Slow and Steady Rush: Sweet Home Alabama

by Trentham, Laura

  The elation at the negative answer morphed into a stew of 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. The knowledge was both depressing and reassuring. “You’re sure?”

  He didn’t answer 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?” He stepped out of puking range.

  “I’m sorry. I promise I’m not going to be sick.” 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.

  She prayed he would leave her. She would sober up enough in a few 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 strappy 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.

  He could accept the fact he wanted her in his bed. Every man with a pulse at the bar probably wanted the same. What he hadn’t expected was the shock from the pseudo kiss she’d laid on his injured arm. The simple gesture had taken him out at the knees like a bomb going off in his chest.

  He’d planned to give her a much-deserved apology and then enjoy a couple of beers alone but surrounded by people. The three subjects he was qualified to discuss—math, football, war—weren’t suited for flirtatious small talk. She hadn’t seemed to mind. Although the veering of their conversation had nearly given him whiplash, he’d enjoyed himself, laughed even.

  Anticipation at getting laid steamrolled through his body even as his conscience corralled the spiraling lust. She was Logan’s cousin, and she was drunk. If anything happened, Logan would kick him into next week, but even worse, Robbie might lose his friend—one of the few. Not to mention, Miss Ada might come after him with the rifle she stored in the hall closet, broken hips or not. Anyway, she wasn’t one-night-stand material, which scared him worse than getting beat up by Logan or shot by Miss Ada.

  He helped her onto the leather seat of his black truck, and she swung her feet in to nestle among a half-dozen footballs and orange cones. She lay her hands lightly on his shoulders, and the same burn that had coursed through him during their dance reignited.

  “Avery’s very lucky.” She sounded close to tears, but he’d checked and she’d barely gotten a strawberry on each knee.

  “I’m the lucky one. He saved my life.” He snapped her seatbelt home, not sure she would find it in the dark. His bicep brushed against the fullness of her breasts, and goose bumps broke over his forearm.

  “You served together?”

  He propped his hands on either side of her thighs, leaving their faces inches apart in the dim interior. “For my last two tours. I thought about reupping, but after he was injured I didn’t want to leave him in the States without me.”

  “That’s so sweet. I wish . . .” This time the tears were unmistakable. He’d seen enough men crying into their whisky to know alcohol made some people emotional.

  “What do you wish?”

  “For the impossible. Avery is waiting.” She pushed him back, but not after a telltale squeeze of his shoulders. His muscles twitched.

  Did she want him to kiss her? Surely, he hadn’t lost all ability to read women. Although, this woman was written in a different language. One he wanted to study and learn—like Braille.

  “How was Avery injured?” she asked after he’d cranked the engine.

  The truck bucked backward. Usually reticent to reveal anything personal, the words flowed out roughly, but flowed nonetheless. “Bomb. Shrapnel ripped his leg to hell, and the doctors had to amputate. My shoulder . . .”

  He traced the puckered scars crisscrossing his upper arm, the moment of detonation never buried deep enough in his memory. The knuckles of his other hand were white on the steering wheel. A deep, practiced breath unlocked his fingers.

  “Avery pushed me down and saved me from the worst of it. Doesn’t like me gone for too long, makes him nervous.”

  “He sounds amazing,” she said, her voice thick.

  “He is amazing.”

  Wind buffeted the cabin from the half-opened windows. Chewing at his bottom lip, he looked from her to the road and back again. Completely out of character, he broke the normally welcomed silence. “Is Darcy from a book too?”

  Her head lolled toward him on the seatback. “Although Ada doesn’t know for sure, I like to imagine Mother named me after Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Never read it.”

  “It’s one of my favorites. What do you read?”

  “Popular Mechanics. Scientific American. Sports Illustrated.”

  He turned onto the washed-out lane and concentrated on smoothing the ride as much as possible in the dark. After parking in front of Miss Ada’s timeworn house, he came to her side and opened the door. The truck’s interior light underscored her pasty face.

  “Let me help you inside.” He took her forearm as she climbed out of the high cab. Her ankle rolled in the ridiculous shoes, but she righted herself immediately. He scooped her into
a cradle hold, ignoring her yelp.

  “Dangit, I can walk.”

  “Not without doing some damage to yourself on all this gravel and in those heels.”

  “I’m not a damsel in distress, Robbie Dalton,” she said in a grumpy voice that made him want to smile for some reason.

