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  Copyright 2018 Aria Ford - All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  UNBROKEN

  A Second Chance Romance

  By Aria Ford

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  UNBROKEN

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  EXCLUSIVE: TAKEN, A MAFIA ROMANCE

  BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND UNWRAPPED

  WET

  DADDY'S TEMPTATION

  PREVIEW OF ARIA FORDS BOOKS

  THANK YOU!

  ABOUT AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  My mind fed me images of his hard, muscled body. I remembered him pressed against me. His arms were draped around me as he crushed my lips with his, and my breasts were flattened by his weight.

  I eagerly drank the images. Him pushing inside of me. His hard cock filling me, satisfying me.

  “Where did he go?” I asked my reflection, since there was no one else in the room to ask.

  Big brown eyes, red lips, straight nose. I looked way more confident than I felt.

  My reflection was assured and strong. I snorted. She’s on magazine covers and centerfolds? What does she have to fear? If only the girl in the mirror could share my confusion and pain.

  Nope. She was refined and polished. That was my job, after all. I modeled makeup for the breakaway brand Petals. Not for the first time, I wished my confident appearance matched up with the real me. In magazines and in my portfolio, I looked aloof, confident, stylish. Inside, I was the total opposite: the insecure, shy girl from a strict home. The girl who stuttered in interviews and whose legs went wobbly in front of an audience.

  No one knows about that.

  My crippling fear of people was my weak spot. Only the people I really trusted knew about it. That was only two people: my brother Lance, and him. The guy who I had loved and lost. Lost, as in really lost. I didn’t know where he was.

  I sighed, blowing a strand of dark hair away from my lips and reaching for my hairbrush. I had a shoot this morning. No wonder I was getting a bit nervous. As it usually did, being nervous led to thinking about him and the electricity he coursed through my body. He was the only person who could replicate my fears and make them into something good. Now, there were only nerves and no electricity, no fire.

  I turned my back on my reflection. I needed to get dressed and ready for my shoot at ten this morning.

  For some reason, even as I dressed, I couldn’t shift him from my thoughts. I remembered the way his mouth pressed on mine, sweet and strong and tantalizing. The way he touched my body. The way he was so passionate and strong, but also gentle and tender. More than ever, I remembered that last day I saw him. When the mystery happened.

  I had been at home, trying to forget it was Jay’s big game. You see, he was a football player. Big deal stuff. You wouldn’t think we were that similar, him being an NFL football player and me being a cover girl. But they were.

  I never attended his games—we both promised each other we wouldn’t risk bringing bad luck. It was silly. One of those superstitions like not saying “Macbeth” in theaters. But we stuck to it. He never accompanied me to shoots, I never went to games.

  I wished I had been at the one that changed his life.

  My brother told me he’d been injured, and, sure enough, there had been news about it. I recalled the game. I hadn’t seen it, of course, just on TV, later.

  He’d been running for a touchdown and someone tackled him from behind. He’d fallen but I could see from the footage that something was wrong. He’d been in real pain. He’d rested there motionless on the turf, his handsome face wrinkled with agony. Then the camera panned off and the referee came up. He’d been shouting something. The field had cleared soon after that, the game curtailed.

  I had no idea what had happened.

  The press, uncharacteristically, had been quiet. Commonly, they never shut up about him, but this time there had been silence, which would have been good for him, I was sure.

  We both felt way too much pressure sometimes, which was why it was nice to be able to slip away together and take time alone. I had been starting my career then, a hectic schedule of small shoots for smaller companies, each demanding a lot of work but not too willing to pay for it. He had been at the height of his career as a football hero.

  Where are you, Jay?

  The tabloids had been even more silent after that. There had been a tiny article to state he was recovering from his injuries, but no more information. And he’d never contacted me or my brother, or anyone we knew.

  As far as I was concerned, he had vanished.

  That was three and a half years ago now. I had moved on. I’d even dated someone after him—Dean, a sweet guy who was studying media and photography. But he’d never really clicked like Jay had with me.

  He understood the shy me as well as the confident me. In that way we were so alike.

  Well, now he’d gone too.

  I checked my watch, feeling sad, and ran my fingertips down my tired, clean face. I stood and headed to the door. I didn’t want to be late for this shoot—it was important.

  Nothing else really mattered, did it? After all, my heart had been broken by Jay. I wasn’t about to go searching for anything more after that.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jay

  I woke from a delicious dream of a girl, passionate and amazing, pressed against my chest. Her thighs parted as she took me inside her, her body writhing against me. I could just see her face. It was a pale oval, framed with dark hair.

  I pushed a hank of black hair out of my eyes and sighed as the late-afternoon sunlight made me blink. The dream image vanished, leaving me alone and cold and with the same damn pain as ever.

  “Man, does this ever end?” I said it aloud, since there was no one else around to hear me. I didn’t need anyone else to know how wrecked this made me, after all. I’d been living with it for three and a half years.

