About Face (Love in the Suburbs Book 1) Read online

  ABOUT FACE

  LOVE IN The suburbs, book #1

  D.E. HAGGERTY

  Copyright © 2019 D.E. Haggerty

  All rights reserved.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  About Face is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. The incidents depicted are pure imagination.

  About Face

  My grandma is trying to hook me up.

  To be painfully specific, my seventy-five-year-old grandmother thinks a little hanky-panky would cheer me up. Direct quote. Since I’m currently living with her, I can’t escape the endless line of grandchildren of friends who keep ‘dropping by’ for dinner. Literally, I can’t escape. I can barely manage the trek to the dining room at this point.

  While Grandma’s determined to find me a husband, I’m determined to learn how to walk again so I can walk away from her matchmaking skills. Spoiler alert: She has no matchmaking skills.

  But then I get a brilliant idea. I can fake date my physical therapist. Only he wants a real date. Gulp. A real date with me? Is he for real? I’m no longer the stylish girl with the glamorous job. Now, I’m a woman with a shattered leg and a scarred face.

  If I’m going to learn to live with my new reality and give love a chance, my attitude needs to do an about-face. Easier said than done.

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  Dedication

  Dedicated to physical therapists throughout the world who put up with us patients who bitch, whine, and moan our way back into fighting shape.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  An Excerpt from Fat Girl Begone!

  About the Author

  Complete book list

  Chapter 1

  A lady should always be refined, polite, and well-spoken.

  Seriously? This is why Grandma had me, quote, ‘put my fancy duds on’? A visitor named Larry who is apparently my date for the evening. Have I now reached the level of pathetic, which requires an elderly relative to arrange dates for her? According to Grandma, the answer is yes. Yes, I have. Personally, I’m quite happy to hide away in my childhood bedroom at her house and comfort myself with chocolate chip cookies. Grandma is having none of that.

  “Francis,” Grandma hisses. “Don’t be rude.” Because it’s rude to ignore a date. Doesn’t matter if the date is a man your grandmother set you up with without your knowledge, let alone consent. Sigh.

  But I can’t deny my grandmother anything. I would do anything for the woman who allowed me to escape to her house as often as possible as a child. I even let the woman call me Francis. What thirty-five-year-old woman wants to be called Francis? Not this woman.

  I swallow my irritation, manage not to snarl at the woman, and force myself to smile at the man sitting across the table from me. When the skin around my injury stings, I want to slap my hand over my face, but it’s not like my ‘date’ hasn’t already seen the large bandage. I realize the droning has stopped.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I mumble, hoping he doesn’t understand or hear me and gives up on trying to converse with me. No such luck.

  He beams a smile at me. “You live with your grandparents?” No, I most definitely don’t live with my grandparents. I haven’t sunk to such depths – yet. Before I have a chance to explain why I’m currently bunking with my grandparents, he continues. “Because that’s cool. I live with my mom. Mom’s awesome. But you’ll see for yourself when you meet her.”

  When I meet her? Not happening. I can’t help myself from asking, “How old are you?”

  “I’m thirty-eight.”

  I want to ask what the hell a thirty-eight-year-old man is doing living with his mom, but Grandma speaks up. “Isn’t that wonderful? You’re the same age.” Um, no. Thirty-eight is late thirties. Thirty-five is mid-thirties. An important distinction. Very important. “A couple should be from the same generation. Don’t you think, dear?” She smiles at her husband, my grandpa, whose eyes widen when he realizes Grandma wants him to answer. He knows better than to contradict her. He hasn’t been happily married to Grandma for fifty-odd years without learning when to keep his mouth shut. He smiles and shoves a huge helping of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

  “You’re thirty-eight as well? I was hoping for someone younger.” Wow. Things went downhill fast. Larry frowns as he lets his eyes wander over me. His frown deepens as his eyes catch on my bandage. Truth is, I don’t technically need the bandage anymore. The ‘wound’ is more scar than wound now, but I’m nowhere near ready to expose my face to the world. Nope. Maybe next century.

  If I could, I’d stand and stomp out of the room. But I can’t. There’s a reason I’m staying with my grandparents after all. Darn stairs. If I could only handle a couple flights of stairs, I’d be out of here. Maneuvering a flight of stairs with a cast from hip to ankle is not easy, especially when you have a sprained wrist. My wrist is healed, and my cast came off today, but my leg is going to take more time to heal. I’m not sure of how much time at this point, but I have my first appointment with a physical therapist tomorrow.

  “That’s fine, I guess.” How very gracious of him to accept my advanced age. Sarcasm intended. “Your grandmother Nancy said you have a good job. That’s something, at least.”

  At least? Who does this guy think he is? As if he’s some great catch living with his mom. “And what is it you do, Larry?”

  “I’m an artist.”

