Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel (17 page)

She backed away, and he propped a shoulder on the column, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made his biceps pop and emphasized the planes of his chest. She swallowed, knowing she should turn around before she tripped on something and totally humiliated herself.

He had acted the perfect gentleman, and all she could think about was playing hooky and exploring every inch of him on the gazebo floor. That would give the Cottonbloom Church of Christ congregation something to talk about. Before she backed herself into the river, she turned and jogged to the gym.

What kind of game was he playing with his list? Did she care if it meant they got to spend time together? She didn’t. The admission popped into her head in flashing neon. Whether it was two weeks, a month, or until the end of summer, she would go along with his list. It would eventually end and the fun and games would be over. Everything good always came to end.

Chapter Ten

The next evening, Nash knocked, then pushed open the back door of the big house. “Aunt Leora?”

No answer. The occasional hiss of water hitting the hot eye filled the silence. Tea bags sat on the counter next to a pot half full of water boiling on the stove. He turned the heat off and dropped the tea bags in the water to steep.

No sign of his aunt on the ground floor. His heart quickened and he took the steps two at a time calling her name again, this time more forcefully, “Aunt Leora, where are you?”

“In here.” Her reedy voice penetrated the closed door to her bedroom.

Treading closer, he rapped twice before trying the handle. The door opened with a squeak. His aunt was sitting on the edge of her bed, tears trickling down her face. Her hair hadn’t been shellacked into its usual helmet with hairspray. A red shoebox familiar from his childhood sat on her lap. It was usually stashed high in his aunt’s closet. He’d imagined many times what she might be hiding inside but had never had the courage to sneak it down.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?” Nash squatted down in front of her. A picture slipped from her fingers to lay facedown in the box.

“What? No, I’m fine. Why are you asking?” Her mouth tightened even as her voice still wavered.

“Because you’re crying?”

“Am I?” She patted her cheek, startled. “I didn’t realize…”

Slowly, so as not to spook her, he took the shoebox off of her lap. “Why don’t you lie down for a few minutes? I’ll finish up the tea and bring you a glass.”

“That sounds lovely, Nash. I am feeling a bit peaked.”

She lay back and swung her feet onto the bed. Without her pantyhose as camouflage, varicose veins and dark bruises riddled the pale skin of her legs. He backed out of the room, still holding the shoebox, and closed the door.

He stood in the hallway for a long moment, listening but not hearing anything from her room. The contents of the box appeared to be mostly letters and pictures. He would return it to her after her rest. Unsettled, he retreated to the kitchen and laid the box on the table while he finished sugaring and icing the tea.

He poured himself a glass and pulled the shoebox closer. He really shouldn’t. It was obviously private. Remnants of his childhood curiosity had him fingering the picture she’d been holding.

On the back, in a masculine hand, was written
Promise to wait for me—D
.

Nash flipped the picture over. Dense jungle framed a man in marine fatigues. His stance was casual, and the way he held his machine gun spoke of familiarity. A cigarette hung from his smiling bottom lip. The picture was black-and-white, but Nash could imagine that the bandanna tied around his forehead was blood red and the drooping vines dark green. The man was handsome and rough-hewn and squinting as if the sun was shining in his eyes. Nash didn’t recognize him.

He set the picture aside and pulled out a letter. Creases made some lines illegible as if the letter had been read many times. A glance at the top put the letter writer in Vietnam in late 1965. He didn’t read farther, folding the letter and setting it on top of the picture. Had his aunt kept something special from his mother?

He bit his lip. His stomach swirled with the knowledge he was snooping. He couldn’t stop himself. Flipping through the remainder of the box revealed more letters from the mysterious D, but no more pictures and nothing about his mother. The letters stopped in 1968 during the middle of the Tet Offensive. Had the man in the picture been killed? Was that why his aunt had remained unmarried?

He cast his eyes toward the ceiling. His aunt was crying over a man who’d been gone close to five decades. He swallowed past a lump. He didn’t want to be crying over a picture of Tally when he was in his golden years, full of what-ifs. He wanted to hold tight to the real thing.

