My Second Chance: A Secret Baby Romance, page 1
MY SECOND CHANCE
A SECRET BABY ROMANCE
NATASHA L. BLACK
Copyright © 2023 by Natasha L. Black
All rights reserved.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
My Hot Neighbor (Sample)
A Note from the Author
Books by Natasha L. Black
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INTRODUCTION
Secrets always have a way of coming back to bite you,
And I’m about to get bit big time…
Graham was the star pitcher of our high school team,
I was the theater nerd I never thought he’d notice.
Until one day he did, and it changed my life forever.
Fast forward five years and he sees me in the stands,
He gives me one hot night and a heck of a secret to keep.
Now, he’s back in our hometown,
Coaching after an injury ended his career.
I have two problems.
Graham’s working right down the hall, and sparks are flying.
One look at the little boy with his eyes and he’ll know what I’ve been hiding.
He deserves the truth. My son deserves a father.
Is it my chance at a happy ending…
Or will he hate me forever for the secret I’ve kept?
1
MALLORY - FIFTEEN YEARS AGO…
The bell rang signaling the end of the day for most of the students. In a way, it really meant the beginning of it for me. It was what I looked forward to most, and the only place where I felt like myself. Alive.
I made my way out of the last class of the day, thankful to no longer have to pretend to care about letters that had somehow made their way into math class and what they mean. My locker wasn’t too far from the class door, which was a little bit of a relief since that last bell usually meant a mad rush for the exits and getting to your locker was nearly impossible if it were far away.
Normally I wouldn’t have to rush, since usually I wouldn’t be leaving for a good while. But today was a bit different. Instead of dawdling around the theater, spending time under the lights on the stage just for the sake of it and helping other students’ workshop scenes and rehearsals, today I was responsible for helping work on the sets for the upcoming play.
The rest of the crew was due to be there at two-thirty sharp. While theater teachers tended to be a lot more lenient on showing up on time, or even showing up at all, the technical directors ran their departments like a well-oiled machine. The militia of make-believe, as they called themselves. I had joined them to help paint sets and get things together for the play since my role was small in the production, and needless to say their work ethic had shocked me.
Not only were they constantly running around in a craze, but the entire atmosphere was different. I was so used to the dramatic, long-drawn-out discussions about characters and motivations, that the intense silence of people working their butts off, building and painting and hammering and listening to heavy metal was a departure I wasn’t quite prepared for. I kind of liked it, though.
Still, the tech director was a hard-ass, and that meant I needed to get to the stage as fast as I could in order to help them lay out canvas to paint with. It was also my duty to bring the paints and canvas to the stage, since I was the last one who’d borrowed them from the art department.
With my hands full with my canvas and paint tubes piled together, I shut my locker with my elbow and sent up a silent prayer that I could make it all the way to the theater without dropping anything. That lasted about ten seconds.
I rounded a corner, hugging the wall tight to avoid the rush of kids that were streaming past. Most of them were apparently oblivious to me, though that wasn’t new. Who noticed the mousy girl with the hairbow and ill-fitting dresses that never seemed to make any good of the shape of my body? No one. Not outside of the geeky but sweet boys in the theater production class, but none of them had the gall to actually talk to me. I might as well have been an alien to them.
Two hurried steps after rounding the corner and every thought about boys, my lack of fashion style or dreams of being a big famous actress were tossed summarily aside in an ultimately failed attempt to keep my balance and not drop everything in my hands. I collided with someone big enough that it was like hitting a brick wall. Paint supplies went everywhere, the canvas unfolded itself and spread over the bottom half of me as I fell and landed on my ass, staring up at a belt buckle.
Oh no.
Not the belt buckle I knew all too well.
Graham Miller was tall, talented, gorgeous, and ultra-athletic. He was the star of the baseball team, and everyone knew, without the whisper of a doubt, that he was destined to put little Murdock, Texas on the map by making it to the major leagues. Indeed, scouts were a regular occurrence in the stands. They would check out when the team came to bat, but any time Graham Miller took the mound, they were on the edges of their seats.
He was perfect. At least I thought so. I’d had a crush on him for three years running, and even his tacky insistence on wearing massive belt buckles did nothing to dissuade me from going to every game. I would sit in the crowd on the top bleacher, usually with an umbrella spread over me to keep from getting sunburned. It was that kind of sweet crush that you fawn over that makes you reach for every chance you get to see them. But right now I couldn’t think about that. Not when I felt like a giant fool in front of him.
