Title: To Catch a Fallen Leaf
Series: Rossingley, Book Two
Author: Fearne Hill
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 09/13/2021
Length: 78100
Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, gay, British, aristocracy, fashion model/celebrity, gardeners/gardening, ex-con, family drama, humorous, opposites attract, rich man/poor man, wedding
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Description
Take one shy French gardener, mix in a naughty aristocrat, add a splash of water, a dash of sunshine, and wait for love to grow.
If only it were that easy.
Reuben Costaud counts his blessings daily. His run-in with crime is firmly behind him. He has a wonderful job gardening on the Rossingley estate, a tiny cottage all to himself, an orphaned cat named Obélix, and a friendly bunch of workmates. The last thing he needs is a tall, blond aristocrat strolling across the manicured lawns towards him.
Falling in love is not part of his plan.
Viscount Aloysius Frederick Lloyd Duchamps-Avery, Freddie to his friends, is in big trouble with everyone, from his father and his modelling agency, to his controlling older boyfriend. Seeking solace and refuge, he escapes to Rossingley and his adored cousin Lucien, the sixteenth earl. To take his mind off his woes, Lucien finds him a job with the estate gardening team.
Mutual attraction blossoms amongst the gardening tools, and Freddie charms his way through Reuben’s defences. But as spring turns to summer and Freddie’s London life collides with their Rossingley idyll, Reuben’s trust in him is ruptured. Will their love flourish or is it destined for the compost bin?
To Catch a Fallen Leaf is a full-length MM contemporary romance, the second in the Rossingley trilogy.
To Catch a Fallen Leaf
Fearne Hill © 2021
All Rights Reserved
I have no idea how long he’s been watching me, when I look up and see him standing there. I’m engrossed in hard pruning the row of buddleia below the east wing, taking out the old woody stems and ruthlessly cutting back new growth. He could have been there a while because he’s leaning against the trunk of the old willow where the branches hang low, almost obscuring him. It’s a great hiding place. He’s dressed in his gardening clothes, and there is an easy smile on his lips. My heart thumps at the sight of him and my face heats at what we did together, albeit miles apart. I resist the urge to run over to him and jump into his arms, which would definitely not be cool.
“Hey, you,” he says softly, not moving. Mon dieu, he’s beautiful, as beautiful as, well, as one of the world’s most sought-after male models. And he’s interested in me? Putain.
“Hi, Freddie. How long have you been there?”
“Not long enough. I wish I had been back sooner. The last show couldn’t finish too quickly for my liking. I probably broke a few speed limits on the catwalk, not to mention driving back here.”
I stifle a smile. “Why might that be? My lesson on how to rationalise the denominator isn’t that urgent.”
“You know why, Frenchie. Get your arse over here.”
I almost forget to breathe as I carefully put down the secateurs inside the wheelbarrow and peel off my gloves. His eyes never leave mine as I walk across the few metres of grass separating us.
“Did you miss me, Reuben?”
That soft rich voice, calm and confident. We’re inches apart under the willow, the only sound the distant hum of Joe working with the hedge trimmer down by the lake. I nod, my own voice hoarse.
“It’s only been two days. Perhaps Obélix missed you a little bit though.”
“Show me how much.”
Our first kiss is chaste and tentative, a soft press of his lips on mine.
“I think you missed me more than that.”
He dips his head again, his tongue probing the seam of my lips. With a low moan from somewhere in the back of my throat, I open to him, and he slips inside, delving deeper, exploring. His cool fingers entwine with mine at my sides, so the only focal point, the only contact between our bodies is our mouths touching and discovering. I taste mint and freshness. Somewhere inside, I always knew my first kiss with Freddie would be this sweet and tender.
So, it’s only a kiss, right? A simple kiss. Maybe a prelude to something more, but not here and now, not with the laughter of Steve and Gandalf floating across from the greenhouses. Any minute, the kettle will be on and one of them will be calling me over. But later, certainly later.
Except there is nothing simple about this kiss. I don’t need GCSE maths to do the sums. To subtract the years of my prison sentence from my current age. To subtract another year spent in a chaotic wilderness on leaving prison, a year of being monitored, tagged, supervised, watched. Without the use of a calculator, it’s easy to deduce how many years ago I was kissed properly. I was in my late teens. And I can’t recall a single one of those kisses, although, doubtless, they will have happened. A rough crush of mouths in a smelly bedsit late at night. Or up against a damp wall in a darkened alley somewhere, a pretence at seduction before a furtive release of urgent bodily needs.
This kiss with Freddie, stolen under the shade of an old willow, is so much more than that. It shouldn’t even share the same noun as those long-ago exchanges of saliva. My balls tighten, and I break off, breathing heavily, taking a shaky step backwards away from him. I need to stop, now. Freddie’s lips are flushed and swollen against his milky-white skin. He’s concerned, and the skin on my face feels hot.
“What’s the matter, Reuben?”
“Putain, I’m…I’m…I’m going to come if you carry on kissing me like that.”
As he enfolds me in his arms, I bury my face in his neck so he can’t see how much it’s affecting me. Even this amount of friction, from the press of his body against mine is too much.
“It’s been a very long time for me,” I whisper. “Doing anything like this. Since, well, since I went to prison. I won’t be able to control it. I’ve not even kissed since I was in my teens.”
He steps back and brings my head up, cupping my face in his warm hands.
“It’s okay; you’re safe with me. I’ll look after you. Turn and face the tree, put your arms around the trunk.”
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Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel.
When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anesthesiologist.
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