  An artist? Wow. Cool. Maybe I was too quick to judge him. “What kind of art do you do?” There may be a legit reason he lives with his mom after all.

  “I paint houses.”

  “No, I meant what kind of art do you do when you’re not working to pay the bills.”

  His brow wrinkles. “I paint houses.” When I continue to stare at him, he expands, “It’s an art, you know. It’s not like just anyone can paint a house.”

  They can’t? Because I’m pretty sure in all those house renovation shows, which I ma
y or may not be addicted to, some random guy shows up, uses an air-spray-gun-thingy to paint the house in like no time, and voilà – a painted house. “Ummm…” I have no answer to this guy’s delusions of grandeur.

  “And,” he continues as if I’m not staring at him with my mouth hanging open. “That’s why it’s important you have a good job.”

  Hold up. He’s talking as if us being a couple is a foregone conclusion. I knew Grandma was upset I haven’t married yet, but what did she tell this guy? She’s not auctioning me off, is she?

  “What is it you do again? I don’t think Nancy told me.”

  “I’m an event planner.”

  Larry looks confused and decidedly unimpressed. “You plan events? Like weddings? You’re a wedding planner?”

  No, I’m not a wedding planner. Why does everyone assume I plan weddings when they learn I’m an event planner? As if there are no other events in the world than weddings. “No, I work for a marketing firm. I plan corporate events as part of the brand management strategy for big names like Google, Coca-Cola.” I stop when I realize he isn’t paying attention.

  “Huh. It sounds like you work in the city.” At my nod, the corners of his lips turn down in disapproval. “If you have to commute to the city every day, you’re not going to have much time left over for taking care of our kids and doing housework.”

  I choke on the slice of roast beef I just put in my mouth. Take care of our kids and do housework? I don’t work sixty-hour weeks to make a six-figure income in order to come home and do housework. And kids? At this point, I don’t know if I want kids. One thing I do know? I don’t want kids with a man who thinks it’s a woman’s job to take care of the kids and house.

  Larry guzzles the rest of his wine and stands. “I’m sorry, Nancy. But this isn’t going to work. I’m looking for a wife who can stay at home with our children.”

  “So, you have time for your ‘art’?” I sneer at him.

  “Yes,” he nods. “I don’t have time for things like cleaning a house.”

  I snort. He can’t be serious. “Good thing you live with your mom, then.” I grab the wine bottle and fill my water glass. I’m not supposed to be drinking with my pain meds, but I couldn’t care less right now. Hell, I might as well get fat too. I pull the tray with the roast beef towards me.

  “Thank you for the dinner,” Larry says to Grandma before shaking his head at me and walking out of the dining room.

  Grandpa takes one look at me piling my plate high with roast beef and stands. “I’ll see him out,” he says before escaping.

  Grandma pats my hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. He’s merely the first candidate. There are plenty of other fish in the sea. Most of my friends have single grandsons. We’ll find one suited for you. Lord knows, a little hanky-panky would put you in a better mood.”

  Oh god. I let my head fall to the table and start banging it. Bang. This. Bang. Is. Bang. Not. Bang. My. Bang. Life.

  Chapter 2

  A lady should love her body, it’s the only one she’s going to get.

  “You’ll be fine.”

  Easy enough for Grandpa to say. He doesn’t have to hobble into the hospital and start physical therapy today. Physical therapy means someone is going to see my leg. Someone other than a doctor or nurse. Oh god! What if my therapy happens in a room with other people? I gasp for air and my heart speeds up until its pounding. Ba bump. Ba bump. No way. I can’t do this!

  Grandpa reaches over and rubs my back. “Breathe. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Everything will be okay.” I force myself to inhale deeply through my nose before letting the air out slowly as I concentrate on the soothing feeling of his hand moving up and down my back. When I have my breathing under control, he removes his hand and tugs on my ponytail.

  “Now, pull up your big girl panties and get in there.”

  I chuckle despite myself before opening the door and maneuvering my butt out of the car. Crutches hit the side of the car and the door nearly crashes on me, but I manage to stand – eventually. And here I thought life was going to get easier without the cast. The only thing easier thus far is being able to take a bath without wrapping my leg in plastic bags.

  I hop into the hospital and make my way to the revalidation center. I have to stop halfway because my arms are killing me. I didn’t get around much with the cast on my leg and am still adjusting to the upper arm strength needed to use crutches. I’m going to look like an Olympic weightlifter by the time I can walk again. I basically fall into a chair in the waiting area.

  “Francis McMillan.”

  I grunt at the sound of my name being called and grab my crutches to stand. I get to my feet and swivel towards the man who called my name. At the sight of him, I stumble and nearly fall. Yowzah! He is hot. H-A-W-T! He’s several inches over six feet and has deep brown eyes resembling melted chocolate. I do love me some chocolate. His full beard does nothing to distract from the attractiveness of his square jaw and high cheekbones. With his brawny build and bushy beard, he could absolutely be an extra on Vikings. Not like I’m obsessed with the show or anything. Tiny fib.