  One of her arms looped around his shoulders anyway. No one called him Robbie anymore, and he liked the way it drawled off her tongue. Shivers skittered down his spine and chased away the logical reasons he shouldn’t kiss her. Only the thought of Logan and Miss Ada dented the impulse.

  Under a weak finger of porch light, he maneuvered the front door open. “Might as well deposit you in your room. Is it upstairs?”

  “Upstairs, end of the hall.” Her eyes closed, and her warm breath on his neck invaded his body.

  Their combined weight creaked the wooden stairs. Squeaking shoes signaled company. Ms. Evelyn stood at the bottom, wearing rumpled scrubs and a dazed expression, her mouth forming a perfect circle.

  He backed into Darcy’s room but left the door open for propriety’s sake. Slowly and with maximum body contact, he set her on her feet and gripped her hips. The curves of her body pressed into him, her soft pliancy a perfect foil for his tensed muscles.

  He took a calming breath and looked around. Her room was a time capsule. A ten-year-old hard-rock band poster, the corners peeling, was taped beside an oval mirror. A yellow comforter and green body pillow covered a brass bed. The girlish furniture was painted white with pink flowers. A jammed bookcase ran along one corner. Overflow books were stacked in towers of various heights. Suitcases stood along the wall.

  “Thanks for driving me home.”

  He stared at her full bottom lip. Having her in the same room as a bed played havoc with his good intentions. He glanced toward the open door.

  “Avery’s waiting. He’s probably pacing the floor.” She pushed his arms away.

  He put some space between him and temptation. His thighs bumped into her dresser and rattled the mirror against the wall. She was right. Avery was so well trained, he would experience pain rather than have an accident indoors. “Yep, he needs me.”

  Keeping her in his sights like an enemy combatant, he shuffled backward toward the door. Was he imagining the attraction, or was it all one-sided? Usually, women were obvious and straightforward and if the night was lonely enough, he would take them home. That hadn’t happened since he’d moved to Falcon.

  Maybe it was the small-town atmosphere, maybe it was his deepening friendships with Logan and Miss Ada, maybe it was his players, but the constant aching hollowness in his chest hadn’t bothered him so much here.

  As he stood in the doorway, she turned like a wobble toy and collapsed on the bed. On her stomach with her face in a pillow, she reached behind her and fiddled with her shoes, her feet in the air. Her dress inched farther up her thighs.

  “Robbie? Are you still there?” She twisted around enough to see him.

  “Yes.” The word croaked out. He was beyond embarrassment at this point.

  “Do you mind helping me with my shoes?”

  Now he was beyond rational thought. Unable to process words, he nodded and approached the bed. Her foot wavered, and he grabbed her ankle with one hand while the other worked one of three tiny buckles that held the straps in place. Her leg was silky smooth in his hand, and he ran his palm up a few inches toward her knee. Blood rushed from his head to other parts of his body. Finally, his clumsy fingers worked the last buckle free, and he slid her shoe off.

  She wiggled toes that were painted a sparkly purple. He took her other foot and repeated the process, dropping the shoe on the floor and stepping away.

  “That’s better. Thank you.” She snuggled into her body pillow and hiked up her leg, exposing the bottom edge of her black lace panties.

  A one-night stand with Darcy Wilde was out of the question. What were his options? He could ask her out on a date. And then what? The couple of times he’d tried a relationship, the women had ended up hating him. The safest, smartest option would be to keep the ill-advised attraction to himself and ignore her.

  “Good night.” His voice was strangled but at least he’d located sensible words.

  Her answer was a soft snuffle. He met his gaze in the mirror and only then realized he was smiling. He shook his head and covered her with the quilt at the end of her bed.

  The picture of Darcy Wilde he’d created from her letters had been shattered by the real thing. And the real thing put his imagination to shame.

  4

  Groaning, Darcy lay spread-eagle under the quilt, the pillow over her face blocking the sunlight streaming over her bed. A burn travelled from her upset stomach up her throat. How much was alcohol and how much was embarrassment? A gloom that had been lingering for days, ready for its cue, invaded.

  She indulged in a moment of self-pity. Ada getting hurt, her career disrupted, the move back to Falcon. And Robbie. Even if he were straight, she wouldn’t have a shot with him. When he smiled, the man was a living, breathing Adonis. He was seriously out of her league. Actually, they weren’t even playing the same sport.

