Till I Kissed You (12 page)

Her lips felt swollen and tender and craved more. “This is crazy.”

*   *   *

Sawyer tried to calm the storm raging in his body. She was right. One slipup that she had chosen to ignore afterward was one thing. Twice made it seem planned or deliberate or inevitable.

He wouldn't lie to himself and say that he wasn't a little hurt she'd acted unaffected by their epic make-out session in the closet. If the cops had busted them, he wasn't sure he'd have been able to summon anything resembling regret, much less an apology. That kiss had been brewing all summer. Unfortunately, instead of sating his thirst for her, a desperation like a man wandering the desert in search of an oasis had taken hold of him.

Thank goodness she assumed his interest was purely physical and hadn't guessed why he'd run across her two nights in a row. Sleep had been elusive for weeks. Only a drive-by verifying that she was home and safe settled him down. Last night, seeing her car parked in front of her shop so late had settled a hollow worry in his stomach. Seeing her sneaking through the dark had made him want to alternatively shake some sense into her and laugh. Regan Lovell was something else.

And tonight her truck had been gone, leaving him to grip the steering wheel too tight and drive too fast in his search for her. After scouring downtown Cottonbloom, Mississippi, and finding no trace, he had resigned himself to either no sleep back in his bed or watching her house until she was safely home. The anxiety and protectiveness wasn't entirely foreign. It was part of the stew of emotions she'd incited when they were young.

“You're right. Crazy. This festival has obviously screwed with our ability to make rational decisions. We'll either end up in bed together or committed by Labor Day.” He froze, trying to pretend the words had only scrolled through his head and hadn't actually come out of his mouth.

“We're not going to end up in bed together.” Her voice wavered, but he couldn't pin an emotion to it. Her eyes were wide and her lips still parted. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip for the second time. Crazy. He was being driven crazy. By her.

“Of course we're not. I was joking. Here, if you want that board so bad, I'll get it for you.”

“It's down—”

“I can see it.” He gave it a yank from the top, feeling it give a fraction.

She chuffed. “I forgot you can see in the dark.”

He tugged twice more before the wood splintered where it met the frame of what was once a bench. What came away was a three-foot-long narrow board. He could make out the pen marks but not the actual words. Better really that she take it and burn it. End it.

If the written history of them was destroyed, did that mean it would cease to exist? Would she laugh at him if he insisted on keeping the splintered piece of wood? Would she guess at the sickness that had invaded him over the summer? A sickness that kept her constantly on his mind and in his worries.

“Here. Take it.” He forced himself to hold out the piece of wood. Their fingers brushed on the exchange.

“Thanks,” she said softly as she wrapped her arms around the piece of wood in a mock embrace.

“Come on. I'll walk you back to your truck.”

He led the way back to River Street. The soundtrack to the night was the soft gurgle of the river, the town like a Rockwell painting. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and glinted in the streetlights, looking fierier than normal. Her attire was unusually casual. A silky-looking pink T-shirt, a pair of tight ankle-length jeans, and lace-up mint-green canvas shoes.

The hands that held the board were dirty along with the knees of her jeans. As they approached her truck, her pace quickened and she pulled ahead of him. His gaze went straight to her ass. Beyond the seductive sway, something registered as different.

She was halfway behind the wheel when “the something different” clicked into place. The gouge in his flowers had been repaired with white and purple zinnias. The dirt freshly turned and still wet.

The truck's engine cranked, sputtering. He turned around and knocked on the window. She stared straight ahead and pumped the gas until the motor settled into an even idle. He knocked again, and her gaze darted toward his, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth.

Finally she lowered the window and graced him with one of her pageant-fake smiles. “Is there something else you needed?”

“Anything you want to tell me?”

“Yes.” Her gaze searched the sky. “Your hair is sticking up. You don't want it to dry that way, do you?”

She'd been the one running her hands through it while they'd been kissing. He shifted so they could both see her handiwork. “The flowers?”

“They're lovely.”

“You filled my bed.” He closed his eyes and wrangled his tongue. “I mean you filled the gap in my flower bed.”

