Preacher Man

By Laurie Larsen

Regan Samuels is newly single and doing her best to raise her teenaged son in the city. She gives the adult dating world a go, but finds she'd rather trade in her stiletto heels for fuzzy slippers. Will she ever find love again, and if so, after the disaster of her first marriage, would she know what to do with true love if it ever found her?
Josh Gregory is a pastor who longs for the loving family that his parents never provided. Because he grew up in a broken home, he's always been ultra-careful about the women he dates. Besides, in his profession, a carefree dating relationship is a bit of an oxymoron. When he wins a date with Regan at a Charity Auction, he never expects to fall in love with her. After all, she's not really preacher's wife material.
But God has a different idea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurie Larsen
• Release date: Jan 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9780988332638

Laurie Larsen

Laurie Larsen is an empty nester, a 30-year employee of a Fortune 50 company, and the multi-published creator ofheartwarming women’s fiction. Her 2010 EPIC award winner, Preacher Man was her first foray into inspirationalromance, and now her best-selling series, Pawleys Island Paradise is quickly gaining fans who love heartwarminginspirational love stories. Trips to the beach can now be considered business/research trips – what could be better?

Book preview

"The only one who could ever reach me

Was the son of a preacher man

The only boy who could ever teach me

was the son of a preacher man

Yes he was, he was, oh yes he was"

—Dusty Springfield

Regan Samuels shifted in her ridiculously high heels, berating herself for her inability to say no—especially to her best friend, Liz, who had a knack for roping her into her insane schemes. Regan shifted again to keep first one foot, then the other from becoming numb, then stuck one index finger between the folds of velvet curtain hanging heavily from the ceiling, and pulled just enough to peer out. Row after row of expectant spectators sat, waiting for the grand finale. Regan felt a ball of fire dive-bomb into her stomach.

The grand finale was her. Well, partially. How on earth did she allow herself to be talked into this?

The answer to that question materialized, in human form, that moment. Liz, sporting a big smile, sashayed over, her skirt swishing, heels clicking and her hair and makeup looking like she’d just stepped off a Hollywood movie set. Her perfume arrived a few seconds before she did.

Ready? The single word was an excited chirp.

No, Regan groaned. These high heels are squeezing the life out of my feet.

Liz’s smile faded as she glanced dubiously at Regan’s feet. Honey, those barely even qualify as heels.

Regan grimaced. Her left foot was pounding with discomfort and she didn’t know how she’d ever stroll across the stage. Give me a break. Compared to the other shoes in my closet, they’re high.

Liz executed a crisp runway saunter/turn, her own stilettoed feet looking like they hadn’t a care in the world. Now these are high heels. See how they accentuate my legs? Regan sighed and shook her head. "Forget it, Liz. You’ve heard of a Glamour Don’t? I’m a Glamour

Lost Cause. She snapped her fingers. In fact, I’ve just realized that I’ve completely lost my mind letting you talk me into this, and I’m leaving now before I make a total fool of myself." She turned, determined to leave, but having lost some of the stealth she normally displayed in sneakers, she stumbled.

Liz grabbed her arm, blocking her escape. Be a sport. You know it’s for a good cause.

Regan considered that for a moment, and had to concede that the long list of charities that would benefit from this auction was impressive. Homeless shelters, orphanages, soup kitchens, programs for children and the elderly—all these and more were on the receiving end of funds from the hundreds of donated items that had been auctioned off all day. You’re right. I forgot the real reason we’re doing this. To raise money for charity.

Liz darted her a glance and snickered. Well, that too. I was talking about the chance at meeting Mr. Right.

Regan glared at her friend. I don’t want or need a Mr. Right. She’d already had one, and he’d turned out to be Mr. Couldn’t-Be-Wronger. Too bad it had taken fifteen years of marriage to figure that one out.

Backstage was becoming crowded as the people who were joining Liz and Regan for the grand finale assembled in place. It must be almost time. Regan peeked through the break in the curtain again and saw that the auditorium was almost full. There were even people standing in the back. Another wave of nausea made its way down her throat and settled in her belly.