Slowly, my eyes trailed upward, doing everything they could to stay focused somewhere near his belt buckle but perhaps a bit lower. I didn’t want to look up. That’s where his face would be. A face that would be staring down at me. And probably laughing.
Tears welled up in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall as I scrambled to my knees and began sweeping the mess I made towards me.
“Sorry, sorry,” I said, repeating myself in a voice that felt like it was far away.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, kneeling down. Suddenly, I felt a jolt of white-hot electricity and looked down to see his hand on my shoulder.
He was touching me.
“Sorry,” I repeated again, though the words barely escaped my lips.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes focused on mine.
“I’m fine,” I muttered after a moment, struggling to regain the ability to control my lips. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was clumsy.”
“No, you’re fine,” he said. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Here, let me help you.” Graham started picking up bottles of paint and pulling them toward me. “Do you need help carrying this? It’s a lot of stuff.”
“No, I’ve got it,” I lied. “I just… lost my balance for a second.”
“Seriously, I can help,” he said. “I don’t need to be at practice for another half hour. I was just going to go grab a shower first.”
Something inside my stomach did a gymnastics routine at the thought of him in the shower running through my mind. I had to clamp that down like a vise, both so I could have any functioning capabilities at all and so I could crystallize it and think about it later.
“No, I’m fine,” I said, standing with the canvas and paint on top. Almost immediately, a couple bottles fell, and as I reached for them, the canvas unfurled and fell again too. “Shit.”
I clamped my hand over my mouth. I never cursed.
Graham just grinned. It was the kind of grin that had the ability to melt. I couldn’t seem to feel my fingertips all of a sudden.
“Where are you headed to?” he asked.
“You don’t need to help,” I said. “I’m sure you’re busy. You have way, way more important things to do than help me carry things to the theater.”
“The theater it is,” he said, smiling. “Here, I’ll take that.”
Reaching around me, he grabbed the canvas and folded it back up easily. He was so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. His cologne was warm and spicy, and I felt like I could slather it on my pillow and sleep forever, happily.
Graham stood, somehow carrying everything in one arm and holding the other out to me. The light behind him on the ceiling made a halo around his head, and for a moment, he looked like a hero from one of those comic book movies. He might as well have been. Graham Miller, baseball superhero from Gotham… or something. I was a bit behind on big explosive summer blockbusters. It wasn’t like anyone was taking me to the movies, so when I went, it was to whatever romance chick flick I wanted to see.
I took his hand and felt like my knees might just not work when I got upright. Thankfully, they had just enough to hold on, and when he let me go, I briefly thought about how I might just stand around and look at my hand for a while later. He had held it. With his pitching hand no less.
“So, what’s the play about?” he asked. “I keep meaning to go to one, but I’m always so damn busy.”
“The play?” I asked, suddenly going completely blank. Then it hit me. I was having a conversation with him. A real, one-on-one, real-person conversation. Not one where I was making up the whole thing in my head while I daydreamed about him, but one where actual words were going to have to come out of my mouth. Lovely words. Words that showed interest in me and what I do.
Hell, I would take any words at the moment. He was looking at me and waiting. Panic struck my throat, and I tried to force something out. Anything.
“Death,” I said.
Nope, that wasn’t it.
“Death?” he asked. “Kinda morbid, but cool.”
“I mean, it’s about death, but also struggle. It’s a classic, but not many people know about it. Camino Real. I play a small character this time around.”
“Cool,” he said. “You do a lot of acting?”
“I try,” I said. My cheeks were burning, and I knew the smile on my face probably looked crazed, but I couldn’t help it. We were halfway there, and I felt like time was slipping away so fast. Before I knew it, we would be there, and then the conversation was going to be over. Why couldn’t I think of something interesting to say?
“You should try out some time. You would have been perfect as Kilroy,” I said.
“Me? Nah,” he said. “I’m no actor. I bet you’re great, though.”
My cheeks pinked quickly, the heat crawling up my neck intensely, and I opened my mouth to say something else when his head turned as Debbie Lee, the prettiest girl in the school walked past. She was smart and beautiful, and all the boys wanted her. All the girls wanted to be her. And she looked at me like I was personally violating her eyes.
“Graham,” she said. “What are you doing here? You’re going to be late to practice.”
