Slow and Steady Rush

by Laura Trentham

  People glanced her way, and her face heated in spite of the years gone by. Avoiding eye contact, she sidled to the bar where Logan stacked glasses and rearranged bottles. “I thought it’d be more crowded.”

  Logan glanced at his watch. “It’s early yet. Can I make you something?”

  “Tea sounds good.”

  “Coming right up.” He winked, one corner of his mouth drawing up. “You cleaned up nice.”

  “Thanks.” She examined the room while he poured her drink. “Do you like working here?”

  He slid the glass down the smooth oak like an expert and propped his arms on the bar. “Not particularly, but Milt’s ready to retire. I’m going to buy it, fix it up, turn it into something upscale. Better food, better music, better everything. The loan is pending.”

  She regarded him like an unknown bug specimen. Logan? An upstanding business owner? She gulped her iced tea to mask her surprise. Coughing spasms wracked her body, and she slapped the bar.

  “That … that was not tea,” she said in a creaky voice, pointing at the glass.

  “Sure it was. The Long Island variety. You walked in looking like a deer on the first day of hunting season. Katherine coming?”

  “She had to work. Too many cases on the docket for morning court.” Darcy completely understood but missed being able to borrow a portion of her best friend’s unrivaled confidence.

  Logan wandered to the opposite end of the bar to give the servers their instructions, and she tentatively took another swig. This one went down smooth, and before she knew it, bare ice tinkled in the bottom.

  Someone fired up the jukebox, and a pulsing beat underlay the increased buzz of conversation. A different bartender checked on her. “What’s your poison, sweetheart? Logan told me to take care of you. Anything you want.” Insinuation flavored the words, but his eyes were guileless.

  “Long Island tea, please.” She pushed the glass toward him.

  With a boyish grin that had probably gotten him into many a patron’s panties, he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  She drained the fresh drink, and the man replaced it without comment. The door opened every few seconds, belching groups of two or three. As she sipped, she observed the easy camaraderie and recognized several people. A group of popular women, who had been popular teenagers in high school, bunched around two tables close to the dance floor and attracted a fair amount of male attention. But no one approached her, and she felt invisible—in a good way.

  Then he walked in. Dear God in heaven, she hadn’t exaggerated his blatant masculinity. Thick blondish hair settled in wavy clumps as if his routine involved fingers and not a comb. A red T-shirt this time. Nothing special except in the way the cotton spread over broad shoulders and tucked messily into a pair of broken-in jeans as if the shirt begged for some woman to pull it out … and maybe even off. Damn, he was hot. Tongue-lolling, fantasy-inducing, panty-dropping hot.

  He scanned the room. Choosing his conquest for the evening? She was surprised none of the women raised their hands and yelled “Pick me, pick me!”

  She took another sip and snorted. Although there was no way he could have heard above the din, his gaze stripped away her cloak of invisibility. In a loose-limbed amble, he approached. Several men stopped him to chat, but there was no question as to his ultimate destination. His gaze flicked to her even as he replied to them.

  Heat prickled her scalp, burned down her face, through her body, and finally banked in her lower belly. Then, he was there, standing a few feet in front of her. Close enough to bask in his maleness and become high on the tang of his cologne. Her inhibitions dangerously low, her knees parted a few inches.

  Keep it between the damn lines. She clamped her legs together and swiveled back to the bar. He took the stool at her side. Well-worn denim brushed the skin above her knee sending a small shiver down her leg. A beer landed in front of him without a word to the bartender.

  She tapped her fingers on the bar and waited for him to say something, anything. He had stalked her from across the room and had taken the seat next to her. Nothing. What kind of game was he playing?

  She opened with an eloquent, “Hi,” and immediately felt like an idiot.

  His cutting gaze, expressionless face, and lack of response dampened her uncomfortably potent lust. The man could at least be freaking polite. They were in Alabama not New York, no matter what she was drinking.

  She poked him in the arm. “I said Hi. By the way, I was going to make you a blackberry pie. Maybe even pick the berries myself, but not now. No sir-ree.”

