Till I Kissed You (13 page)

He forced a smile to his face and pulled his hand away, tucking it under his leg. “No, I'm fine.”

Terry half-retuned his smile, but her eyes were suspicious. The woman was sharp, and Sawyer needed to fucking pull it together. Luckily, the waiter delivered their meals and the second bottle of wine. Sawyer had ordered steak, and Terry, wanting to eat local, ordered crayfish and grits. He sawed at the rare cut of meat with grim satisfaction. Some of the primal frustration he didn't want to examine appeased.

“Tell me about the local economies.”

He was grateful for the distraction and described the blue-collar workforce and the crayfish and catfish industry on his side of the river. He lost his train of thought twice. Once when Regan leaned over her arms and showcased the top curves of her breasts in the V-neck dress, and once when her laugh drew his gaze, her head thrown back, flickering candlelight illuminating the pale column of her neck.

Terry regained his attention by pushing her plate away, leaving half her grits but having eaten the crayfish. He had no idea what he'd been saying and hoped he'd at least been communicating in complete sentences.

“That was delicious but I can't eat another bite.”

As he'd only been stabbing his baked potato the last few minutes, he pushed his back as well. The atmosphere changed in an intangible way that had Sawyer's brain perking up. This was it.

“I reviewed your proposal, and I'll admit I'm impressed.”

“Impressed enough to license the design?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Sawyer.” She leaned forward, her husky voice dropping into Kathleen Turner sexed-up regions. “There are some modifications I wish to discuss. Also, the exclusivity of the design.”

“As in you want exclusive licensing?” He did a mental fist pump. Exclusivity meant a much higher price.

“We don't want to license the design. We want to buy it.”

Sawyer didn't immediately say no, even though that would be the eventual answer. “We don't sell our designs, we only license them.”

“Up until now.” She leaned back, took a sip of wine, and aimed a look he could only interpret as sultry over the rim. A foot grazed up his calf. He shifted. “Everything has a price.”

“Not everything.” He meant to say more, but Regan drew his gaze for the millionth time that evening.

She was standing and adjusting a ridiculous—make that a ridiculously sexy—red high heel, one hand on the table for balance. The top of her bodice gaped and even from the distance, a strip of black lace was visible. Sure enough, Andrew Tarwater was transfixed, a hungry, gaping, village-idiot expression on his face. A couple of feet closer and his face would be buried in her cleavage.

When had Regan gained such an impressive rack, anyway? If he recalled—and he could picture them in infinite detail—her breasts had been small, but firm and tipped with the prettiest pink nipples. They were, in a word, perfect.

Terry's voice lilted in a question, the words garbled and lost forever. He swiveled back to her and hummed something that could be interpreted as an affirmative or as a negative, and she appeared suitably confused.

He half-rose and tossed his napkin on the table. “Would you excuse me? I won't be a moment.”

“Certainly.” Her eyebrow arched in a quizzical, ironic way.

Probably she thought he needed to discuss something with Cade or Richard. And he did. But right now his thoughts were consumed by the swaying red backside that was slipping away.

*   *   *

Regan pushed her hair around with trembling fingers and stared into the bathroom mirror. It was next to impossible to concentrate on Andrew's proposal with Sawyer sitting a few tables away with one of the most beautiful, sophisticated women Regan had ever seen.

Not that it mattered who Sawyer Fournette was getting busy with. It hadn't mattered in a decade. It certainly hadn't mattered when she'd walked into his dorm room to find a naked woman in his bed.

The anger and pain of his past betrayal that had been slipping away in the light of their tentative partnership and unresolved lust tightened around her heart like a chain. Sawyer hadn't changed one bit, but she had. She was no longer the lovestruck girl who thought he was different from all the other boys. Special. Trustworthy.

She'd never made that mistake again. No man was worth getting hurt over. Why had she gone and planted those flowers and kissed him … again? He probably thought he had the upper hand after her sentimental act. No more getting too friendly, and definitely no more kissing. A two-time mistake she wouldn't compound a third time.

