Love Waltzes In
By: Alana Albertson
Blurb
To her millions of
fans, ballroom champion Selena Marcil seems to have the perfect life: a great
dance partner, a hit reality show, and celebrity perks. But underneath the
glamorous ball gowns, Selena longs to find someone to share her life with when
the stage lights dim.
Selena’s childhood
sweetheart, Bret Lord, hung up his dance shoes after winning two national
titles with her as a teenager, and enlisted in the United States Marine Corps.
He never saw his former fiancée again, except on television and on the cover of
men’s magazines. Ten years and three deployments later, Bret gets an offer to
audition for Selena’s dance show. When the Marine Corps gives him temporary
leave to appear on the series, Bret can’t refuse the quick cash that will
enable him to provide financially for the widow of his buddy, even if it does
mean coming face to face with his past.
When Bret shows up
at her national championship, Selena is shocked. For years she searched for him
to no avail. After spending time with Bret, Selena realizes despite their past
romance, they have no future. He has no desire to live under a spotlight and
she has no desire to leave it. Can Selena and Bret recognize when Love Waltzes
In?
Buy Love Waltzes In
Top Ten Things About Love Waltzes In
I 1. Istarted writing it in 2005.
22.
It was originally a chick lit story with 6 first
person POVs.
33.
Benny Brooks is based on my old dance coach.
44.
Xavier and Robyn’s home is based on my parents’
home.
55.
The book won and finaled in 7 RWA contests.
66.
My first professional dance partner was a former
Marine.
77.
I used to drive Cheryl Burke to dance lessons in
Redwood City, California.
88.
The voice actor for the audio version has the
sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.
99.
A producer is interested in making it a Broadway
musical!
110. Bret’s
last name, Lord, was the last name of my friend’s fiancé. He was killed in
Iraq.
Excerpt
Staff Sergeant Bret
Lord sat on the dirty floor of his tent, going through the day’s mail: the
latest Men’s Fitness magazine from his sister, a care package from his mom. He
ripped open the package—socks, lip balm, sunflower seeds, and a thin letter
that contained an old magazine clipping.
Dear Bret,
I miss you very
much. Benny asked me to send you this article. I really wish you would consider
his offer. Please stay safe.
Love, Mom
He swallowed hard.
A neon sticky pressed on the wrinkled page had a note scrawled on it from his
former master dance coach.
Bret, m’boy,
We’ll make it worth
your time.
Cheers, Benny.
Thumbing the edge
of the article, Bret stared at the sixteen-year-old boy in the picture and
could barely recognize himself. His shoulder length, wavy blond hair was
slicked back, not shorn in a “high and tight” like his current haircut. No
signs of the tattoos or muscles that currently defined his body. Golden skin
stained from a bottle, not the harsh sun of Iraq. His arms were wrapped around
a gorgeous, curvy young girl with long jet-black hair. The jade Latin gown she
wore matched the color of her almond-shaped eyes.
Bret tossed the
article aside and removed his nine-mil pistol from his holster to clean it.
Lance Corporal
Hernandez walked by Bret and snatched the article off his cot. After staring at
it, Hernandez’s face brightened.
“Hey, Staff
Sergeant, this you?”
“No, it’s my clone
who’s also named Bret Lord.” Bret slid the rail back on his weapon and began
disassembling it.
“Staff Sergeant,
you know Selena Marcil? Did you hit that?”
“Shut up,
Hernandez, or the one getting hit will be you—with the butt stock of my rifle.”
Bret grabbed the paper out of Hernandez’s hands, and smacked him on the side of
the head. The kid didn’t flinch.
“Staff Sergeant
Twinkle Toes. Hey—can you hook me up with Selena? I’ll be her boy toy. I love
her. Man, she’s smoking. Has the nicest ass. Not like all those skinny, Russian
chicks on that show.” He nodded to himself with an eyebrow dancing. “Selena’s
on my list. She’s Latina, too. We’d be perfect together. What was she doing
with a gringo like you?”
“Hernandez, you’re
way out of line.” Bret reassembled his pistol.
“My bad, Staff
Sergeant.”