  He turned and braced his legs wide, nearly encasing her. His finger hooked around the neck of the sweating beer, and he took a drag. The muscles of his throat worked, and she swallowed in response. The beer bottle landed back on the bar with a thump.

  “Why would you make me anything?” he asked in a tight, suspicious voice.

  “That’s what a good neighbor does. It was for taking care of Ada, maybe for the snake thing, but you can forget it. You’re not even getting dry, store-bought cookies from that stupid elf. In fact, you deserve a kick in the butt for being rude.” She poked him in the chest this time.

  He rubbed his nape and shifted on the stool. “I know what you think, but I swear I’m not taking advantage of your grandmother. I worry about her being alone.”

  The sincerity shading his eyes threw the door open on the fears that had kept her up at night. “I’m worried too, you know. I’m not a nurse. I don’t know how to take care of anyone. What if something bad happens?”

  “Then you call for help. I’m right down the road.” His soft voice offered comfort.

  “You don’t have a twin brother, do you?”

  “No. Why?” His brows drew in, and his forehead wrinkled.

  “You’re being all nice. You were scary this afternoon.”

  His head jerked backward. “I wasn’t scary.”

  “Right.” She shot the word with sarcasm. “Man holding a gun looms over woman innocently swimming in river. Said man annihilates snake not ten feet away. You’re obviously a fuzzy, soft Care Bear. The one with the rainbows.”

  “What are you drinking?” Although he didn’t actually smile, something in his face lightened, and his body relaxed against the bar.

  “I wanted sweet tea, but Logan gave me this.” Playing her best Vanna White, she presented the glass with flourishing hands but ruined the effect by bobbling it into his arm. The glass left a damp spot on his shirt, which she felt an uncontrollable need to wipe. A multitude of thin puckered scars peeked from under his shirtsleeve.

  Her fingers slipped under his sleeve to trace more scars. “What happened?”

  He ignored the question, took her glass between two fingers, and sniffed the contents. His bicep rippled under her hand. “How many have you had?”

  “That must have hurt terribly. I’m so sorry.”

  His shoulder rolled, maybe to shake her hand off. His jaw clenched, furrows framed his thinned lips, and his body stiffened again. In fact, he looked pained. She took her hand away long enough to kiss her fingers and lay them back over his scars.

  They stared at each other. His lips parted, and the frost in his eyes melted. Had she actually … yes, she had kissed his boo-boo. She snatched her hand away and tucked it under a leg. Obviously, her appendages couldn’t be trusted.

  The bartender slid another full glass between them. Dalt’s gaze stayed fixed on her. “Take it away, Brian. She’s had enough.”

  The bartender dumped the contents of the glass behind the counter.

  “But … but, they settled my nerves.” She reached for the now empty glass and fake pouted.

  “You want to wake up hung over in some asshole’s bed?” He chucked his chin toward the end of the bar.

  She looked over her shoulder and caught a couple of guys staring at her. One she recognized from high school, and she waggled her fingers. He waved back with nothing more than a friendly smile and turned away. “You seriously think someone woul
d take advantage of me?”

  His gaze flickered down her body. “Someone that looks like you? Hell yeah.”

  “How do I look?” She wiggled to pull her hemline down as far as the stool would allow. Oh my God, did she look slutty?

  “I don’t take bait.”

  “I didn’t even know you liked to fish,” she said. Only in Alabama could a conversation about drinking and one-night stands get tangled up with fishing.

  He blinked a few times. “I wasn’t fishing. You were. You look real pretty.”

  Had someone turned the AC off? Her breaths came faster, but it wasn’t anger driving her lungs in and out. Her gaze dropped to his chest, and she tucked hair behind her ear. This man had seen her naked mere hours ago.

  “You spied on me in the river.” Her accusation came out breathy, not blameful.

  “Thought you were a pig.”

  Outrage shot her head up. “That’s … that’s a terrible thing to say.”