She needed to pull it together so she could confidently discuss upholstery and color schemes and hardwood choices with Andrew. Redoing the Tarwater and Tarwater offices would be a big project, one she could use in her advertising if everything went well.

She blew out a breath, stretched her neck, put a hand on a jutted hip, and smiled. It wouldn't have even put her in the running for Miss Congeniality, but it would have to do. Feeling less frazzled, she pushed the bathroom door open.

A hand circled her arm and tugged. Sawyer Fournette was leading her down a hallway. Surprise kept her compliant. Dishes and the calls of “order up” echoed from the kitchen. He continued on and rounded the corner, the short arm of the hall dead-ending into a janitor's closet.

Sawyer's eyes were glittering and hot, his mouth pulled into a frown.

“What the hell—”

“Why are you—”

They spoke on top of one another, cutting off at the same time.

“Why'd you pull me out here?” She crossed her arms under her breasts, and when he didn't immediately answer, she asked like a taunting third-grader, “Huh? Huh?”

“Thought you should know you're flashing the whole damn restaurant.” He wagged a finger a few inches from her chest.

Involuntarily, she splayed a hand over the V-neck of her wrap dress. The push-up bra had been overkill, but when she'd looked in her full-length mirror at home, her “normal” boobs had not done the beautiful dress justice.

“I have not.”

“You're wearing a black lace bra. Am I right?”

Dear Lord, he was right. And he'd noticed that from four tables away. She gasped and covered her mouth. Was her décolletage the reason Andrew's attention kept wandering and why he had been unusually flirty?

She stepped back and leaned against the cool cement-block wall. Sawyer followed and bracketed her with his hands on either side of her shoulders.

“Are you seriously dating that jackass?”

“Dating.” Instead of coming out like a question, her shock made it sound more like a statement.

“Ah, hell, Regan. He's a snake. You know his daddy is defending Sam Landry. And, didn't Monroe and him go out for a while? What happened to girl code?”

“He and Monroe never dated.”

“Be that as it may, I've been watching him watch you, and it ain't pretty.”

The sophisticated, smooth-talking, suit-wearing Sawyer had been replaced by a rough-and-ready redneck. Danger crackled. Her body responded in the exact way she wished it wouldn't. Her nipples had tightened against the rough lace of her bra, and her back arched. God, she had no control over the primal call. It was embarrassing.

“What's wrong with him looking at me?” The defensiveness edging her voice had little to do with his line of questioning and more to do with hiding her physical response.

“The man looked like he wanted to bury his face”—his gaze dipped and held—“down there in front of everyone in that restaurant. He wants you for dessert.”

“So what? Doesn't mean I'm on the menu.” She paused for full effect. “At least not yet.”

He slapped a palm against the wall. “Are you and Tarwater fucking when you couldn't seem to get enough of me last night?”

Even as his question offended her on so many levels, a zing of satisfaction sped through her blood straight into her heart making it beat faster. “That is none of your business, now is it? Anyway, you and Cruella de Vil out there seem to be mighty cozy. Are you—” She couldn't bring herself to use the F-word. The thought of that woman with Sawyer drove a spike into her chest. “Are you taking her home?”

The Cruella de Vil comparison was petty and mostly untrue, except for the severe cut of her gleaming black hair and her sultry, evil air. The woman waiting for Sawyer was probably perfectly nice. Hadn't stopped her sudden urge to take the woman down like a linebacker when she'd seen the bright pink–tipped hand on top of Sawyer's. But Regan had been taught better than that. Anyway, as mayor, she had an image to uphold.

Scant inches separated their bodies. She could pull him closer or he could press her against the wall like he had in the closet. His gaze coasted over her face as if searching for answers. Emotional fissures cut the taut mask of his face, startling in their intensity. Frustration, anger, longing. Or was she only projecting the stabs of her own feelings onto him?

The air around them grew stormy, dense with portent. The crash of a tray of plates around the corner cut them apart like lightning. He stepped away and ruffled his hair, checking his watch. With a muttered curse flung in her direction, he stalked off, out of sight in two seconds.

