âThat settles it.
You have to go out with me.â
Mattâs gaze was unwavering. âBecause weâd be good for each other. And because I canât stop thinking about you.â
With the pool lights shining down on him, Matt looked as golden as when Jazz had first seen him bathed in sunlight at the park. Now that sheâd gotten to know and like him, he was even more handsome. Her heart hammered. âI wish you would.â
âDonât you think about me?â
âNo,â she said instantly.
âNow why do I think youâre not telling the truth?â he asked softly.
It made not one whit of difference if she found him appealing. She needed to operate on the assumption that the twins were the children sheâd given up. Honestly, sheâd be a lot less likely to run into them if she didnât hang around their uncle.
Honestly, as far as Matt was concerned, she didnât think she could stay away.
Dear Reader,
My mother thought she was carrying twins until the moment I was born. âI hear two heartbeats,â the doctor had told her. Instead, she got one big baby.
Maybe thatâs why Iâm drawn to stories about twins and why the idea for Twice the Chance came to me fully formed. Itâs about a woman who stumbles across a girl and boy with unusually colored hair whom she thinks may be the twins she gave up for adoption.
The story, however, has a twist. Jazz Lenox doesnât want anyone, especially Matt Caminetti, the man with whom sheâs falling in love, to know about her suspicions. Thatâs because she has another secret of her ownâ¦.
Until next time,
Darlene Gardner
P.S. Visit me on the web at www.darlenegardner.com.
THE SOUTH CAROLINA sun bathed the young girl in light, bringing out the unusual color of the long silky hair she wore in a ponytail.
Jazz Lenox forgot about the stitch in her side, the need to watch the packed earth for rocks and exposed roots, and her determination to run two circuits around the trail circling Ashley Greens Park in less than thirty minutes.
The girl was about seven or eight years old and wore black shorts, high blue socks and a bright blue shirt shot through with yellow lightning bolts. She was beneath the crossbar of a soccer net with her back to Jazz, on the balls of her feet, her weight slightly forward. Her ponytail swished back and forth as she moved to catch a ball careening toward her.
Her dark red ponytail.
The shade was unusual but not unique. In the three years since Jazz had moved into her one-bedroom apartment in South Carolina, a few miles outside of Charleston, sheâd spotted the hair color a dozen times on people of various ages. A middle-aged man. A teenage boy. A toddler girl.
This Sunday morning was the first time Jazz had stumbled across a redhead who appeared to be the right age. Jazz realized, of course, that she could be overreacting. Maybe this child hadnât even been a redhead at birth. It could be a coincidence that the girlâs particular shade matched not only the wispy tufts that had been on the newborn, but also Jazzâs grandmotherâs hair.
âGood job! You made the stop!â A manâs deep voice cut through the warm August air.
The path of the trail brought Jazz even with the net, which was about thirty feet away. Off to one side of the girl stood a tall man with golden-brown hair wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts. Probably the girlâs father. He clapped his hands.
âBe warned, Robbie,â he cried. âThe girl in goal is a beast!â
âBoys are beasts, not girls!â The girl was dancing in place, making it appear as though the lightning bolts on her shirt were poised to strike.
âGive me the ball, Brooke.â The third voice belonged to a young boy. âIâm scoring on you this time!â
Jazz had been so focused on the girl, she hadnât noticed the boy. Jazz kept running, putting one foot in front of the other by rote, craning her neck as her progress took her past where the boy stood.
He was about the same age as the girl with the exact shade of dark red hair.
The toe of Jazzâs running shoe caught on something, and she pitched forward. She reached out her arms to break her fall and slammed down hard on her right side. The breath squeezed out of her and for a moment she couldnât breathe. She sucked at the air, finally feeling it reach her lungs.