He put everything back as close as he could to how he found it, fixed his aunt a glass of tea, and trekked back upstairs. Rustling sounded on the other side of her door and his rap was answered immediately.

A fog of hairspray hung in the air, not a hair on her head out of place, and she had put on her hose and shoes. Her eyes flared at the sight of the red shoebox. She snatched it out of his arms and retreated, holding the box close and folding her arms over it.

“Thank you for the tea. You can set it on my nightstand.”

He did as she asked. Her eyes followed his every movement as if he were a threat.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I was fine. I
am
fine.”

He debated a moment. “I glanced through the box. I’m sorry.”

Her arms tightened and crumpled the sides slightly. “Did you read the letters?”

“Of course not. I looked at the picture though. Was that your boyfriend?”

Her jaw worked. “My fiancé.”

The truth bounced around his stomach like a rubber ball. “Was he killed?”

“He didn’t come back.” A wealth of pain was etched across his aunt’s face even though her voice stayed even.

“I’m sorry.” The trite words seemed inadequate. His aunt had suffered too many losses. How many secrets hid under the layers of the past? It was the question that drove him to major in history, but he’d never thought to uncover secrets so close to home.

“Thank you for the tea, Nash.”

He heard the dismissal in her voice, and at one time he would have heeded the silent command. With heavy feet, he approached her and folded her into his arms for a quick squeeze. She smelled of bottled roses and hairspray. Pulling back, he patted her boney shoulder before stuffing his hands into his pockets. The awkward silence that followed made him regret his impulsiveness.

Her hand, cool and soft, brushed his forearm. The touch translated into a wealth of thanks and love. Two things they never discussed.

“Are you still planning on going out with that Fournette girl?” Aunt Leora turned to check her appearance in the mirror, her fingers probing into hair that barely moved.

Nash closed his mouth tight. The walls had been mortared up again in an instant. “If you mean Tally. Then, yes.”

Their eyes met in the mirror. “I assume you’re only sowing your wild oats on that side of the river.”

“You assume incorrectly. I like Tally. If it’s up to me, you’ll be seeing a lot more of her. And, for Christ’s sake, don’t push any more women like Bailey in my direction. She is the last woman I would ever date.”

“Nash, the Lord’s name.” His aunt’s face scrunched like she’d smelled a fart at communion.

Stifling a sudden spurt of laughter, he said, “Sorry, ma’am. I’m headed now to pick Tally up. What’re your plans?”

“Bridge night. A new lady is joining us.” She shuffled toward the door and Nash followed.

“I was sorry to hear about Ms. Aster.”

“Goodness, she’s not dead, just shuffled off to Shady Acres. Why don’t they rename that terrible nursing home Out to Pasture?”

This time Nash let his laughter loose. They descended the stairs side by side, his aunt keeping careful hold of the banister and taking the steps one by one. Decisions loomed on the edges of his mind, but for now he waved his aunt off in her minitank before he climbed into the Defender for the drive across the river.

Tally must have been watching for him, because he spied her skipping down the steps in his rearview mirror, his hand still on the door handle. Her outfit was similar to the she’d been wearing when he’d approached her in the Rivershack Tavern. Black T-shirt, dark jeans, and motorcycle boots. Her hair was in a loose braid hanging over her shoulder. She looked tough and sexy as hell.

She hopped into the Defender and clicked the seat belt home. Dark liner smudged her eyes, emphasizing the green. She wore very little other makeup that he could discern, her lips a natural pink. The light flowery scent she stirred through the truck was in contrast to the visual package. Complicated and intense and sweet all wrapped up together.

He wanted to take her back to his place and unwrap her.

“Are we going to sit here all night?” Her brows rose.

“You look nice.” The words came out like Tarzan. He cleared his throat. “I mean, I like your … shirt.”

The only outstanding quality of her shirt was the way the cotton stretched across her breasts and the V-neck hinted at her cleavage.

“Thanks. I like your shirt too.” The corners of her mouth twitched and he had the feeling she was making fun of him, but he didn’t even care. He smoothed a hand down his green-and-gold plaid button-down shirt that reminded him of Scotland, even as he was grateful to be in Louisiana.

