A Better Reason to Fall in Love

Copyright
© 2011

A Better Reason to Fall in Love
by Marcia Lynn McClure

www.marcialynnmcclure.com

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

Published by Distractions Ink

P.O. Box 15971

Rio Rancho, NM 87174

©Copyright 2010, 2011 by M. L. Meyers

A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

Cover Photography by ©Pina2010/Dreamstime.com
Cover Design by Sheri L. Brady

MightyPhoenixDesignStudio.com

Second Printed Edition: 2011

All character names and personalities in this work of fiction

are entirely fictional, created solely in the imagination of the author.

Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

A Better Reason to Fall in Love
: a novel/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

ISBN 978-0-9838074-5-2

Library of Congress Control Number:
2011935061

Printed in the United States of America

To Sheri,

Here’s to the things of the past—

Tourists in tulip fields, unexpected cliff divers,

songs about nine fingers, and 12 Days silliness.

And to all the glorious, gut-busting moments to come!

PREFACE

A Better Reason to Fall in Love
was inspired by many, many things: my actual life experience (as usual), my hottie husband (as usual), good friends (as usual), wonderful memories (as usual), and my need to escape into something that’s just plain fun (as usual)! However, several months ago I came across something unsettling. Concerning a story of how two people fell in love, someone stated, “I just felt like they needed a better reason to fall in love.” I was instantly disturbed.

The fact of the matter is, most people don’t fall in love for any one
reason
—they just fall in love! Falling in love is an adventure—the breathless, goose-bump-rendering voyage of a real-life hero and heroine. Falling in love is simultaneously wonderful and painful—a mingling of uncertainty and euphoria. Furthermore, I’m not sure anybody should ever endeavor to sit in judgment of whether two people had a good enough reason to fall in love. Right? Love stories are, after all, like people—as individual as snowflakes. Each love story is entirely unique—each love story should be admired, cherished, and valued!

Thus, drawing from my own “love stories are as individual as snowflakes” theory, and combining it with my fascination in the theory that everyone living can be linked through six moves or less (a.k.a. six degrees of separation), I just sat down and escaped into exactly what this book is meant to be—fun, amusing, and a romantic delight! I hope you find an escape of your own. And whatever your reason for falling in love is or was, I’m sure there couldn’t be a better one!

Yours,

Marcia Lynn McClure

CHAPTER ONE

Tabby smiled as she watched Emmy read the letter. Emmy giggled, blushing—and Tabby knew Luke must’ve written something deliciously flirtatious. It seemed crazy to think Emmy could be so in love with a man she’d only seen a total of three times. Yet as Tabby continued to study Emmy reading Luke’s letter—watching her friend’s eyes twinkle with enchanted fascination sparked by the sloppy man-writing on the simple sheets of notebook paper—she was wholly convinced that Emmy and Luke were thoroughly and legitimately in love.

Tabby sighed, leaned back in her chair, and ran her fingers from the back of her neck up through her short red hair. She fiddled with the rest of her hair as well, perking up the soft, fluffy spikes at the crown of her head and smoothing her sideswept bangs and the wisps at the back of her neck and temples. Everyone thought she’d lost her mind a month before when she’d told them she had an appointment at the salon to crop off the long red hair that had always been—in Tabby’s mind—her one claim to prettiness. However, the short, spunky style had proved, according to her friends, to be very flattering. Though she was still getting used to short hair, Tabitha “Tabby” Flanders was finding it offered her some sort of liberated confidence. She’d always been “the girl with the long red hair.” Her entire life she’d volleyed compliments on her hair—constantly being told how beautiful her hair was, how silky, how unusual the color was. “Is that your real hair color?” people had begun to ask when she’d hit adolescence. After reassuring the inquiring minds that the vibrant red was her true hair color, the canned response she’d receive was always, “But it’s so beautiful. It can’t really be your natural color.”

As a self-conscious teenager, Tabby had enjoyed the compliments at first. However, as the insecurities that always dominated the transition from childhood to adulthood had started to set in, she’d begun to think that maybe everyone always went on and on about how beautiful her hair was because there was nothing else beautiful about her. She’d begun to believe that the compliments concerning her hair were offered simply because the giver truly couldn’t find anything else worthy of complimenting. Even as a young adult—through college and into starting her career—even then, she’d wondered if it was simply her hair people liked. Oh, she’d learned to deal with it, of course—to know that she didn’t have friends simply because she had sky-blue eyes and gorgeous red hair. Still, until she’d found the courage to chop off her long, red-silked tresses, she’d never been quite sure. Now, however, Tabby owned a newfound self-assurance. Not conceit or vanity—just an assertion that people knew there was more to her than her hair. It seemed silly, perhaps—but after all, everyone had some hang-up about themselves, and Tabby’s was her red hair.

“Another letter from Luke, the hot Special Forces hunk, huh?” Naomi asked, startling Tabby from her thoughts of Emmy and Luke—and her hair.

Emmy didn’t answer, however—too engrossed in the letter from Luke to even notice there was anyone else in the room—and Naomi giggled as she tossed a package onto Emmy’s desk.

“It’s Jocelyn’s turn to pick for lunch,” Naomi said to Tabby. “And ask me if I’m surprised that she’s picking the Acapulco again. Are you guys okay with that?”

Tabby nodded and answered, “Of course she wants the Acapulco…and of course I’m fine with it.”

Tabby’s smiled broadened. Yep, she would’ve guessed Jocelyn’s choice of restaurant. The last three times Jocelyn had chosen a restaurant for their Friday lunch, it had been the Acapulco.