A microphoned voice boomed from the stage, You’ve been a generous audience with the items we’ve offered here today. Now, I ask for your continued support with our grand finale of the Charity Auction—Singles for Sale!

A roar of appreciation rose from the audience and Liz, next to Regan, bounced up and down in her excitement. She offered an exuberant high five, but Regan was too busy doing deep breathing exercises, trying to get her nausea under control. That would be all she’d need when it came to her turn, blowing chow in front of an auditorium full of onlookers.

Remember folks, one hundred percent of your bids go to our Chicago charities. So be generous. These ladies and gentlemen have unselfishly put themselves on the auction block. It’s now your turn to show your appreciation. Let the bidding begin.

Another solid wall of sound was heard—cheers and howls—and Liz looked like she wanted to do cartwheels. Fortunately, Liz didn’t have to wait long. When the announcer boomed out her name, she gave Regan a thumbs up. Regan grabbed her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. Liz threw her a wink and sauntered out on the stage as if she were born to be there.

On stage, Liz stalked back and forth, hamming it up like a model on a Paris catwalk. Loud music sprang from the sound system, its rhythm and beat encouraging a bouncy step. Liz’s short skirt bobbed as she moved and it didn’t appear for an instant that those insane torture instruments she called heels had the minutest effect on her balance. The announcer, meanwhile, read the information Liz had provided on a questionnaire.

This is Liz. Age? She says it’s none of our business. Ah, a feisty one, it looks like, gentlemen. Liz is a realtor here in Chicago, and enjoys skiing, scuba diving and cold evenings in front of the fire.

A whoosh of masculine cheers arose, and Regan watched Liz bob her head in time to the pulsing beat. Regan sighed. Why couldn’t she be just a little more like Liz?

We’d like to start the bidding at one hundred dollars for a date with Liz. One hundred, gentlemen, do I hear a hundred?

So many men bid that the amount quickly grew to three hundred and fifty dollars. When it seemed that the new bids had slowed to a halt, Liz stepped to the edge of the stage and flashed some teeth at the audience, did her perfect saunter/turn/skirt flip, and the bids rolled in again.

Going—going—anyone else? Gone, for the high bid of five hundred dollars!

Liz shot her fist in the air and whooped in triumph. She spotted the man with the winning bid and gave him a huge wink and a wave. She trotted backstage and threw her arms around Regan. That was a gas. I loved that. Did you see my guy? I hit the lottery.

Happy as she was for Liz, Regan nearly forgot about her stomachache. That is, until Liz smacked her lightly on the back and said, That’s you, babe! You’re up!

Regan’s mouth dropped open, and then she heard it: her own name, crackling out of the loudspeaker, Regan Samuels? Are you back there? You’re our next single. Come on out.

Liz squeezed her hand and mouthed, Have fun! But Regan was paralyzed. She couldn’t get her legs to move. The only thing she could move, in fact, was her head, so she started shaking it quickly, about to insist on dropping out of the program, when Liz grabbed her shoulders, turned her toward the stage and pushed.

Which would’ve been fine had she been wearing her flat sandals or her Reeboks. But in two and a half inch heels and a skirt that was just a little too tight, Liz’s push was the beginning of a disaster. Regan stumbled a few steps off-balance and tripped, landing face-first into the folds of the heavy velvet curtain. The fabric hugged her and she struggled, in vain, to loosen herself. Heat surrounded her and suddenly she couldn’t see anything—all light was blocked out in the thick darkness. She flailed through the fabric in a panic.

Suddenly she heard a wave of sound, oh my, was it laughter? Regan stopped flailing, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then, she felt a comforting breeze of cool air. She popped her eyes open to see that Liz had followed her into the curtain maze and unraveled her, enabling her to move freely onto the stage. Which was the last thing she wanted to do after her embarrassing moment, witnessed by hundreds.

She froze. Liz pulled her to her feet, giving her an encouraging smile. The glimpse of Liz caused the audience to roar again, and although Liz must have heard them, she kept her attention glued on Regan.

A glimmer of love for her best, flighty friend warmed Regan’s heart, and she allowed Liz to lead her.

When they reached the center of the stage, Liz motioned to the announcer, who brought the microphone over. Liz grabbed it.

Guys, this is my friend, Regan.

