Slow and Steady Rush (5 page)

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 paralyzing shock from the pseudo kiss she’d laid on his injured arm. The simple gesture shouldn’t have resonated so deeply. But it had.

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. “Of course. I thought about another tour, 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. Maybe the alcohol drove her over-the-top emotional reaction.

“What?”

“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 he 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 …”

His fingers traced the puckered scars crisscrossing his 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.

He added, “Avery pushed me down and protected 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, his gaze bounced from her to the road and back again. Completely out of character, he broke the normally welcomed silence. “Is Darcy an author as well?”

Her head lolled toward him on the seatback. “I doubt my mother intended it as such, but I like to imagine I was named 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, but she righted herself immediately. He scooped her into a cradle hold, ignoring her yelp.

“Dang it, 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, but one of her arms looped around his shoulders. 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, don’t forget.” She pushed his arms away.

He stepped back. His thighs bumped into her dresser and rattled the mirror against the wall. His dog was so well trained, he would experience pain rather than have an accident indoors. “Yep, he needs me.”

“You can see yourself out, I’m sure.” She flapped both hands, shooing him away.

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. For the most part, he brushed them off, but sometimes the nights got lonely, so he took 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 pulled the door closed, she turned like a wobble toy, kicked off her heels, and collapsed on the bed. Her leg hiked up and exposed a pair of 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.

If he stared though the crack in the door longer than he should, he forgave his momentary weakness. 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.

Chapter 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. The final layer was Robbie. Even if he were straight, she probably 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 and pulled out old blue shorts and a yellow T-shirt she hadn’t worn in years. The soft cotton and familiar smell were 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 Alabama and everything 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 the 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 a while. 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 convertible’s wheel, 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.

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 even 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.

“Hey there, Darcy-girl. I heard you were back in town.” A smoke-roughened breathless voice emerged from the recesses of the antique store. Darcy jogged over to grab the other end of a side table the man hauled out to the sidewalk.

“Word travels fast,” she said.

Over the years, Henry Wilson had maintained the twinkle in his eye, a full head of white hair, and a close-cropped beard. As a child, Darcy had fantasies Henry was Santa Claus taking a sabbatical.

After they set the side table out, he leaned a hip and a hand on the scarred wood, wheezing deep breaths.

“Are you all right? Can I get you some water or something?” Darcy laid a hand on his arm.

He patted her hand and straightened. “Just getting old. Happens to everyone. Speaking of old,” Henry cackled good-naturedly, “how’s Ada feeling?”

“Better. Still can’t get around, but Ms. Evelyn is whipping her into shape.”

“How long are you staying?” He rearranged the front, moving the lamp to the sideboard and tucking the cord out of sight.