Whoa. She wasn't sure what had even happened or what it meant, if anything. Without a watch or her phone, she wasn't sure how much time had even passed. Two minutes? An hour? How long had they stood there not touching?

She skirted the mess of broken dishes and the workers in white cleaning it up and strode back into the dining room, her gaze magnetized to Sawyer, who was back at his table with his date. He didn't seem to feel the same pulse of residual energy from the hallway, every iota of his attention directed at the woman across from him.

She rejoined Andrew and took a surreptitious glance at her phone. Twelve minutes had passed. Disorientation assailed her, as if she'd travelled through a black hole and been spit back out. What had she and Andrew been discussing?

“So sorry about that. Ran into someone I knew.”

“No worries. I know how you women like to gab in bathrooms. Always go in pairs, don't you?”

She smiled and hummed at his slightly misogynistic comment and predatory smile. Did she have Sawyer to thank for pulling off her blinders, or was she misjudging Andrew. “So, can I talk you into bamboo flooring?”

“I believe you could talk me into anything you want.”

Nope, he said that with a definite suggestive tone. She ran a finger over her bottom lip, debating her move. His gaze dropped and his tongue darted over his lips as if he really was considering her for dessert.

She adjusted the bodice of her dress and his gaze dropped lower. “Andrew, it's been delightful discussing your needs. I mean your firm's needs. In terms of flooring and lighting and things.” The words fell on top of one another, and she calmed herself with a long, slow inhale before continuing. “It's been a long day, and I have festival business and a block party to handle tomorrow. Should we split the check?”

“Already taken care of.” He rose and she followed suit, leading the way out. His hand splayed on her back a bit lower than was proper. “An early night, it is.”

She stutter-stepped, not sure what to say. Had she inadvertently given him the wrong idea? They'd known each other since grade school. She hadn't thought anything untoward of him inviting her to dinner to discuss a job.

She cast one last look over her shoulder at Sawyer, but he was immersed in his lady-friend. Andrew was at her side. Maybe she should rethink her friendly relationship with Andrew. Maybe she should consider him now that he'd shown a marked interest in her. Why not?

They were both single. He was good-looking in a superficial way. He was successful and driven. She admired that about him. His parents were social-climbing parasites, but the same could be said for her parents. The mere thought of the Lovells and Tarwaters aligning themselves through marriage would send her mother to the hospital in happy shock. She'd quickly recover to plan the wedding though.

Laughter threatened at the absurdity. While she might have ended up back in Cottonbloom after college, she went out of her way to upend expectations. Her mother had been aghast when Regan had run for mayor and horrified when she'd won.

Her red VW Bug stood out like stinkweed in a flowery patch of BMWs and Mercedes. Andrew had parked next to her and they stood between their cars.

“Thank you for dinner, Andrew. I'll need to stop by your offices next week to take measurements before I work up options. I'll be in touch.” She held out her hand.

He hesitated, but clasped her hand. Instead of shaking it, he sandwiched it between both of his. “I don't suppose you'd be interested in a nightcap at my place?”

Sawyer exited the country club with the woman on his arm. His big black truck was tucked at the end of a row. He guided the woman toward it and helped her inside. For some reason, she felt a little—okay, a lot—like crying. A sound somewhere between a grunt and sob came from her throat.

“So is that a yes?” He squeezed her hand slightly between his.

“Not this evening. I'm … sorry.” Her voice was thick, but she managed a smile like she always did. And part of her
was
sorry. Andrew was the easy choice. The one who would make everyone but her happy. She pulled free of him and fumbled the door of her Bug open. The interior was muggy, but silent and comforting. She left Andrew standing at the bumper of his car with his hands stuffed in his pockets and let her smile fall into nothing.

She was weary of putting on a front. Weary of pretending to be happy and capable and confident when inside she felt like the same shattered girl she'd been after Sawyer had broken her heart.

 

Chapter Eleven

Sawyer escorted Terry Lowe out the front door and into the still-warm night. Andrew's high-end silver Mercedes would have blended like a chameleon with the other cars, but Regan's red Bug glowed under the parking lot lights.