Bret grabbed the
article, his pack, and his rifle. It was impossible to get some privacy in the
tent. His only option was to sit outside in a sandstorm but even that sounded
like a welcome retreat from his immature men. He walked about five hundred
feet, then plopped down in the hot sand.
The red sky hung
above him, thick from smoke from the nearby town. Bret struggled to catch a
glimpse of the distant mountains. Sand seemed to pelt down from the heavens,
blinding him and settling into every crevice in his body. He closed his eyes
against the sting of the sand, and turned his thoughts to Selena. Was she the
diva the tabloids made her out to be? Even after ten years, he could almost
smell her buttery-coconut scent. A welcome change from the overflowing
shitters, toxic diesel, and stench of his fellow Marines who hadn’t bathed in
three weeks.
The deep popping
sound of shots from a nearby AK-47 roused his ears but Bret didn’t move.
As a marksmanship
instructor, he could distinguish the sound of any weapon system. These shots
weren’t the lighter, faster rounds of his men’s M16s. Looking past the palm
trees that peppered the dismal scene of dilapidated shacks, he tried to get a
location on the origin of the gunfire. Probably just some insurgents outside of
base. The rules of engagement were clear—he couldn’t stop them from killing
each other even if he wanted to. And he definitely wasn’t going to endanger the
lives of his men.
The sandstorm let
up, and he reached into his pack to grab dinner. Spaghetti with Meat and Sauce
was his favorite Meal Ready to Eat, even if it did taste like chalk. He hoped
it came with cinnamon apples for dessert. He opened the box and laid out his
day’s bounty: cherry-blueberry cobbler, potato sticks, wheat snack bread, plain
cheese spread, lemon-lime beverage powder, and accessory pack “A” – coffee,
creamer, sugar, salt, Tabasco, a moist towelette, toilet paper, chewing gum,
and matches. Bret opened the cooking bag, placed the spaghetti pouch in it,
filled it with water, and then leaned it against a rock to cook.
He stared at the
picture of himself and Selena winning the U.S. National Youth Amateur Latin
Ballroom Championship. Selena was the star of the hit series Dancing under the
Stars. His childhood sweetheart was now plastered on the cover of magazines,
billboards, and advertisements. The details of his life back then had faded
away from his memory. Being at war made everything a blur.
Bret took a swig of
water from his camelbak and downed two anti-malaria pills: one blue, one pink.
The Marine Corps assured the troops that it was safe but Bret couldn’t help but
wonder if the pills caused his daily headaches. Then again, maybe the migraines
were just from the hundred-degree heat.
Staff Sergeant Ray
Wilson emerged from the tent, and sat beside him. Even though Bret had wanted
to be alone, he was happy to have his friend’s company.
“Slim Jim?” Ray
offered. As Bret ripped the plastic off the snack, Ray nodded at the magazine
article lying in the sand. “What’s that all about?”
Bret grunted. “A
month ago, my mom told me that the judge on Dancing asked her if I would
consider doing the show. He just sent me a note.”
“For real?” Ray
took a bite of his own Slim Jim. “You’d have to be stupid to give up this
paradise of sand and gunfire for the mansions of Hollywood. Your mother does
realize you’re a Marine right? You can’t just leave the Corps and go on reality
television.”
“That’s what I told
her. But she has this crazy idea that the Marine Corps would let me do it for
one season—like a recruiting tool. I doubt that, but I could use my vacation
leave. Remember that kid on American Pop Star?”
“Yeah. Didn’t he
gain like thirty pounds and fail his PFT? Can you still dance, Patrick Swayze?”
“Good enough to
teach some teen mom from MTV how to cha-cha. I’d be the laughing stock of the
Corps.”
“Maybe not. I mean
you are the only Devil Dawg who happens to be a ballroom champion. You could be
that all-American hero. The pretty face that recruits a load more boys to come
join the rest of us here, and get shot at.”
“If you think it
sounds so great, I’ll tell her you’ll do it.” Bret hated the public’s obsession
with the “celebrities” on these shows. Young kids who became millionaires for
making a sex tape or wasting their days doing nothing but going to the gym,
tanning and partying. Meanwhile, Bret and his buddies were out here in hell,
dodging bullets.
Bret checked his
spaghetti. He dug into the warm, gooey meal.