Scattered clapping ensued. Liz gave Regan’s arm a squeeze. Regan shot her a panicked look and Liz left her out there in the middle of the stage, tottering uneasily on her heels with a red face, looking anywhere at all, except out at the people staring at her.

Taking over, the announcer cleared his throat. He motioned to some unseen person backstage and the catchy music started again. Regan flashed back on the memory of Liz flouncing gracefully around the stage in time to the music, and made up her mind. If she stayed glued to one spot, she’d have the least chance of embarrassing herself again.

Gentlemen, this is Regan. Regan is thirty-six, and is a book reviewer for the Chicago Tribune. She enjoys reading, needlepoint and spending time with her son. A perfect evening is ordering pizza in and watching movies.

Regan wanted to melt into the floor. Sure, she had written that, but was she really that boring?

What did Regan have to offer a date for an evening? A teen-aged son and an extra-large pepperoni? Snore!

Okay, we’d like to start the bidding at one hundred dollars. Who’s first? A date with Regan for one hundred dollars?

The announcer, convinced now that he wasn’t going to get a $100 bid, took a different tact—Okay, gentlemen, one hundred may be a little over your starting budget. Let’s start with seventy five. Seventy five dollars for a date with this beautiful lady, Regan. It’s for charity, you know.

Regan felt the blood rush to her face, followed by a dizzy tingling. Tripping into a curtain, then fainting on stage. What fun was in store for her next?

Frantic whispers from backstage captured her attention and she gazed off to the right. There was Liz, motioning frantically and shouting, Move! Walk around! Go to the edge of the stage!

Regan nodded and somehow convinced her legs to start moving. Anything to get this over with. She tried to let the music seep into her and move in time to the rhythm, covering a few feet’s distance to the edge of the stage, all the while praying that it would be over soon.

Fifty? Do I hear fifty?

One more minute. That’s all Regan would give it, before she turned tail and escaped backstage, opening bid or not.

And then it happened. A man in the third row raised his hand and the announcer jumped on it, thrilled for some proof from this audience that they were actually alive. There we go. Very good, sir. We have an opening bid of fifty dollars. Now, do I hear sixty?

Regan gave an audible groan. Some poor sucker felt sorry for her enough to fork out fifty beans. Don’t push your luck, announcer, hoping for more. Let’s just end this fiasco.

Regan’s internal ramblings must have made their way telepathically to the announcer, because he wrapped things up—pronto. Going once, he recited, an unmistakable sound of relief in his voice, going twice, gone! To the gentleman in the third row.

Regan never moved so quickly in her life, exiting the stage. She held the tears in until the curtain whooshed shut behind her, blocking her from the view of the men who had rejected her. Once she was safely backstage, they really started to flow. Liz was there with arms around her in a split second.

Come on, it wasn’t that bad. And did you see your bidder? He’s a real cutie! She patted and shooshed and made every possible attempt to sound encouraging.

He just felt sorry for me, Regan mumbled into Liz’s shoulder.

No way. He was glad to grab up the bid before anyone else did. Unseen by Liz, Regan rolled her eyes. It was your first time, honey. It’ll be easier next time. Besides, you should’ve let me read your info card before you turned it in. Really, Regan, needlepoint?

Liz reached up to pat Regan on the cheek, but Regan backed away. It’s over, Liz. She hiked in the direction of the exit.

Liz scrunched her forehead and followed her. What’s over?

This—you, me. Trying to find the man of my dreams. It isn’t going to work.

Liz scurried over to Regan and put a concerned arm around her shoulder. No, you don’t mean that.

Yes, Liz. Regan turned and gave her friend a stern look. I can’t think of anything I mean more. I’m out. Done.

Sadness blended with panic on Liz’s face. Just like that, you’re not going out anymore? So, are you going to sit at home and give up on life too? Give up on love? I can’t let you do that.

Regan couldn’t help but soften at her friend’s passion. Liz’s heart was in the right place, and Regan knew she couldn’t have a more devoted friend in her corner. She was as tenacious as a dog with a bone. Or, should she say pit bull.