“You smell nice too. Like flowers.” How old did he sound? About twelve? He might as well pass her a note asking,
Do you like me? Check Yes or No.

She moved closer. He stilled, afraid the slightest movement would scare her backward. Her nose brushed his cheek, and she hummed. “You don’t smell so bad yourself.”

He slipped his hand around her neck, tilted her face to his, and took her mouth. His awkwardness turned into a distant memory as he deepened the kiss, his tongue touching hers. She curled her hand around his wrist, but not to push him away. Instead, it felt like a manacle, binding him to her. He sucked her full bottom lip between his.

A whimpery moan came from her throat. The sexy noise was like striking a match and throwing it into dry tinder. His body’s desperation to get closer colored the kiss. Her hand left his wrist to pull at his collar.

He was seconds away from hauling her into his lap and leaning his seat back. She broke away, laying her forehead against his chin.

“Usually the kiss comes at the end of the date.” She sounded breathless and her hand still clutched the collar of his shirt.

Date
. Satisfaction spurred his heart even faster. His lungs tightened, and it took two deep breaths to bring them under control. “I guess I’ll have to consult my list and pick something to top that kiss later.”

*   *   *

She cleared her throat and sat back in the seat. His collar was wrinkled where she’d gripped his shirt like a drowning woman. She’d felt like she was drowning under the sensations. His gentle domination was like nothing she’d ever experienced. It made her feel both cared for and wanting to beg for more.

“Where do you want to go? The Rivershack Tavern?” Her voice sounded too high in her ears.

“How about we head to the Mississippi side? The bar smoke fires up my asthma, and as much as you don’t like Regan, she did get a smoking ban passed.”

“I never said I didn’t like her.” Tally picked at her fingernails. He’d see the lie in her eyes.

He grunted what might have been laughter. “You didn’t have to say it. What did she do to you?”

“Nothing to me. But she broke Sawyer’s heart.”

“I always got the impression Sawyer is the one who broke Regan’s heart.” He pulled into the parking lot of the Corner Pocket and found a spot in the middle of a row of cars and trucks.

“Maybe that’s the story she tells, but I saw my brother after it all went down. We were worried he might drop out of college. The woman is a selfish snake.” Her brother’s golden-boy confidence had not just been shaken, but smashed into tiny pieces. He’d worked hard to reconstruct a carefree, good-old-boy persona, but sadness lurked where it never had before. Even more telling was the fact her brother hadn’t gotten serious with another woman since to her knowledge. He was likely to end up a grizzled bachelor like their uncle Del.

Nash turned the truck off, his expression unusually solemn. “When I got skipped up to her grade in high school, Regan was one of the only girls who talked to me. Her and Monroe. I don’t know whether they felt sorry for me, or if Regan felt some compulsion to be nice because her boyfriend was a swamp rat too, but she stuck up for me. Not many did.”

The cab grew stifling, and she pushed the door open and swung out. Tally didn’t want to think about Regan Lovell as more than the snobby, rich ’Sip who’d destroyed her brother out of spite. The reality of her being nice to Nash ripped at the fabric of her assumptions.

Nash joined her at the corner of the truck bed and took her hand. “You okay?”

“I don’t know. It’s like in
Star Wars
when Darth Vader is dying and takes off his helmet. You can’t help but not hate him as much, right?” Tally shot him a half smile as they walked toward the entrance.

Nash laughed, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her into his side. “God, I love a woman who can work
Star Wars
into a serious conversation.”

Her footsteps faltered the same time blood rushed to her face. Love? Nash didn’t notice her sudden hesitation, stepping ahead to open the door for her. His easy smile stayed in place. Unlike at the Rivershack Tavern, no bouncer sat out front.

Of course, he hadn’t meant it like
that
. Like she loved oranges, but she had never felt the urge to kiss one. Suck on one, maybe. Her mind blazed down an inappropriate path. The picture that had been emblazoned on her memory of Nash standing at full attention in his underwear flashed for the billionth time.

She dabbed the back of her hand against her forehead, trying in vain to dissipate the heat coursing through her. Until he’d kissed her, he’d been off-limits. Now, her body had called open season on history professors.