Weekenders Romance Watch
Covington Falls Chronicles (Book 3)
Author: Kristin Wallace
Genre: Mainstream Romance
Children’s author Emily Sinclair was supposed to be the next J.K. Rowling… Until her second book flopped and her imagination went on the fritz. So she sets out on an epic adventure to find inspiration again. A journey that leads her to Covington Falls. Rugged, blue-collar Nate Cooper is dealing with his sick mother and troublesome teenage brother. He doesn’t have much use for fancy words and certainly not for a slightly off-center writer on the lam. On paper, these two would seem the least likely pairing, but they’re about to write their own happily ever after.
(Emily’s car has broken down outside Covington Falls…)
The truck slowed and Emily tensed, torn between elation at being found and wariness regarding exactly who might be behind the wheel of the ancient rattletrap. The glare off the windshield made it impossible to see inside the cab, however.
The tires veered off to the side of the road and stopped, sending up a cloud of dust. Emily waved her hand, choking on the airborne dirt. Her mouth felt dry as if she had licked the ground. The door opened. Work boots emerged. Brown and roughed-up and covered in… paint. A man stepped out, and Emily steadied her hands against the car to keep from falling over.
Mr. Darcy. No, Heathcliff. Only instead of a cravat and breeches, he was dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, which seemed molded to an impressive chest. Heath stretched up a good six-plus feet, towering over her puny five-foot-two frame. A lock of dark chocolate-brown hair brushed over his forehead. Their eyes met. Since she was already thinking in clichés, Emily’s mind offered up a million of them to describe his eyes. She could start with gray, but no way did such a mundane word do them justice. Slate, storm clouds, a roiling sea, glazed pewter. Devastating, and framed by thick sooty lashes no man had a right to possess.
He stopped a few feet away, and Emily had the fanciful notion he was trying not to frighten her. Like she was a skittish filly about to bolt.
“Hi,” he said. “Car trouble?”
His voice was like his eyes. Smooth and deep, like honey in a cup of hot tea.
Emily nodded. How could she speak when every male literary fantasy she’d ever dreamed about had unfolded from a rusted-out pickup?