  Damn leg. Damn crutch. Damn fool that I am.

  I caught sight of myself in the window, a square-jawed, blue-gray-eyed miserable man. I turned away. There were times I just hated the sight of myself. I could barely walk.

  My career had gone with the leg, along with my sense of self and my reputation. My identity, I guess. Without both legs, what was I? Nothing.

  I stood again and hauled myself back to the wardrobe. I might as well make a last check that everything I needed was in my backpack. I was in the hotel in Hancock, Michigan, heading off for a week back home.

  I laughed. “Not for my enjoyment.”

  I used to never talk to myself. Those days were long gone. All my pent-up energy needed to go somewhere, and I used it to hate myself.

  It seemed I had eve
rything I needed to take. Even so, I wasn’t planning to enjoy this. I was heading back to Wisconsin for my dad’s birthday. I wanted to go home about as much as I wanted spinal surgery.

  I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.

  Spinal surgery and family, both. Where there was family, there were memories. And where there were memories, I was haunted by a ghost of myself.

  I just wanted to stay in Houghton, where no one knew my story. Where I felt safe to be what I am. Not haunted by what I was. And my family were not going to let me forget who I had been—they never let up about that.

  “I don’t know why they think it helps.”

  I guess the reason why I felt safe in Houghton, MI, was because there I was just the guy with the shoulders and the funny leg. Not the crippled ex-football hero. I was sick of people feeling sorry for me. Sick of guys my own age looking uncomfortable around me. Sick of girls staring at me with pity and then walking away.

  They just see my leg, not me.

  I guess I could relate: I couldn’t think of much besides that when I thought of myself. My leg. My stupid, unmoving leg.

  I recalled the aftermath of the accident. Remembered waking up with that strange sensation that all was not quite right. It had taken me about ten minutes of lying there, my mind in the fog of anesthetic, to realize what the trouble was. I couldn’t feel my leg below the knee.

  The surgeons said my spine was damaged after that tackle. The nerves were unable to be repaired. It was all stuff I could understand now that I had a degree in sports science. They all told me it was amazing I was as sound as I was: I could still feel my abdomen and upper legs. Still had the ability to regulate my bladder. They acted as if this was a great thing and I should appreciate it. I did, I guess.

  But I would really like to be able to walk.

  I heaved a sigh and went through to the living room again. I had two hours to kill before I left for the airport. I sat down heavily on the sofa, lowering my body into the leather-bound softness. Being off my leg was a relief. I still tried to work out regularly, but with only one leg it was hard. A college buddy and I had figured out some work I could do from the chair, so that at least my shoulders and torso stayed fit. And the one leg.

  I hate my damn leg. I hate it.

  I chuckled. It was a bit crazy, I guess, to feel like that. But that leg had robbed me of everything that mattered to me. My career, my pride. The woman I loved.

  I heard my phone make a noise and checked it. Mom. She wanted to know if I was going to be there by ten this evening. I sighed.

  Yes, Mom. The plane should touch down at nine. See you soon.

  I sent the message, feeling confused. And sad. Being in Milwaukee again was something I could barely imagine. I had left a month after my injury, first staying with my uncle in Ann Arbor, then heading down to Houghton for college. At least, given my past as a football player, the college was really happy to have me attend sports science courses. Being there didn’t really help them much, though—I didn’t intend to let the press know where I was.

  I guess I can be glad about my condition—at least the press isn’t interested anymore.

  Had I said that out loud?

  That was the one good thing. After a life where the press had practically followed me home after a game, I had soon escaped into obscurity after my operation. I’d deliberately asked our manager to keep them off me and, true to his word, he had.

  Now I could walk down to the cafe any time I wanted and no one would recognize me. Half of me really liked that. The other half—the half that still felt mad at how my career had been disrupted—missed the fame.

  My phone buzzed again and when I looked at the clock, I noticed that it was time to leave. I sighed and hauled myself to my feet, reached for my hated crutches and headed downstairs. I was in a hotel in Hancock, where I could catch my flight. I’d ordered a taxi to take me to the airport—one of the advantages of my past was a big savings account.

  “Mr. Locke?”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said to the taxi driver. “Hi. Thanks for being on time.”

  “No problem, son. In you get.”

  He looked away as I lowered myself into the seat and lifted my injured leg in. I was pleased by his attitude—he wasn’t condescending, and he wasn’t shocked. He was just a normal dude that took people places, so honestly he has probably seen worst. He lifted my rucksack, threw it in the back and slammed his own door. We sped off to the airport and one step closer to home.

  As we drove, I watched the streets slip past, feeling strangely apprehensive. Seeing Mom and Dad was always hard—I knew they wanted to pretend they didn’t pity me, but I could see they did. I was glad it was just them and my cousins, aunt and uncle who would be there. If seeing close family was hard, I was glad I was single.