“No.” She lilted the word into a question. He took one of her hands off the steering wheel and turned it over, rubbing his thumb over her dirt-streaked palm and quirking his eyebrows. “All right, maybe I did.”

They held gazes. A look he hadn't seen in a long time softened her face, and her hand twitched in his as if she wanted to take hold of him. What would she do if he pulled her in for another kiss? It had nothing to do with where they were or how dark and secluded it was. It had everything to do with her. He whispered her name. “Regan.”

“It's to make up for the wall thing a couple of months ago.” She jerked her hand out of his. “I have to go. It's late and I have a long day tomorrow.”

The truck moved forward, forcing him to drop his hands and step back. He watched her make a U-turn and head over the bridge into Mississippi. He stared at the flowers and rubbed a hand over his chest.

Maybe it was to make up for vandalizing his wall, but he hoped not. He squatted next to the flowers and fingered a delicate bloom. Had whatever infected him infected her too? The passion that exploded whenever they were within eyesight was familiar yet completely new. They weren't kids fumbling in the back of a truck or in a boat anymore.

Life had changed them, made them wary and protective. But the flashes of her sweetness were tearing down his walls. He wasn't sure if either of them could handle exhuming the hurts buried in the past. But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to try.

 

Chapter Ten

Sawyer adjusted his blue and silver tie and smoothed a hand down his charcoal gray suit jacket. After spending his recent days in coveralls, he'd forgotten how constricting a suit could be. It felt like he was wearing a costume. Maybe that was good, because Sawyer had a part to play this evening. Charming but not creepy, knowledgeable but not a blowhard, tough but not an asshole.

He checked his phone one last time. He was meeting with Terry Lowe, VP of Innovations for Nautical Engines. Nerves akin to a final exam tumbled his stomach. This was a test. If he failed, then Cade and Richard might rethink bringing him into the partnership.

He lounged in a leather chair in the entry of the Cottonbloom Country Club, tapping his fingers against the armrest. A woman with dark hair cut into a severe bob pushed through the front doors. She wore a curve-hugging dress in dark blue and high heels and appeared to be in her midthirties. She was attractive in a fierce way.

Although Regan was typically in skirts or dresses, her eclectic style, strawberry blonde hair, and frequent blushes gave the impression of a barely restrained passion. Like she didn't mind getting a little wild and dirty with a country boy in a dark closet or a dugout. He wasn't sure which one of them had instigated the kiss in the closet, but he'd been the one to touch her first in the dugout. He hadn't been able to help himself. Lord knows, ever since their roll in the grass earlier that summer, he hadn't been able to get the feel of her out of his head. Soft curves and sweetness.

He gave himself a mental slap. Thoughts of her were becoming increasingly frequent and distracting. He needed to concentrate on tonight.

Sawyer stared beyond the fierce woman to the doors, willing Lowe to show up. The waiting notched up his anxiety. He didn't notice the woman approaching until she was nearly at his side. “Excuse me”—her voice was clipped yet husky—“are you Mr. Fournette?”

Sawyer rose. “I am.”

The woman extended a hand, her nails tipped hot pink. “I'm Terry Lowe from Nautical Engines.”

He pasted a smiled over his shock and took her hand in a firm shake. “Ms. Lowe. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. How are you enjoying Cottonbloom?”

“Charming, but hot.” She laughed a throaty laugh. Several people glanced in their direction.

“Fall is the prettiest season, and the most pleasant temperature wise.” He gestured her toward the entrance to the restaurant. He wasn't a member of the club, but for a premium, nonmembers could dine. And until Rufus's Meat and Three upgraded from paper napkins to cloth, the country club offered the only fine dining on either side of the river.

The maître d' led them to a table overlooking the golf course and the sunset, giving the feel that this was a date and not a business meeting. In fact, couples, some married some not, seemed to occupy most of the tables. Out of habit, he pulled the chair out for Ms. Lowe and helped her scoot under the table.

She smiled as he rounded the cozy table to his chair. “Why thank you, Mr. Fournette. I suppose it's true what they say about Southern gentlemen.” Was it his imagination or had her tone been flirty and her eyes appreciative?