Liz, I’m not giving up on life, believe me. I have a son to raise—that takes up most of my energy. Whatever time is left, I’d rather not spend it standing on a stage, praying that some strange man will bid on me.

Liz shook her head, like Regan just didn’t get it. But how will you find the perfect man if you’re sitting in your living room?

Regan shook her head. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But I’m retiring these heels.

Liz sighed. She fixed an earnest gaze on her friend. You sure you’re okay?

Regan took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart. She gave Liz a quick kiss on the cheek and nodded. Call me tomorrow. Then she went outside to call a cab.

Chapter Two

When Regan reached the front door of her apartment building, she keyed in the four-digit security code, waited for it to emit that annoying squawk releasing the lock, and hoisted the door open. She slid inside, and let out a sigh of contentment as she kicked the miserable slingbacks across the foyer, where they hit the wall containing the tiny locked mailboxes. Well, one of them hit the wall. The other one careened into Mrs. D’Amico, her neighbor from the fifth floor, who responded with a surprised yelp.

Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. D’Amico. Are you okay?

Regan limped to her neighbor’s side, grabbing her arm to support her.

Well, I never, sputtered the older woman.

Where were the Oscar judges when the real performances were taking place, Regan mused, because her neighbor sure was making a big show of reacting to the unexpected blow, first leaning this way, then that, gripping the spot on her leg the shoe had collided with, her face scrunched with agony.

Regan kept a tight hold on her, lest her theatrics throw her off balance and onto the floor, causing a real injury.

Mrs. D’Amico, let me help you up to your apartment. Here we go. She guided the older woman into the elevator and punched the 5 button. It creaked its disapproval and started a slow ascent.

Awful late for you to be coming in, what with a child upstairs and all. Mrs. D’Amico’s tone was dry, and she peered at Regan over the top of her spectacles.

Funny how the pain had subsided enough for her to get that jab in, mused Regan. She checked her watch. It’s only 10:30, Mrs. D’Amico. On a Friday night, yet.

But what with the child and all, left to his own devices.

Regan scrunched her brow. Devices? Between the Xbox and the movies I left him, he’s fine. He’s a teenager, you know. He doesn’t need constant supervision. In fact, a little freedom is good for his development into an independent human being.

Mrs. D’Amico, her mind having moved on to her favorite past time (or so it seemed to Regan) of subtle criticism of her mothering techniques, seemed to have forgotten completely about her injured thigh.

Just barely a teenager. And I don’t know, although her tone implied she did in fact know, and wouldn’t hesitate to enlighten Regan, I raised my share of teenaged boys, and one thing is certain. Those that are left alone turn out wrong. In trouble, no values, no morals. The lady tsked, shaking her grayed head and tugging at the spectacles that magnified her dark eyes to at least double their true size. Regan closed her eyes. Frustrated, she let her head drop back so quickly that she almost bonked it on the wall of the elevator. Just how long did this wretched contraption take to reach the fifth floor?

Mrs. D’Amico, oblivious, went on, And I’ll tell you another thing. In my day, a mother would have better sense than to leave a teen-aged boy alone at home while she went out gallivanting on her own.

She met eyes with Regan and raised her hand in warning. I’m not one to judge, the good Lord knows I’m not. I’m just saying, that’s all. A little food for thought for you.

A little food for thought? Enough for her to choke on, to the extent of needing the Heimlich maneuver. She shouldn’t be surprised. Mrs. D’Amico had been her neighbor since Regan had moved in four months ago, and the widowed old woman had never held back her view of the world. Mrs. D’Amico, Luke is a good boy, and despite what you think, I’m a good mother.

Thankfully, the elevator door slid open with a slow, torturous screech, and Regan stepped out. She looked back and, convinced that the older woman had recovered sufficiently from the unexpected footwear assault and didn’t need further assistance, gave her a tired wave before heading down the hall to her own door. But she couldn’t quite outrun the sound of a muttered, That’s what they all say… floating after her before she reached her destination.

The aroma of microwaved popcorn greeted her through the crack in the door after she unlocked the knob and the deadbolt. However, the two safety chains that were in place from the inside prevented her from actually entering the apartment. Atta boy, she thought. Luke always remembered the important things, like safety precautions for life in the city. It was the small things, like common courtesy, tidiness and respect for his elders that usually evaded him.