  Even after the injury, if I’d chosen to mention who I had been, women probably would have showed interest in me.

  I had tried it, once or twice. I had even gotten my way, leveraging my old identity. The girls had done their best not to notice my leg, but afterward I felt even worse about myself than before, as if there was something repellant about me.

  I was cynical enough to know it was the tarnished glory of my NFL career and not myself. That wasn’t why I was lonely. It was the fact that I was going home, and going home made me miss her.

  Oh, come on, you. She doesn’t even live there anymore.

  The girl I loved. The girl I’d left. Margo.

  I doubted if Margo Lawrence still lived in Milwaukee. Why would she? With a career like hers, she could live anywhere.

  Margo had been a model when I’d known her. Not the sort to do catwalk stuff, but the sort who modeled makeup for magazines. We’d met at a gala and, weirdly, it hadn’t been her beauty that drew me in, but her funny, awkward ways. As we drove, my mind wandered back to then.

  “Whoops!” she’d said. She’d been drinking and walking and walked into me. Her champagne had sheeted down her front, wetting the black satin dress she wore.

  I was wet with champagne too. “No worries.”

  “Oh man…I’m so sorry…”

  She’d gotten out a tissue and started trying to dab the champagne off us both. Those long, pretty fingers had held the Kleenex with precision, dabbing at my chest and wiping off her cleavage.

  I cleared my throat. “No worries.”

  Man. She is hot.

  She giggled. “You said that, but I am worried. I mean, how could I do something so dumb?”

  I grinned at her. “It was as much my fault,” I’d admitted. “I was in your way.”

  “I should have been looking where I was going,” she said in a tight voice. Her eyes had looked down to her feet, clad in black heels.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said. I’d reached for her hand, the one without the tissue clenched tight in it, and she’d jumped.

  “Um…I…”

  I looked into her eyes. They were long-lashed, brown, and damp. Her lips were red and generous, and I felt my cock harden.

  “I’m glad you bumped into me,” I said softly. “I’m pleased we could meet. Jay Locke.”

  I held out a hand. Hers slipped in.

  “Margo.”

  I smiled. “Such a nice name.”

  She’d gone red. “Oh? Thanks. It’s my real name too.”

  I’d frowned at her, laughing. “You mean, you don’t usually tell the truth about your name?”

  She blushed an adorable shade darker. “No, silly. I mean, it’s not a made-up name. Some models use names that aren’t their real names and I…well…that’s mine.” She dived into an embarrassed silence.

  I stared at her. “You’re a model?”

  “Yes,” she’d said. “Margo Lawrence.”

  “Oh.”

  It was my face’s turn to go crimson. I guess I should have known who that was. But, well, fashion kind of passed me by. I wore what I owned, that and my football gear. I didn’t really go in for that side of things, even though my managers
said I should try and have a better image because it was good for the club.

  “I work for Petals,” she’d added. “Who do you work for?” She had put her head to one side, her mouth a delicious reddish-pink “o” that had made my loins hard and made me want to kiss her.

  I’d grinned. “You don’t know me?”

  “No…”

  She’d been embarrassed. She went red. I felt a bit better. After all, I had no idea who she was and she had no idea who I was either.

  “I guess you don’t follow football?” I asked.

  “Yes, but…” she paused. “Oh. My. You’re him?”

  I grinned. “Jay Locke. Quarterback. Yes.” I tried not to look overly proud of myself.

  “Oh.” Her mouth had done that endearing little “o” thing again that set me aflame inside.

  I laughed. “It’s okay. You see, now we’re even.”

  “Even?” She was confused. She looked at me with her lips parted, sweet and plump. I had wanted to push my tongue in her hot, moist lips right then. But I didn’t.

  “Well, I didn’t know you, you didn’t know me,” I explained lightly.

  “Yeah.”

  She’d grinned.

  We’d laughed.

  “So,” I asked. “You want to join our table?”

  “Yeah.”

  That was our first date. We’d kissed that night. Exchanged numbers. Dated for a while and then we got serious, as soon as I had worked up the courage to take it to that level.

  I remembered that night. I had taken her out to a good restaurant. She was wearing a black dress—a loose dress but midthigh in length, showing off those stunning legs. I had a hard time focusing on anything except her.

  I followed her out. We usually took a taxi together, but this time I’d brought my car.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I breathed as I looked down at her.

  She smiled, and her lips parted. I pushed my tongue inside and suddenly it was all I could do to control myself. I leaned back, gasping.

  “Margo…I…”

  She grinned. “Let’s go, hey?”

  I had nodded breathlessly, and we’d climbed in.

  I was surprised I reached my place. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. My hand was glued to her leg, and I couldn’t resist making little moves up to stroke the satin of her panties. She gasped and the noise she made shivered through my blood.