Till I Kissed You (11 page)

“I like to listen to music.”

“I didn't hear music.”

“I use earphones.”

“I didn't see a light on.”

“In the dark.” She tittered an unnatural laugh and tapped her temple. “I find it spurs the old noggin. Helps me with decorating ideas.”

He leaned closer, and she leaned away. He took a deep breath. “There's been some suspicious activity.”

“What kind?”

“The suspicious kind. In light of recent events, I would advise you to close up shop and head home. Surely”—his gaze coasted down her torso again, and the heat that flared from her body probably vaporized the alcohol into even smellier fumes—“whatever you're working on can wait until morning.”

“Certainly it can. I'll wrap things up and head out.” She smiled and tried to close the door. His boot inserted itself.

“Are you all right to drive? I can give you a lift home if need be.”

The small act of kindness was outweighed by the fact he probably thought she was an alcoholic. “I'm fine. This was an accident. I'll even take one of those breathalyzer things if you want.” She schooled her face into what she hoped conveyed a serious, very sober civic leader.

He harrumphed, tipped his hat, and ambled back to his patrol car, parked behind hers. She waited until his taillights turned the corner before turning off the lights and returning to her office. Sawyer was tipped back in the chair, his booted feet on her desk, a huge smile on his face.

“You like to sit in the dark listening to music and drinking, huh?”

“What was I supposed to say? Worst case, he thinks I have a drinking problem.”

“He didn't want to give up any info, did he?”

She clasped her hands behind her neck. “You think he thinks I was up to no good?”

“He can't prove anything, but we'd better skedaddle. He'll be back by sooner rather than later if I had to guess. Can I bum a ride to my truck? Not good if he catches me on this side of the river.”

She would worry about putting everything to rights in the morning. Right now, she wanted to be safe inside her house. “Where'd you leave it?”

“Outside of Tally's gym.”

She stepped onto the sidewalk first, taking a careful look around. No sign of Deputy Preston or anyone else for that matter. She gestured Sawyer outside and locked up behind him. She slid behind the wheel and had the car started before Sawyer managed to fold himself into the passenger seat.

“How can you stand this tin can?” he muttered.

“It's fun to drive and easy to park. It helps that I'm not built like a linebacker.”

“I was a wide receiver, thank you very much.”

“Not for long.” She couldn't stop a burst of laughter. How could she ever forget their eyes meeting over the thirty-yard line before one of Cottonbloom, Mississippi's, linebackers leveled him?

“That hit that was all your fault. Distracting me in that short skirt.”

“Ten of us were lined up all dressed exactly alike. Why do you blame me?”

“None of them had legs like yours.”

“Please.” She shot him a side-eye, but a dark secret place in her heart stretched and sighed as if awakened by the events of the night. She was inexplicably happy, which made her understandably worried.

His truck was the only one on the street. If the deputy had cruised through the Mississippi side, he might add things up and actually get the correct answer.

“Do you still have the master key? I'll need to return it first thing in the morning.”

“I don't want to know, do I?” Amusement and apprehension threaded his voice as he held the key out to her. A reddened place where she chomped him was visible.

She took his hand in hers, dropped the key into the cup holder, and brushed her fingers across his palm. “I'm so sorry. I came close to breaking skin.”

“I deserved it coming up to you like I did. Was only thinking about keeping you quiet. If something like that happens again, you bite even harder, you hear?” This time only worry registered.

She nodded. She should let go of his hand, but her fingers kept on stroking the callused skin of his palm. His hands had always been rougher than other boys' because his life had been different from the boys in her school obsessed with video games.

The kiss they'd shared squatted between them, as yet unacknowledged but very much alive. He pulled his hand from hers and levered himself out of the car.

Ducking his head down, he said, “Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you around.”

“Sure thing. Around.”