Ray shrugged. “The
only dance I know is the ‘Harlem Shake,’ and something tells me I’d be more of
a target for that than I am for being a Marine in Iraq.”
Bret had no desire
to ever dance again. Once he’d joined the Corps, he had found his calling.
“Nah, I’d rather stay here with my men. I wouldn’t even consider it—if it
weren’t for Pierce.”
Ray blinked hard.
“What does the show have to do with Pierce?”
“I promised him
that I’d take care of his family if anything happened to him. If I did the
show, I could earn enough money to buy them a house.”
“Dawg, you would do
that for them? That would be crazy.”
“He’d have done it
for me.” Bret knew that Pierce would’ve done anything for him. Pierce had
already proved that.
They sat there in
silence.
Ray nodded toward
Bret. “Pierce was a good dude. You should do it.”
Bret’s hands became
sticky with sweat. “I couldn’t. I’d make a fool out of myself.”
“Man, it wouldn’t
be that bad.” Ray stretched out. “And you can go check out your ex-fiancée—she
is Maxim’s Sexiest Girl Alive. Even if she is with that pretty-boy dancer.”
“Dima? That guy’s a
jerk. He was one of our coaches. But I would never get back together with
Selena.” Though she was sexier than ever, Bret had no desire to go there,
despite the fact that he could still remember every inch of her body. A
relationship between them could never work out. She was too focused on her
career—always had been. He loved the Marines and wouldn’t allow himself to get
tempted by the fame and money of Hollywood. But he still felt protective over
her after all she had been through as a child and he hated seeing her all sexed
up for the cameras. The thought of a bunch of Marines jerking off to pictures
of his first love made him sick.
Ray rolled his
eyes. “Well you never know. Maybe she’s changed.” Ray broke out a bag of
Skittles. “I’ll go with you. Can you request Beyoncé as your partner?”
Bret laughed. “Not
sure if Jay Z would like that. Or your wife.” Ray had one of the good ones.
Ray’s wife was any Marine’s dream. Beautiful and faithful, Nia raised their
four children while Ray was away. She was the head of the Key Wives’ Club, kept
her body tight, and still had time to send Ray the best care packages, hence
his endless supply of Slim Jims.
Bret had tried to
have that family life once, but it didn’t work out. After that experience, Bret
had vowed never to get close to anyone again, at least until he left the Corps.
He needed to focus on guiding his men—not be distracted wondering if another
man kept his girl’s bed warm while Bret fought a war thousands of miles away.
Ray stood up.
“Nia’d be cool with it. She loves the show, man. Do it. Big shot reality star
will need security. I got your back.”
If Bret did it,
he’d want to have Ray by his side to handle the entertainment world. But it
wouldn’t be to get back with Selena. Bret had no desire to live in the
spotlight, and from what he could see, she had no desire to leave it. He
stuffed the article back into his pocket containing his “If I should die”
letter.
The roar of the
rounds boomed through the sky. His cammies were soaked in sweat and felt heavy
on his chest. He couldn’t see anything, but the rumbling of the helicopters
overhead told him this was no training exercise.
Ray and Bret didn’t
say a word; they knew what was about to go down. A fire built in Bret’s chest
and adrenaline took over. Moments like this made all the sacrifices of war
worth it—knowing that his life meant something and that he was responsible for
not only protecting his men, but also ensuring the safety of Americans back
home. Bret tossed the rest of the food into his pack and gathered his weapon.
They raced into the tent.
Bret screamed at
his men. “Grab your weapons and take cover!”
Alana Albertson is
the former President of both Romance Writers of Americas’s Young Adult and
Chick Lit chapters and the founder of Academe Advantage, a college
admissions & test preparation company. Alana Albertson holds a Masters of
Education from Harvard University and a Bachelor of Arts in English from
Stanford University. A recovering professional ballroom dancer, Alana currently
writes contemporary romance and young adult fiction. She lives in San Diego,
California, with her husband, two young sons, and four dogs. When she’s not
spending her time needlepointing, dancing, or saving dogs from high kill
shelters through Pugs N Roses, the rescue she founded, she can be found
watching episodes of House Hunters, Homeland, or Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders:
Making the Team.
Author Links
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