“I know. She totally loves that cliff-diver guy,” Naomi whispered.

“Oh, she totally does,” Tabby agreed.

Naomi looked to Emmy again. “Emmy?” she said, attempting to draw Emmy’s attention from Luke’s letter. “Emmy? The Acapulco for lunch…okay?”

“Hmm?” Emmy said, finally glancing up from the letter.

“Jocelyn wants the Acapulco for lunch,” Naomi repeated. “Is that okay with you?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah! I love the Acapulco,” Emmy said. “They have great enchiladas.” Instantly her attention returned to the pages filled with Luke’s illegible man-writing.

“Great enchiladas and handsome cliff divers,” Naomi said, rolling her eyes. She smiled, however, and added, “The Acapulco at noon then.”

Tabby nodded. “Absolutely!”

“Okay, see you then,” Naomi said as she headed off to deliver more office mail.

Tabby smiled, the anticipation of lunch at the Acapulco causing some secret delight to stir in her. Most days, Tabby, Emmy, Jocelyn, and Naomi packed their own lunches and brown-bagged it in the park during summer and fall or at the aquarium or museum during bad weather. Still, for the past seven months or so, they’d taken to choosing a restaurant to lunch at every Friday. It was a nice change of pace. The four young women took turns choosing the restaurant each week. This week it was Jocelyn’s turn to choose, and before Naomi had even told her which restaurant Jocelyn had chosen, Tabby knew it would be the Acapulco—and she was glad.

On their first visit to the Acapulco, during its opening week three months earlier, Tabby and her friends had been entirely enchanted by the atmosphere and entertainment of the themed restaurant. The Acapulco’s decor mimicked a South American jungle. It was literally stuffed with South American flora and fauna, complemented by water features that simulated rain and emptied into rock planters to one side of every table. Even the sounds of jungle birds and animals softly wafted through the ambient restaurant, leaving patrons with the feeling of truly having escaped the chaotic city outside.

Of course, the most fascinating gimmick the Acapulco boasted was the cliff-diving show performed every half hour. On their initial visit to the themed restaurant, Tabby and her group of friends had thought the massive three-story cliffs, waterfalls, and pool at the restaurant’s center were merely elaborate parts of the restaurant decor. After all, the lulling sounds of the falls emptying into a blue light-illuminated pool below beautifully embellished the illusion for patrons of lingering in a far-off place. However, when cliff divers unexpectedly appeared at the top of the cliffs—men wearing colorful loincloths and boasting sculpted muscles—and began performing skillful dives and plunging into the pool at the base of the falls, Tabby and her friends had been entirely entertained by the unexpected surprise.

As delighted as Tabby, Naomi, and Emmy were with the unanticipated distraction, however, it was Jocelyn who was nearly overcome with elation. One of the cliff divers—a tall, black-haired, brown-eyed, bronzed-to-brown skinned, broad-shouldered, washboard-stomached man—had paused at their table as the girls sat finishing up their lunch following the diving display.

Jocelyn was thrilled nearly to euphoria when the handsome cliff diver abruptly stopped, gazed directly into Jocelyn’s hazel eyes, flashed a dazzling set of pearly whites, and said hello.

“Hi!” Jocelyn had somehow managed to respond. All four girls owned smiles stretching from ear to ear as the gorgeous man stood toweling off and staring at Jocelyn.

“I’m Armando,” the man offered in a delicious accent the girls had later learned, by way of their waitress, was Puerto Rican. “What’s your name?”

“J-Jocelyn,” Jocelyn managed to respond.

The arresting cliff diver wrapped his towel around his waist, placed his hands on the table, leaned toward Jocelyn, and—in a low, provocative tone—said, “I think I might love you, Jocelyn.”

Naturally, Jocelyn was rendered entirely breathless, while the eyes of Tabby, Naomi, and Emmy widened to the size of serving platters.

“Wh-what?” Jocelyn squeaked.

Armando’s eyes narrowed. “I will ask you for a date one day…once I have seen you again…maybe a few more times,” he’d said. “I do not want you to think I’m some psycho man. So I’ll wait to ask for your cell number…until I see you again.”

Tabby’s jaw had dropped nearly to the tabletop as Armando the Cliff Diver then reached out, taking Jocelyn’s hand. Drawing it to his lips, he kissed the back of her hand and said, “Until I see you again, Jocelyn.” Smiling, he looked to Tabby, then to Naomi and Emmy in return. “Bring her to me soon, ladies. Yes?”

Tabby had nodded, silently committing to making certain Jocelyn made it back to the restaurant.

Once Armando the Cliff Diver left them, the girls broke into giggles and delighted whispering. Naomi, ever the practical member of the group, had suggested that the flirtatious cliff diver was simply doing his job—pleasing the restaurant patrons in whatever venue presented itself in order to solidify customer loyalty.

Yet Jocelyn wasn’t convinced the cliff diver’s attention was just good PR—and neither were Tabby or Emmy. There had been something nearly tangible in the man’s eyes—something in the way the pace of his breathing had noticeably increased while he’d been speaking to Jocelyn. No, the handsome cliff diver hadn’t just been flirting; somehow he really had been drawn to Jocelyn. Everyone was convinced of it—everyone save Naomi. Naomi was perpetually levelheaded and didn’t believe in love at first sight, or any other frivolous type of occurrences. Furthermore, Naomi never went for the “pretty boys,” as she liked to call them. She always said she preferred men who exercised their brains instead of their muscles.