Calling all country lovers: Fresh Fiction is thrilled to share an excerpt
from Laura Trentham's new novel SLOW AND STEADY
RUSH, available today! Set in rural Alabama, this is the first novel in the
Falcon Football Series. SLOW AND STEADY
RUSH is a contemporary romance with a distinct small town, country charm. To
read more about the series and find out some of the songs that inspired it,
visit Laura's website.
About SLOW AND STEADY RUSH
She lives by the bookâ€”and is still searching for her happily ever after.
Darcy Wilde has tried hard not to live up to her last name. As a librarian in
Atlanta she lives a fine life far away from the football-obsessed town of her
childhood. But when her beloved Grandmother needs help, Darcy takes a leave of
absence and heads back to the home and past she left behind.
He knows how to play the fieldâ€”and is in no rush to settle down.
Robbie Dalton knows a thing or two about painful pasts. After bouncing around in
foster care and the Army for years he is finally ready to move on and make a
home for himself in Falcon, Alabama as the newest high school football coach.
Sparks fly when the sexy new coach and the sharp-tongued librarian meet, but
neither of them is looking to make ties.
But when it comes to love, sometimes youâ€™ve gotta throw away the rule book
to cross the finish lineâ€¦
Everything changes when Darcy falls in love, not only with the gruff,
protective, and smoking hot man who's sharing her days and nights, but also with
the complex tapestry of people who weave Falcon together. Could this be where
she belongs - and who she belongs with?
Excerpt from SLOW AND STEADY RUSH
He rubbed his nape and shifted on the stool. â€śI know what you think, but I swear
Iâ€™m not taking advantage of your grandmother. I worry about her being alone.â€ť
The sincerity shading his eyes threw the door open on the fears that had kept
her up at night. â€śIâ€™m worried too, you know. Iâ€™m not a nurse. I donâ€™t know how
to take care of anyone. What if something bad happens?â€ť
â€śThen you call for help. Iâ€™m right down the road.â€ť His soft voice offered comfort.
â€śYou donâ€™t have a twin brother, do you?â€ť
â€śNo. Why?â€ť His brows drew in, and his forehead wrinkled. â€śYouâ€™re being all
nice. You were scary this afternoon.â€ť
His head jerked backward. â€śI wasnâ€™t scary.â€ť
â€śRight.â€ť She shot the word with sarcasm. â€śMan holding a gun looms over woman
innocently swimming in river. Said man annihilates snake not ten feet away.
Youâ€™re obviously a fuzzy, soft Care Bear. The one with the rainbows.â€ť
â€śWhat are you drinking?â€ť Although he didnâ€™t actually smile, something in his
face lightened, and his body relaxed against the bar.
â€śI wanted sweet tea, but Logan gave me this.â€ť 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. â€śWhat happened?â€ť
He ignored the question, took her glass between two fingers, and sniffed the
contents. His bicep rippled under her hand. â€śHow many have you had?â€ť
â€śThat must have hurt terribly. Iâ€™m so sorry.â€ť
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 actuallyâ€¦yes, she had kissed his boo-boo. She snatched her hand away and
tucked it under a leg. Obviously, her appendages couldnâ€™t be trusted.
The bartender slid another full glass between them. Daltâ€™s gaze stayed fixed on
her. â€śTake it away, Brian. Sheâ€™s had enough.â€ť
The bartender dumped the contents of the glass behind the counter.
â€śButâ€¦but, they settled my nerves.â€ť She reached for the now empty glass and fake
â€śYou want to wake up hung over in some assholeâ€™s bed?â€ť 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. â€śYou seriously think someone
would take advantage of me?â€ť
His gaze flickered down her body. â€śSomeone that looks like you? Hell yeah.â€ť
â€śHow do I look?â€ť She wiggled to pull her hemline down as far as the stool would
allow. Oh my God, did she look slutty?
â€śI donâ€™t take bait.â€ť
â€śI didnâ€™t even know you liked to fish,â€ť she said. Only in Alabama could a
conversation about drinking and one-night stands get tangled up with fishing.
He blinked a few times. â€śI wasnâ€™t fishing. You were. You look real pretty.â€ť
Had someone turned the AC off? Her breaths came faster, but it wasnâ€™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.
â€śYou spied on me in the river.â€ť Her accusation came out breathy, not blameful.
â€śThought you were a pig.â€ť
Outrage shot her head up. â€śThatâ€™s â€¦ thatâ€™s a terrible thing to say.â€ť
Was that red flush coursing up his neck a blush? He grunted in what she could
only assume was his approximation of a laugh. â€śJesus, not you â€¦ you wereâ€”â€ť He
shook his head. â€ś Feral pigs have been rooting the bottoms, causing flooding,
overtaking natural species. I fully intended to respect your privacy until I saw
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.
â€śWhy are you so nervous?â€ť he asked.
â€śWhat?â€ť She shifted on the stool. Was it that obvious she found him as hot as sin?
â€śYou said the drinks settled your nerves.â€ť
â€śOh, that.â€ť 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, â€śPeople around here
â€śI thought Logan was the resident wild man growing up. Youâ€™re a librarian.â€ť
â€śWhatâ€™s that supposed to mean? Librarians know how to party. Anyway, itâ€™s not
me they remember.â€ť
His nose scrunched. â€ś That made zero sense.â€ť
â€śSense and Sensibility.â€ť She snapped her fingers and pointed a finger between
â€śWhat?â€ť 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.
â€śThe last party I went to in Atlanta. Everyone came as a famous author. I
dressed up like Jane Austen. A corset and everything.â€ť
â€śWow. You librarians are animals.â€ť 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.
â€śDalt is an unusual name. Whatâ€™s your last name?â€ť she asked.
â€śYour nameâ€™s Dalt Dalton?â€ť
His smile crinkled his eyes. â€śRobert Dalton. Most people called me Robbie before
I joined up. Dalt since then.â€ť
â€śRobbie.â€ť It was a good name. A name that felt natural on her lips. â€śYou have a
nice smile, Robbie.â€ť
â€śSo do you,â€ť he said with a rasp.
About Laura Trentham
Laura Trentham is an award-winning author of contemporary
romance. She is a member of RWA, and has finaled multiple times in the Golden
Heart competition. A chemical engineer by training and a lover of books by
nature, she lives in South Carolina.
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