“Oh, hey, Deb,” he said casually. Of course it was casual. People like him moved in circles with people like Debbie Lee. They even called her ‘Deb.’ “I was just helping her get some stuff to the theater.”
“Well, you need to hurry,” she said. “Marcus said your practice got moved up because of the rain coming in. There’s a scout here today too. That’s more important than”—she looked me up and down— “whatever this is.”
“I’ll be there, Deb,” he said.
“No, now,” she said. “Marcus made me promise if I saw you, I would deliver you personally. He wants you to make him look good like you promised.”
“Marcus is a catcher,” Graham said offhandedly to me.
“Oh.” I nodded. He might as well have told me he was a triangle in a banana suit for all it meant to me. “It’s fine, I can handle it on my own. You should get to practice.”
“Sorry,” he said as I took everything out of his hands and staggered away a step. “Good luck with the play!”
I smiled at him but sighed under my breath. As Graham walked away, Debbie Lee took an extra second to look me over one last time before she pranced off behind him. She was undoubtedly going down to the field to watch practice herself. I knew enough to know baseball didn’t have cheerleaders, but in the case of someone like Graham, I was sure she was looking for a way to change that.
I made it to the theater workshop and dropped everything on a table. As I did, I sighed to myself one last time. I guessed the only way to not think about all that was to throw myself into the work. It was always the best remedy to dissuade my thoughts.
2
GRAHAM
Curve, low and away. Not my favorite, but I got it. The scouts like seeing the curve, even if it isn’t as polished as the slider. Personally, I found the curve didn’t work as well outside. Down and in, that was the ticket. They always swung like they were trying to hit a golf ball, and if they did make contact, it was either a lazy fly ball or they stung it right into the ground in front of them.
I wound up, spread, and pivoted my hips, nearly bouncing on the rubber as I shot my body forward as violently as possible, twisting my arm so the ball came out of my hand at an angle that was almost upside down. The rotation would make it appear to come in almost straight and then dive away, losing speed and curving instead of falling.
It hit the dirt right where Marcus’s glove was. He pulled it up and out, holding it above his head to an invisible umpire. It was theatrical, but it helped his game. Showing instincts like that meant he was a good framer behind the plate and had soft hands. Things scouts liked to see.
I was happy to do it for him. He was a good guy and a better batter mate. I knew that once we went off to college, we would lose touch, but for now I appreciated having someone behind the backstop who could dig balls out of the dirt and make it look like I meant to do it. Of course, in this case, and in most others, I did.
He tossed the ball back to me, and I did my traditional walk around the mound, bending over to bounce the resin bag on my hand and letting my body get loose. I was still only warming up. The speed gun behind the plate, connected to the big black and yellow electric sign, showed my fastball only hit ninety-three.
I could get it higher than that.
My mind wandered as I tried to loosen up my arm. Usually, I would stare out into right field and think about one of my classes. Maybe one of the books in English class, or some complicated math concept I was learning in trig. Not this time. This time it went to the cute, nerdy girl I’d helped get to the theater earlier. What was her name?
I realized I didn’t know it. I recognized her in the vague way I recognized any number of people who saw me in the halls and knew who I was. I was a celebrity in Murdock already. But certain people were always around. I wondered where I had seen her. She didn’t seem like a fan.
Whoever she was, she was cute in an artsy way. She seemed so excited about the play she was in, and it made me want to know more about it. More about her. I liked that kind of energy. It was the kind of energy I had for baseball, and I admired it when I saw it in someone else, regardless of the subject.
Shrugging, I shelved the thought of her for later. Right then, I needed to focus on my two-seamer. It had a little less miles-per-hour, but it made up for it with what coach called ‘stank.’ It certainly had some stank to it. I found my grip and took my spot on the rubber. I shook off two calls until he shifted to three fingers down. I nodded and set myself.
The two-seamer was going to impress. It always did.
As I got out of the locker room a little while later, I high-fived Marcus and nodded in the direction to Coach. Someone was in the office with him; I could see them through the glass doors. I didn’t care, though. It didn’t matter who it was. All that mattered was that Coach kept them away from me. I just wanted to focus on getting as good as I could on my own, without some representative offering his two cents.
I slipped into the school, which was quiet and dark. Mostly everyone was gone now, even the teachers who opted to stay late and grade papers in their classrooms rather than home. I enjoyed this time of evening. Tired, accomplished, and able to roam the halls peacefully with only the occasional janitor to say hi to before I made my way home.