  Was that red flush coursing up his neck a blush? He grunted in what she could only assume was his approximation of a laugh. “Jesus, not you … you were—” He shook his head. “Feral pigs have been rooting the bottoms, causing flooding, overtaking natural species. I fully intended to respect your privacy until I saw the snake.”

  Propping his elbow on the bar, he rested his jaw on his fist. Fine blond hair dotted the back, thickening to cover his forearm. How much hair covered his chest? Her stomach tumbled, a different kind of nerves this time.

  “Why are you so nervous?” he asked.

  “What?” She shifted on the stool. Was it that obvious she found him as hot as sin?

  “You said the drinks settled your nerves.”

  “Oh, that.” She huffed a sigh and cast a quick glance over a shoulder. It seemed like an inordinate amount of eyes were on her or him or maybe them. She leaned closer and whispered as if delivering a dire secret, “People around here remember me.”

  “I thought Logan was the resident wild man growing up. You’re a librarian.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Librarians know how to party. Anyway, it’s not me they remember.”

  His nose scrunched. “That made zero sense.”

  “Sense and Sensibility.” She snapped her fingers and pointed a finger between his eyes.

  “What?” he asked. This time his laugh was unmistakable. He wrapped his hand around her finger and pulled it away. His fingers skittered over the back of her hand before retreating to the neck of his beer. The heat of his touch made her feel like looking for a brand.

  “The last party I went to in Atlanta. Everyone came as a famous author. I dressed up like Jane Austen. A corset and everything.”

  “Wow. You librarians are animals.” His smile was wide and sexy and teasing. The somber cast of his face transformed into a thing of beauty. Warm, tingly ribbons trailed over and inside her body.

  “Dalt is an unusual name. What’s your last name?” she asked.

  “Dalton.”

  “Your name’s Dalt Dalton?”

  His smile crinkled his eyes. “Robert Dalton. Most people called me Robbie before I joined up. Dalt since then.”

  “Robbie.” It was a good name. A name that felt natural on her lips. “You have a nice smile, Robbie.”

  “So do you,” he said with a rasp.

  She touched her lips to find them curled up, mirroring his. Was he flirting? Was she? Why couldn’t he stay an asshole instead of smiling and being all handsome and adorable?

  Even so, his dominant physicality filled her with disquiet, maybe even something akin to fear. Not of him, but of how tenuous her control was around him. Damn Logan and his delicious drinks.

  “Please excuse me,” she said in an overly formal voice and hopped off the stool. She needed a few minutes alone in a restroom stall, away from his pulsating energy.

  When she tried to walk a straight line, her level of inebriation registered like a tornado siren. Although she could barely taste the alcohol in them, the drinks had been more potent than she realized. She needed to find Logan. Halfway through the maze of tables, a hand circled her wrist and jolted her to a stop.

  “So you decided to join me after all, pretty girl. How ’bout a dance in thanks for letting you skate this afternoon?”

  His face came into focus. Rick. He gestured toward the sparsely occupied dance floor. A slow song from her distant past played.

  “Isn’t that extortion?” she asked.

  “Come on.” He ignored her oppositely tugging body and herded her toward the floor.

  It was just a dance, but Rick’s manhandling made her dig in her heels and grab at a table, which she pulled along for a few inches.

  Another hand on her forearm halted their awkward progress. A big body crowded behind her. Robbie. She swayed backward into his heat, grateful for his intervention.

  “You taking to forcing women these days, Rick?”

  “The lady owes me.”

  “I owe you nothing,” she replied hotly.

  Robbie’s chest rumbled with his words. “You heard her.”

  Rick’s posturing seemed an act. His focus wasn’t on the threat in Robbie’s voice or her, but on the group of women gathered on the edge of the dance floor. He tossed her hand away.

  Darcy was an independent woman who had no problems taking care of herself. She opened her own doors, paid her own way, and could change her oil and a flat tire. Excess liquor was the only way to explain the arousing primal thrill of Robbie acting like such a … man.

  “Come with me,” he said. Fingers on her lower back guided her to the dance floor.