  What would help? Pancakes and bacon. Bacon eased all of life’s troubles. After tossing the ridiculous panties into a corner, she showered the bar smoke from her body and hair. Feeling nearly human, she bypassed her suitcases for the dresser and pulled out old blue shorts and a yellow T-shirt she hadn’t worn in years. The soft cotton and familiar smell was comforting. She quickened her pace. Had the nurse left? Surely, Ms. Evelyn would have woken her.

  Logan sat in the kitchen reading a Tuscaloosa newspaper. “Morning, sunshine. Got your car home for you,” he said in a too cheerful tone probably meant to irritate her.

  “Why did you force one of those horrid drinks on me last night?” She popped some headache pills, poured a cup of coffee, and took a sip of the blessed elixir.

  “The key word being ‘one.’ I did not make nor force you to drink the next two . . . or four. Next thing I knew you and Dalt were gone. Anything interesting happen?” He cut wry eyes her direction.

  “You know very well nothing happened.” Her irritation blossomed into anger.

  “I’m not surprised Dalt warmed up to you. The only times I ever heard him laugh was when he read the letters you sent me in Afghanistan.”

  An unnatural silence grew between them. Logan’s hard swallow was audible.

  “He. Read. My. Letters?”

  Very slowly, Logan put the paper on the table but kept his gaze on her. “Uh . . . no?”

  Darcy went for the ear flick. Executed by an expert—which she was—the move would send shooting pain through his temple. She swatted him on the arm a few times for good measure. “How could you?”

  Cupping his ear, he retreated out of striking distance. “Dammit, cuz. I only let him read your letters because he never got anything from home. I felt bad for him. You remember how it was for us.”

  Of course she did. Darcy backed away to lean against the counter. Ada had done her best to make school functions, but Mother’s Day and Donuts for Dads left them feeling like outcasts. She and Logan would find each other and try to ignore the happily complete families around them.

  But her letters. She had put more love and vulnerability into her letters than she ever felt comfortable demonstrating face-to-face. The letters had been to remind Logan of everything—and everyone—he had to live for.

  He pulled his chair farther away from her before sitting down. “I’m pretty sure Dalt already half-loved this place and Ada before I talked him into the job. Thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to me,” she whispered and gingerly slid onto the chair opposite him. She rubbed her forehead, needing a clear head and time to process the implications. “Is Ms. Evelyn still here?”

  “Left at seven. I figured you might need some help this morning. I do bear some responsibility for your current state. I didn’t realize you were such a cheap drunk.”

  She folded her arms on th
e table and dropped her head, hiding the humiliated heat in her cheeks. Remnants of her overindulgence turned in her stomach. “I’m an idiot.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for years, cuz.” His chair scraped the floor, and he bussed the top of her head. “Evelyn will be back around one for Ada’s PT and so you can go to the store, but no more nights out for awhile. I’ve got to grab some sleep before football practice. Later.”

  The screen door’s bang exploded in her temples.

  She and Ada spent the morning playing cards and gossiping between Ada’s frequent naps. The public TV station, one of the few that came in clearly from the rooftop antennae, provided background noise.

  In the middle of getting schooled in gin rummy by Ada, Darcy’s phone beeped a text. It was Kat. Court work done. Late lunch at The Diner?

  With impeccable timing, the crunch of gravel signaled Evelyn’s return. Darcy was ecstatic to hear the woman squeak up the front steps. With grocery list in hand, she slid behind the wheel of her car, feeling like an egg on the skillet-hot leather seats.

  With barely enough time for her AC to make a dent in the heat, Darcy found a parking spot in front of the bank and walked down the sidewalk to The Diner. Unlike many small towns, the chain box stores cropping up on the outskirts of town hadn’t squashed Falcon’s quaint downtown. Not yet, anyway.

  She passed Kat’s law office, a doctor’s office, and a local salon. A woman with impeccably styled hair strolled out. Female chatter and the smell of expensive hair products snaked through the air before the door shut. The old five-and-dime had turned into a florist and gift shop. Antiques were crammed into the next store, some spilling out to the sidewalk. She fingered the dangling crystals of an old-fashioned lamp. The sun splintered into a rainbow against the cheery yellow-painted brick wall.

  Moving to the next window, she stared at a mannequin holding a Coach purse and wearing an expensive-looking wrap dress. Her focus switched to her reflection in the glass. She time-travelled back a decade, and felt like she was looking at her skinny teenager self in second-hand clothes, always looking in.