He disappeared into his truck, and she mashed the accelerator, squealing forward a few feet before getting her foot under control. So that was it. He wanted to act like the kiss never happened. Maybe in a couple of days the feel of his lips and hands and body against hers would fade and she'd be able to do the same.

 

Chapter Nine

Darkness had fallen over Cottonbloom when Regan crossed the bridge into Louisiana and turned down River Street. The streetlights made the colorful brick fronts glow with a vitality that the Mississippi side couldn't match. Both sides had their strengths, but she couldn't deny the pull of the laid-back charm of Cottonbloom, Louisiana. Too many storefronts sat empty though. If she were Sawyer, she'd offer some incentives to get businesses in and operating.

But she wasn't Sawyer. She wasn't in charge of this side of the river, which is why she was once again skulking around in the dark. She'd driven her work truck instead of her red Bug. Not that she was up to anything illegal or immoral, but being caught might prove awkward.

Since their breakup, she had cultivated a distorted image of Sawyer—cold, untrustworthy, unreliable. It was the only way she could move forward. But over the summer since they'd both entered the festival competition through
Heart of Dixie,
things had changed between them. They'd gone from ignoring each other's existence to adversaries to reluctant partners to … she wasn't sure.

The image of him she'd clung to cracked, revealing someone who resembled the boy she'd loved. And the kiss in the Quilting Bee's storeroom had reminded her that some things never die, but they can change. She couldn't stop thinking about him, dreaming about him. He was haunting her. The problem was she wasn't sure which Sawyer had set up camp in her head—past or present.

The bare patch in his flowers had given her an idea. Another really dumb idea. She stopped the truck close to where she remembered the bare area was and got out. No one was around. The whine of the tailgate as she lowered it made her grimace and glance around again. She pulled one of the three pots of flowers to her hip and grabbed a trowel.

The flowers represented more than a beautification project for Sawyer. She remembered lying in the truck bed with him, staring at the stars, and listening to him talk. It was rare he talked about his life in the trailer with Cade and Tally. Looking back, she wished she'd asked more questions about his reality, but she'd been too young and immature to recognize or understand how difficult things were for him. But he loved to talk about his parents and his life before they were killed.

Laughter and love and lazy summers. He'd talked about his mother and how much she reveled in the chaos of her flowers. He'd promised to plant a field of flowers as beautiful and wild as Regan someday.

He hadn't planted these for her, but every time she looked at them, she was cast back to that night under the stars. The love that had burst between them. A love she'd assumed would last forever. The flowers had come to mean something to her, and she wanted to fix them for him.

She'd planted a similar bed of flowers in the back of her house, not wanting to examine the whys behind the sentimental move. Easier on her heart if she'd planted simple hostas. After she finished her glass of red wine that evening, she'd dug up a quarter of her flower bed.

Now here she was, trowel in hand and on her knees, skulking around in the dark like she was a criminal. It didn't take long to uproot the old flower roots and transplant new ones. She watered them from the two cans she'd loaded as well. Besides the disturbed dirt, the bed looked healed, the riot of color restored.

She put everything back in the truck and then hesitated. The abandoned Cottonbloom Park sat at the end of the street. If she was already acting like a fool, she might as well finish on a high note.

Not a single car had driven past her. A crazy Thursday night in Cottonbloom. She ran-walked down the street, slowing only when she reached the grassy section leading to the playground. The streetlights didn't reach this far into the darkness and the moon had yet to rise high enough to light her way.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, and she kept her gaze on her feet to avoid roots and rocks and mole trails. The falling-down dugout was even darker. She pulled her phone out and used the light to find the board. It was her board, and she wanted it.

Putting her phone to the side, she grasped the board and pulled. Nothing budged. Of course, Sawyer would pick the one board that had stood the test of time. She banged on the board with a palm-sized rock to no avail. Considering the wood, she ran her fingers over the inscription, inspiration flashing. Her trowel.

