Points on a Curve (by my alter ego who was a forward in another lifetime and never lost her love for the sport)
Genre: romantic comedy, suspense, sports theme
KINDLE (also available for Kindle Unlimited) PRINT AUDIO
Rob’s a sports journalist looking to score a headline but finds more than he bargained for.
Tay’s an ex-basketball star hiding from her past, Rob’s the one who smells a story.
When Rob and Tay meet, they take dinner and romance to a whole ‘nother level.
Excerpt #1: Rob meets Taylor for the first time
Concentrating on my sartorial splendor wasn’t doing squat to get the lady seated. Nimbly, she maneuvered away from the seat, narrowly avoiding Arturo, still hell bent on getting the party—and his tip—jump started.
Holding out a hand she smiled, although given my obvious efforts to park and duck for cover, it might have been more of a grimace.
“I’m Taylor O’Hara. Call me Tay.” Cordie tittered in the background, making noises about remembering Robbie. I ignored her in favor of shaking the proffered hand.
Strong. Not just for a woman, for anyone.
Large hands, rough pads, like she worked outside with them, without gloves. Capable. Nice enough to palm a basketball.
I liked women who could handle balls, especially mine, but I preferred being able to look them in the eye.
Taylor-call-me-Tay towered over me. Granted she was wearing heels with the black wool trousers, and they gave her a three-to-four-inch advantage, but even without them, she was tall enough to be a point guard. Six foot, easy.
If I was scouting, and I was always scouting, I’d say she had the look and feel of someone who could handle herself.
Excerpt #2: BFF Cordie makes a pitch to Tay: dinner and a show … and her brother…
“Tay, dearest, it’s just dinner.”
Dinner and a show. With her baby brother, the one I remembered as a pimply faced jock, loose-jointed and gangly. The only thing holding him upright was a sack of testosterone and a boatload of ’tude.
I wanted to say no in the worse sort of way but the words hung on my lips, settled uncertainly along the pursed ridge between I’m so fricking lonely I could die and I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a spork.
The game changer came with my belly growling in dismay. Being poor and a student and living in a hovel of a walk-up with mostly pervs and druggies for neighbors did not make for elegant choices. For some, eating out was a luxury … for me, eating was the luxury. Something my six-foot frame was showing signs of a definite lack of groceries.
If my mom was still alive, she’d have hauled my sorry ass back down to Blacksburg, chillaxing me with grits and chitlins ‘n gravy, maybe her deep fried chicken with breading so dense it’d have sunk the Titanic, just on principle.
One thing about Cordie, she might not have much patience with her husbands, but she knew better than to rush me when I pondered.
I was good at pondering. It made me smart and cagey in the paint, but shite with relationships.
Cordie humphed and reminded me we were on the clock.
I grunted, “Where?”
Okay, partial capitulation. I left the door open just in case we were talking Shephard’s Pie and a Guinness—I married a mick: that bad taste still lingered. The only thing that lingered. The sonofamuthu— left me high and dry with nothin’ but the clothes on my back, stranded in Milano. Not the one in Texas. The one in Italy.
No job, no money…