "Fingers crossed."

  "I'll be back in Seattle next week. Wine and pizza at your place?"

  "Sounds good."

  "Take care of yourself."

  The phrase was familiar—but heartfelt. Jordyn spent a lot of time traveling. By car. By plane. Occasionally, by train. A woman alone—even a savvy one—was vulnerable. Though they kept their thoughts to themselves—for the most part—her family worried. Blue worried too. However, she wasn't as reticent about holding her tongue.

  "Name somebody better at taking care of herself than me."

  "A black belt in karate is impressive."

  "Thank you."

  "Make sure you check Mr. Tow Truck's identification."

  Jordyn chuckled.

  "I love you, Blue."

  "Love you, too."

  How lucky was she? Jordyn thought as a truck with a huge winch on the back pulled to a stop in front of her SUV. Her friend was the best of the best. Her family—mother, father, three brothers—ranked right at the top of any list. They worried and fussed and meddled. Poked and prodded. They could be annoying as hell.

  And Jordyn wouldn't have traded a single one of them for anything in the entire world or beyond.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  "TWO HOURS? REALLY?"

  "I wish I could get your tire fixed sooner," the burly owner of Mick's Garage told Jordyn. She had to give him credit. From the ends of his handlebar mustache to the wry turn of the toothpick that dangled from his mouth, Mick looked genuinely sorry. "Three of my guys are out sick. Nasty flu going around."

  Another unwelcome turn to her crappy day. Jordyn eyed the waiting area with trepidation. Two plastic chairs, a rickety table, and a couple of magazines that had been there since the Bush admiration—Bush Sr.—didn't exactly scream comfort.

  As for the man who occupied one of the chairs? He was probably harmless. However, she was put off by the chewing tobacco trickling down his chin—not to mention the mingling of unwashed body and gasoline—tempered Jordyn's desire to spend the next few hours with him in the narrow, box-like room.

  Mick seemed to understand Jordyn's dilemma.

  "If you want to go across the street to Paddy's Pub, I'll give you a call when your car is ready."

  Jordyn peered out the smudged window. Paddy's Pub, a plain brown building with three pickup trucks in the parking lot, looked more like a shed than a place of business.

  "Best coffee in town."

  The lure of good coffee to a Seattle native was like waving honey in front of a certain bear by the name of Pooh. Jordyn wasn't as insatiable for caffeine as some people she knew, but she could do with something hot.

  Besides, she'd been blessed—cursed?—with a wide streak of curiosity. She didn't buy the fact that anything good lurked behind the nondescript front door of Paddy's Pub. But she wouldn't be satisfied until she found out for herself.

  Stepping from the garage, Jordyn was happy to see the rain had slowed from a steady downpour to a drizzle. Filling her lungs with the cool, fresh mountain air, she dashed across the street.

  The pub was dimly lit—as expected—and Jordyn took a moment to let her eyes adjust. As she looked around the neat, clean room, she was surprised to see so many people looking back. Either the three vehicles parked outside had arrived four bodies deep, or the foot traffic in such a tiny town was impressive indeed.

  The woman behind the bar looked to be in her late forties. Solid more than fat, she was tall with strong features. She wore her gray hair short and her right eyebrow pierced by a small, gold hoop.

  "Something I can help you with?" the woman asked as she filled a frosty glass from a row of beer taps.

  "The bathroom? And a cup of coffee. Please."

  "Bathroom's in the back."

  Most of the pub's patrons quickly lost interest in Jordyn. However, two men stopped their game of pool to watch her every step—as if they'd never seen a woman before.

  Jordyn shut the bathroom door with a firm click, turning the lock. As she washed her hands, she gave herself a critical once over.

  Some would say she had been blessed with an enviable gene pool. Jordyn would agree. Yes, she took care of her face. Moisturized religiously. Always removed her makeup before getting into bed. She exercised. Took a daily vitamin supplement. But the way she looked. Her wide-set, dark-green eyes, high cheekbones, full mouth. Even her thick, dark hair—currently worn in an easy, yet chic topknot—came from her father's side of the family. Jordyn merely used a few of the products she sold to enhance the shine and bounce.

  Jordyn could have made a very good living as a model—the offers poured in before she reached puberty. But life in front of a camera didn't interest her.

  She wanted success. And money. And power. And blessed anonymity. Jordyn knew the price of fame. Her brother was the best third baseman in the game. In her opinion, Spencer was the best—period. He thrived on the attention that inevitably came along with his status. The media attention. The gossip. The rumors.

  Spencer was born with a Teflon-plated ego—able to take the good, the bad, and the ugly of fame in his stride.

  Jordyn knew herself. She wouldn't be as easy going if everywhere she went, cameras followed. A big reason she never, ever dated athletes. First, they loved the spotlight. Second, feeding an ego—big o
r small—was too exhausting. Even Spencer—about as down to Earth a man as you could find considering his superstar status—could be a bit much on occasion. How Blue put up with him, she didn't know. Must be love.

  Standing back, Jordyn did a slow spin. The mirror wasn't big, but she could see enough. Her black leggings and dove-gray leather jacket made a good traveling outfit. Comfortable. Durable. Wrinkle resistant. She looked presentable. Businesslike. But not stuffy.

  Adding a touch of cherry-red lipstick, Jordyn gave herself a nod and left the bathroom.

  "Hey, Maisie. We could use another round."

  "And I could use George Clooney," the tall bartender shot back at the pool players.

  "A week doing what?" countered a man at the bar.

  "Anything and everything."

  As the early afternoon crowd laughed with Maisie—not at her—Jordyn smiled for the first time in hours. The vibe in the pub seemed different—more likely, her pissy attitude had taken a turn for the better.

  Friendly, Jordyn decided. Like a neighborhood hangout. Where the regulars looked beyond the dingy floors and wobbly chairs because the place was theirs.

  "Still want that coffee?" Maisie called as she pulled a pitcher of beer.

  "More than my next breath."

  With a snort, Maisie set the pitcher aside, grabbing what looked like a freshly brewed pot of heavenly smelling dark liquid.

  "Car trouble?" she asked as she placed the mug in front of Jordyn.

  "Flat tire."

  "Figured something like that. Your type doesn't stop in Atkins Bend to see the sights."

  "My type?"

  Unapologetically, Maisie sized Jordyn up.

  "Upscale. When you first walked in, I thought any man who took you on needed his head examined. Too high maintenance. But my guess is you can take care of yourself and don't want—or need—somebody to hold your hand."

  With a shrug, the bartender delivered the pitcher of beer without waiting for a response.