She turned around. A dark mass of a man stood at the exit. Her heart ramped from normal to frenzied so fast she felt lightheaded. Before she could pull in a deep breath to scream, the figure spoke.

“What the hell are you doing out here, Regan Lovell?”

Sawyer. With blatant accusation in his voice. Not that she could blame him. She had gotten a little tipsy and spray-painted
Tomatoes Rule, Crayfish Drool
across his freshly painted, yellow-bricked wall along River Street not two months earlier. Not so far-fetched he would believe she was up to no good. Actually, she would prefer him to think that over the truth.

“I'm just … messing around.”

“I heard banging.”

“Did you?” An uncomfortable laugh escaped, which only compounded her air of guilt. She took a step closer to him to distance herself from the message.

“Are you looking to steal something?” His voice had softened and lost its accusatory edge.

She hesitated, sensing he knew exactly why she was there. She'd given herself away the afternoon he'd finally revealed its location. “It's not stealing. It belongs to me.”

“It belongs to the city even if it is falling apart.”

“It was written to me, and I want it.” The vehemence in her voice took her aback and she tried to mitigate the emotion. “I mean, you know, whatever. It's just that it's been a thorn in my side for a while. And I want it gone.”

“What are you going to do with it?” He took a step toward her.

“Burn it.”

He huffed, but she couldn't see him well enough to categorize it as amusement or disgust. “You want to wipe me out of your memories, don't you?”

Sometimes she wished she could do just that. Then it wouldn't hurt so bad when she thought about him. He could be the leader of a neighboring town and that's all. Not a former lover who still inflamed her and made her long for unattainable things.

She kept silent. Any answer would reveal too much.

“Are you going to pretend last night never happened?” he asked.

She took a quick breath and matched what sounded like hurt feelings with equal amounts of defensiveness. “You were the one pretending.”

He took a step closer. She held her ground even though one of her feet slid backward on the dirt floor. “It's almost like it was a dream, isn't it?”

At least he hadn't said “nightmare.” She rubbed her lips together. He took another step. The heat of his body and fresh scent enveloped her. He'd showered recently. Maybe he'd worked late. Maybe his hair was still damp. Maybe the stubble from the night before was growing into a beard.

“It was dark and secluded and we were kind of forced into one another. It had nothing to do with you and me. Just like the night of the rabbits. It was the situation, right?” Why had she asked instead of stated? And why had she mentioned the night he had pressed her into the sweet-smelling grass and left her a puddle of lustful confusion?

“Exactly. It's dark and secluded now too.” Another step and his chest grazed hers. She lifted her face toward his, every nerve ending straining for him.

“It is that. And we're close.”

“How do we keep managing to get ourselves into these dark and secluded situations?” He circled her nape with his hand. It was all the encouragement her body needed. She pitched into him, her arms rising to circle his shoulders. Her fingers wound in his damp hair, the faint scent of his shampoo niggling at her memories. It was the same one he'd always used even though he could probably afford a salon brand. Practical, solid, sexy Sawyer.

His lips coasted from her temple to her jaw, laying small kisses along the way. She arched against him, turning her head in search of his mouth. Finally, he kissed her. A stuttering sigh escaped her on contact.

His one hand tightened on her nape while the other coasted down to cup and knead her backside. She whimpered, the noise coming unbidden from her throat. His tongue made gentle forays inside of her mouth, twining with hers. She sucked his bottom lip into her mouth and nipped it. He pulled back with a growly sound that veered humorous.

“You missed this haven't you, baby? I'll bet none of those Mississippi boys made you feel like this.”

His words were a dunk in the ice-cold waters of reality. She had spent too long getting him out of her system to regress over one short summer. Pushing off his chest drove her pelvis into his, and she nearly succumbed to temptation. His hard length pressed into her.

The truth was she had missed him. Terribly. Not only physically, but the emotional connection that sparked so readily between them. She twisted against him and he let her go, leaving her stumbling backward two steps before she caught her balance.