Luke? she called through the crack, in a voice she hoped found that happy medium between too soft to be heard, and so loud it scared the daylights out of him. She was just beginning to wonder if he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV—which was blaring insistently—when he appeared, approaching from down the hall. He shoved the door closed, and the sliver of visibility of his face and her little home were momentarily lost. She could hear him flipping the chains off, and their heavy clanking against the wooden doorframe. Then nothing, except padded footsteps on the wooden floor.

Sighing, she twisted the doorknob and pushed her way into the apartment. She wondered if this lack of greeting was a barometer for the mood he was in. After the night she’d had, she didn’t want to enter into a showdown with Luke. She caught up with him in the living room, where he’d already plopped back on the couch, his attention riveted to the late show.

Hello, Luke. She took off her jacket and hung it on the wooden tree standing in the corner. Nothing from him, except a momentary flicker of his eyes, focusing on her for a second before flipping back to the TV screen.

Hello, Mother, great to see you. How was your evening? Regan said pointedly, her gaze on him strong and direct.

Nothing, not even a grin. When had she lost her ability to amuse her child? Heck, when had she lost her ability to make him acknowledge she was even in the room? Well, desperate times called for desperate measures. She strode over to the TV and flipped it off. When the screen went black, he jumped to his feet and yelled, Mom! Don’t!

He stalked over to her, looking like he intended to turn it back on, but she blocked his advance with her hand.

"Luke, not yet. It’s late, anyway, and you should be getting to bed, but I want to talk to you for

Reviews for Preacher Man

[judyg54 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

My rating on this book doesn't have so much to do with how the book was written, because I thought the story line was interesting and the characters seemed real. Regan Samuels is a newly divorced Mom with a teenage son struggling to work through the change in her life at this time. She finds herself at a Charity Auction as one of the prizes on bidding on a date. Josh Gregory is a pastor who "bids" and wins a date with Regan. Regan has no religious interest or background but dating Josh has opened a whole new world to her.I don't want to get long and involved in my review, so let's just say I had a hard time with the whole dating a non-believer, especially as a Pastor. This just wasn't a story I agreed with completely even though the author did a good job of writing it. I thought one of the best parts of the book was when Regan was talking to a group of young people and she said, "Do you ever feel like it's all up to you? That everything in your life is yours alone to figure out, to work through?. . . . God doesn't force his way, uninvited, into our day-to-day lives. He waits until we're ready for Him. . . . If we have our heads in the sand - like I have, most my life - and don't know that we're ready for Him, He sends us something else - a person, a situation - which makes us realize that we need to rely on Him.." And that is what God did for Regan in this story.

[ivydtruitt · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

3.5 starsRegan Samuels is a divorced single mom to Luke, her teenage son. Her divorce is fairly recent and fresh in her mind so she has no interest in dating when her best friend convinces her to be part of a “singles” auction for charity; Josh Gregory is the winning bidder. Despite her attraction to him when Josh reveals he’s a youth minister it throws Regan for a serious loop. Josh is all about his faith and Regan has none.PREACHER MAN is a sweet Christian romance read. Josh rides a motorcycle, easily relates to the teens he ministers to, and is a gentleman to the core. He relies on his faith and God to show him the way in all things, including his relationship with Regan.Regan believes the only one she can rely on is herself. Two disparate people who fall in love but their differences might prove too much for Regan to move beyond. There was an incident between Regan and Josh that gave me pause. Regan tells Josh that she lost her faith at ten while in confession and that her parents never encouraged etc..her to have faith. For Regan to make it to the point of confession required serious parental involvement as there are several steps before confession and parents must be involved for those requirements to be met. Josh’s expression, when she tells him this, wasn’t what I would hope for from a minister. It struck me as judgmental of the faiths that utilize the sacrament of confession and bothered me, especially when he’s so forgiving otherwise and elsewhere.PREACHER MAN does has a lovely message about letting go and relying on and trusting in God to see you through. I can totally get behind that. If you’re looking for romance that’s Godcentric, PREACHER MAN should be on your list.Reviewed by IvyD for Miss Ivy's Book Nook