Second Chance Summer

And he’d been at it since before she’d arrived on the beach twenty minutes ago. Yet other than the few brief times he’d floated on his back while switching strokes, he showed no sign of tiring or slowing down.

Impressive.

A soft, snuffling sigh sounded close to her ear, and she looked over at the golden retriever flopped down next to her low-slung beach chair. He, too, was watching the figure in the water—until he turned to her with a pleading “Can we please swim, too?” look.

“Sorry, boy.” She patted his head. “I promised Aunt Eleanor I wouldn’t bring you home sopping wet. But we’ll play a quick game of Frisbee in a few minutes.”

At the word Frisbee, his ears perked up and his tail began to sweep the sand.

“I thought you’d like that. But give me five more minutes to veg.”

Leaning back in her chair, Rachel tossed her book into her tote bag, abandoning any pretense of reading. It wasn’t every day a woman got treated to such a demonstration of athletic prowess. And a quick scan left and right confirmed she had the show all to herself. Ah, deserted beaches—one of the beauties of summering on an off-the-beaten-path barrier island in Georgia.

Well, not quite deserted.

Her gaze swung back to the man in the water—who suddenly changed direction and headed for shore.

As Rachel followed his progress, her canine companion put his chin on her knee.

“Getting anxious, are we?” She gave him a distracted pat, her focus still on the dark-haired swimmer as she waited for him to stride from the sea like some mighty Greek god, all muscles and brawn and sinew.

Didn’t happen.

Instead, he washed up on shore like a limp piece of seaweed, then scuttled backward with his hands, away from the frothy surf.

Sheesh.

Talk about a letdown.

Adjusting her glasses, Rachel watched him fiddle with his ankle as he sat at the waterline. Maybe he’d had a close encounter with one of the jellyfish that were sometimes a painful nuisance here.

At the soft whimper beside her, she tugged the Frisbee out of her tote bag. Whatever was going on with that guy, he seemed well able to take care of himself.

“Okay, boy. You’ve been patient. Time for a quick game.”

After settling her hat more firmly on her head, she stood and moved away from her chair. Throwing against the stiff breeze would be nuts; better to face the swimmer and aim the Frisbee his direction.

As she made the first toss, the man rose to his feet, diverting her attention.

Squinting into the sun, she peered at his left knee. Was that an elastic bandage?

Even as the question echoed in her mind, he sent her a quick look, picked up the towel that was draped over his duffel bag...and turned his back without the merest hint of appreciative interest.

Huh.

That wasn’t the usual male response when she wore her swimsuit.

At the unexpected twinge of disappointment, Rachel huffed out a breath, straightened her shoulders and smoothed a hand over her hip. She might not be eighteen anymore, but her thirty-three-year-old body had held up fine.

Besides, why should she care whether a stranger noticed her? It wasn’t as if romance was on her agenda for this visit. Her goals were the same this year as they’d been for the past three summers: rest, recharge and renew. And a broad-shouldered guy who swam like a fish wasn’t going to change that—no matter how good-looking he might be.

She took the Frisbee from her eager companion and tossed it again, doing her best to give the other occupant of the beach the same I-couldn’t-care-less treatment he was giving her.

Except a gust of wind snatched the Frisbee and hurled it straight toward the man’s back as he pulled a T-shirt over his head—and her canine friend, in hot pursuit, was focused only on the soaring blue plastic disk.

Uh-oh.

“Hey!” Rachel jogged forward, waving her arms. As the distance between man and dog shrank at a frightening pace, her pulse tripped into fast forward and she doubled her volume. “Hey, mister!”

Just as the man turned, seventy pounds of golden fur took flight toward the broad chest.

Rachel came to an abrupt halt, cringed and closed her eyes.

Five seconds ticked by before she had the courage to peek at the scene.

It wasn’t pretty.

The man was flat on his back. Her aunt’s dog—not her dog, she’d be clear about that—was nosing through the guy’s stuff, which must have flown out of his duffel bag in the melee.

“Bandit! Get back here! Right now!”

Excellent retriever that he was, her aunt’s dog snatched up the Frisbee and streaked toward her, leaving the guy in the dust...er, sand.

“Hey! Bring that back!” Anger nipped at the man’s voice as he righted himself, yanked down his T-shirt and slammed on a pair of sunglasses.

Bandit bounded up, tail wagging, and sat at her feet—holding a flipper that was the same color as the Frisbee.

Great.

But, hey. Anyone could make a mistake, right? The flipper looked a lot like the Frisbee at first glance. Sort of. To a dog. Maybe.

Somehow, though, Rachel doubted the man striding toward her was going to see it that way.

Especially since he’d just been flattened by the dog in question.

Better to jump in fast and get the apologies over before he reamed her about losing control of her dog and threatened a lawsuit for bodily injuries. Although other than that bandage on his knee, he appeared to be in fine condition.

Her gaze lingered on the bandage. Dropped lower.

Wait.

It wasn’t a bandage.

It wasn’t even a real leg.

The man was wearing a prosthesis.

Good grief.