  He rushes forward and catches me before I hit the floor. “Easy there.” My hand does not reach forward to touch his muscles. Absolutely not. It’s not my fault I need a handhold to keep from taking a nosedive. He makes sure I’m steady on my feet – make that foot – before stepping back. “Follow me.”

  You don’t need to tell me twice. He leads me into a huge brightly lit room. The middle of the room is taken up by two sets of parallel walking bars while the near wall is lined with exercise bikes and other equipment I imagine a gym is full of. I wouldn’t know. I don’t do gyms. Against the far wall are treatment tables; several of which are already occupied.

  We stop in front of the furthest treatment table. “Go ahead and sit down.” Crap. My nightmare is coming true. I’m going to have physical therapy right here in front of everyone. Maybe – fingers crossed – being at the far table will at least prevent anyone from getting an up-close and personal look at my leg. Trust me. It’s not a pretty sight.

  He waits until I manage to get myself situated on the table before introducing himself. “I’m Brodie.” He smiles at me and I nearly swoon. The man isn’t even my type. I normally go for businessmen who wear custom-made suits and religiously shave every morning. But Brodie is every woman’s type. Tall, dark, handsome. Check. Check. Check!

  “Frankie. Hi!” I wave before I can stop myself from looking like a complete dork.

  Brodie chuckles. He’s probably used to his clients constantly fawning over him. No fawning over the therapist, Frankie. He grabs a pen and clipboard. “Okay, Frankie. Today is your first day of therapy?”

  My smile stretches from ear to ear. “I got my cast off yesterday.”

  “We’ll do an initial evaluation today. On the basis of the evaluation, I’ll put together a treatment plan.” I nod, and he continues. “I’m going to take some measurements to see where you’re at with regards to range of motion, mobility, and strength. Go ahead and lie down on your back and we’ll get started.”

  I lay down and close my eyes. I don’t want to see his face when he gets a look at my leg. The scar on my face may be ugly, but the scars on my leg are downright fugly. It looks like someone went to town with a knife on my leg, which they kind of did, although most of the scars were caused by the accident itself. Suffice it to say – miniskirts will not play a part in my future.

  “Frankie.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “Open your eyes.”

  “Do I have to?” I barely manage to stop myself from pouting, I don’t want to.

  “It’s okay. No judgment here. Open your eyes.”

  I grumble incoherently and force my eyes open. Brodie is smiling down at me. Now there’s a sight I’d like to wake up to every morning. Must stop perving on the therapist. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Yes, you were in a bad accident and bear the scars from it. But scars can be beautiful, you know.”


  I snort. Maybe if you’re Jason Momoa and have a slash through your manly eyebrows. Bar fights are cool. Car accidents are not. And men with scars are hot. Women with scars are ugly and deformed. Life is not fair. Not at all.

  “We’ll work on that.” Um, no, we won’t. “I’m going to take your brace off now.”

  I wave a hand to indicate he can have at it. I may keep my eyes open, but I look away. No need to see my scarred, skinny-with-no-muscle-definition-to-speak-of leg. At least I shaved the forest of hair off yesterday. When the cast was removed, I pretty much screamed when I saw my leg had been replaced with the limb of a long lost relative of Big Foot. And the smell? Suffice it to say, I hope to never encounter a similar smell ever again, let alone one emitting from my body.

  “How has the pain been?”

  I make sure to not look at him as I give him my standard answer. “Not anything I can’t handle.” To be honest, it’s been excruciating, but no one wants to hear me whining and complaining. I may be a total whiner in my head, but I try to keep the out loud whining to a minimum. Women who complain do not make it far in their careers. Lesson learned.

  “I’m going to palpate your leg to see where the pain is the worst.”

  And thus, it begins. For the next twenty-three minutes – because I totally timed him – I’m poked and prodded until I’m gritting my teeth. I may have even bitten my tongue for a moment. I always expected a torturer to look like Attila the Hun. Turns out, looks have nothing to do with a person’s ability to commit torture because Brodie may be gorgeous but he’s also a master at executing torture.

  “Okay, you can put your brace back on,” says my torturer when he finally finishes.

  I glare at his back with my mouth gaping open as he walks to the sink situated between two of the treatment tables. How the hell am I going to get my brace back on without screaming in pain? “I’ll put it on later when I get home.”

  He chuckles. He literally chuckles at me. “You know it’s okay to show you’re in pain. Everyone in this room,” he gestures with his arm, “is in pain of some sort.” I look around and notice the faces of the other torture victims. Their faces are red from exertion, most are gritting their teeth, and some have traces of tears on their face.