“My mama made sure my brother and I knew the basics. Open doors, always give up your seat for a lady, never steal a kiss on the first date.” He cursed his tongue. Why had he said that?

She folded her arms over the menu. “I must say, you didn't seem surprised that I was a woman. That either means you did your research or you're good at hiding your reactions, which should make our negotiations lively indeed.”

He should have dug further into her bio, but he hadn't. Not that he was going to admit that. If she was already talking negotiations, then she was interested in their design and he needed to stay on his toes. He sensed a tiger behind her casual, flirty manner. He spread his hands, shrugged, and matched her tone. “I like to be prepared.”

“So do I.” A single, overly plucked eyebrow arched upward. “Your brother recently relocated to Cottonbloom, yes?”

“Yes. Although, our shop is actually not in Cottonbloom, Mississippi, but outside of Cottonbloom, Louisiana, in the parish.”

“I see.” She drew the words out, obviously blind to the situation. “What does that mean exactly?”

On comfortable ground, Sawyer took out his phone, pulled up a map, and explained the lay of the land—literally. Outsiders often didn't realize Louisiana was divided in parishes and not counties. He explained his role as commissioner overseeing the entire parish, not just the city of Cottonbloom.

While they sipped on an expensive white wine Richard had recommended he order, he regaled her with old folk stories of rivalries and family feuds and even Romeo and Juliet–type love stories. By the time he'd finished and she'd asked all her questions, a good half hour had passed and the atmosphere between them was comfortable and friendly. They had even progressed to first names.

In the break, they placed their orders. The waiter emptied the bottle of wine into their glasses and promised another bottle with their meal. He sat back wondering if he should bring up the engine design now or after they ate.

“So you grew up on the Louisiana side of the river.” She trailed a hot pink–tipped finger around the top of her glass, a faint tone coming from the crystal. He nodded. “Did you ever cross over and try to date one of the Mississippi girls?”

He swallowed a too-large gulp of wine and sputtered a cough.

Terry leaned back, her long crossed legs bumping his. “I'm taking that for a yes.”

He opened his mouth to deny it when a flash of red caught his eye at the entrance. Regan weaved her way through the tables, coming inexorably closer. She had yet to notice him.

Pain shot through his jaw where his teeth were grinding. She wasn't alone. Andrew Tarwater, Junior had his hand on the small of her back and was following close enough to whisper in her ear. The man's blond hair gleamed in the brilliant rays of the setting sun. He looked like an old advertisement for Coppertone. All good-looking sunny smiles.

Sawyer wasn't sure if his antipathy for the man was born from Cade's resentments or if it was Andrew's general air of smarminess. He was the Mississippi golden boy, given everything and not faltering, becoming a successful, sought-after attorney. Sawyer wasn't aware the man was courting Regan, but it made sense. Once Monroe rebuffed Andrew for Cade, why wouldn't he try to catch Regan? She was successful in her own right and needed to be carrying a damn fire hazard sign in that sexy red dress.

Their tables were catty-corner and less than twenty feet away. Andrew treated her as he would a date, pulling out her chair and leaning down to say something in her ear. The jerkwad might have even touched her ear with his fish lips. Her laugh carried through the soft murmur of conversation and piano music and seemed to grab his necktie and tighten it.

Terry put her hand over his, making him aware that his fingers had been involuntarily attempting to tap a hole through the table. “Is everything okay, Sawyer? You look ill.”

Regan chose that moment to sweep her gaze around the room. The residual smile that curved her lips from whatever asinine thing Andrew had whispered fell into a tight line. Her gaze took everything in, including Terry's hand over his. He didn't move. Let her think he was on a date with another woman. After all, she hadn't said a single word about seeing Andrew Tarwater.

Two hot-as-sin kisses notwithstanding, she and Sawyer weren't dating. Not even remotely. They were only seeing each other so often because of the festivals. He'd made the mistake of getting all warm and gooey over her planting the flowers, and now he felt like a fool. A sickening feeling twisted his gut.