  He circled her waist lightly, letting her dictate how close to bring their bodies. She rested her hands on his shoulders, hard and warm through his shirt. Her gaze stayed on his neck and the corded muscles as he swallowed. Swaying closer, her eyes drifted shut, and she inhaled the fresh scent of clean laundry mixed with the intoxicating tang of man.

  “I have to get out of here. Avery’s waiting at home. You’re in no shape to drive. I’ll drop you at Miss Ada’s.” His breath stirred at her temple. Only a few words registered. She straightened and tilted her face up. Hadn’t Logan said he wasn’t dating any of the women in town?

  “Avery? Is that your girlfriend?”

  A brief tick of his lips seemed the start of a smirk, and his eyes took on a puckish quality. “No.”

  “No?” Her head shook.

  “No.” He mimicked her. “Avery wouldn’t appreciate you thinking he was a girl.”

  The elation at the negative answer morphed into a stew of dread and disappointment. Logan’s words scrolled through her head and took on an entirely different meaning. ‘Not interested. He’s a man’s man. If you know what I mean.’ She rested her forehead against the soft cotton of his red shirt.

  He was gay, and she was an idiot.

  Avery was his boyfriend. Of course, he hadn’t been flirting. He’d been polite. He probably assumed she knew. A person’s sexual orientation typically didn’t faze her in the least. But he was so incredibly sexy and now utterly unattainable.

  Her mind raced for a reply, something to salvage a shadow of her pride. “My last name is spelled with an e, like Oscar Wilde.”

  “Okay.” He drawled the single word.

  Babbling commenced. “He wrote one my favorite plays … The Importance of Being Earnest. Have you read it? It’s a twist on words … one of the characters is named Earnest, and then there’s the traditional meaning of the word … well, it’s not important. The thing is … Oscar Wilde was homosexual.”

  His expression was one of confused fascination. “Good for him.”

  “It was nineteenth-century England. He was vilified. Jailed even.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Things are different now, even in Falcon, aren’t they?”

  “I guess so.”

  The warmth of his hands burned at her waist, and he tried to pull her closer. She resisted with a twist of her hips. His eyes narrowed
on hers, but she looked away. Rick talked with a woman with long blonde hair, her back to the dance floor. His gaze raked over her and Robbie. Hostility and tension crackled between them and Rick, between her and Robbie. Liquor burned up her throat, and the promise of a blazing headache throbbed.

  “I should find Logan,” she whispered.

  “Logan won’t get out of here until after midnight. I don’t mind giving you a lift. You’re on my way home.”

  His blue eyes seemed sincere. Even with her inhibitions low, nothing could ever happen between them, and the knowledge settled her nerves. “You’re sure?”

  He didn’t say a word but cupped her elbow and led her out the door. The air outside, while muggy, was a balm compared to the smoky, body-filled bar. She stopped to lean against a parking lot light and took several deep breaths. Her stomach settled and her embarrassment cooled.

  “You going to be all right?”

  “I’m sorry.” She waved her hand in an attempt to spread her apology over the entire debacle. “I rarely drink, but with everything going on …”

  Her first step landed her in a hole and sent her to her knees. Hands scraped, ankle tingling—nothing permanently damaged except for her psyche. Perfect way to cap the humiliating evening.

  Maybe he would leave her. She would sober up enough in a couple of hours to crawl to her car and get home. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a shroud.

  Strong hands scooped her to her feet. “Good Lord, you’re a lightweight.”

  They stood under the dim light, his hands on her waist and hers on his forearms. For an instant, a second, a heartbeat, she imagined he could be hers.

  #

  Giving her waist a slight squeeze, Robbie concluded Darcy Wilde was sexy as all get out and didn’t even know it. He hadn’t been the only man to watch her twitching, slightly tipsy walk across the bar. Her red heels emphasized toned calves, and her dress molded to her curves.

  Rick the Dick had tried to strong-arm her onto the dance floor—unwillingly if the table she’d dragged along was any indication. After maneuvering her out of Rick’s grasp, he’d pulled her to the dance floor himself and tried not to compare his motivations to Rick’s. She’d followed him willingly enough.