Till I Kissed You (17 page)

“You totally do.” Sawyer couldn't help but return Cade's smile. It was good to have him home.

“I'm going to close down the beer truck after the next set on your authority. My guess is the crowd will clear out pretty fast after that. I'll handle cleanup.”

“Thanks man.” He and Cade clasped hands and bumped shoulders. Halfway across the bridge, he looked back. Cade was on the bank, his hands shoved into his pockets, an almost fatherly expression on his face. It was both painful and heartening to see. The river seemed to whisper of past regrets, and Sawyer strode toward the rebuilt pavilion to escape the wave of nostalgia.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Regan's cheeks hurt from her pinned-on smile, but shockingly everything seemed to be going well even with Sawyer's attempt at sabotage. In fact, many Louisiana families had crossed over to enjoy the wholesome entertainment. Kids played tag while trying to keep their ice cream from dripping, older people took to the chairs, the music a soft background to their conversations and laughter.

Granted, she'd lost some of the younger couples and singles to Sawyer's side, but the mass migration she'd feared hadn't come to pass. In fact, the turnout was even better than she'd anticipated.
Because
of the Louisiana block party and not in spite of it.

A pagan rhythm thumped her temples, and heat prickled her face even as a shiver coursed down her spine. She retreated to the brick wall of the first row of shops, close to the Quilting Bee, and massaged her cheeks, her smile relaxing. Forcing herself to appear happy and enthusiastic was hard work. Satisfaction at the squeals of laughter and buzz of conversation was gratifying in its way. Not enough to erase her recent humiliations or her headache, but tempering both.

Oh God. Sawyer moved through the crowd as if he were the mayor and not her, shaking hands and inciting laughter. Did she have the power to ban someone? It sounded more medieval than modern, but she might just scour the law for a loophole. Talk about satisfying.

The moment his gaze found her, a jolt that was a stew of anger and embarrassment with a dash of something indefinable yet magnetic rushed her body. She wasn't sure if she wanted to run to him or away. Flight instincts took over, and she slipped into the narrow alley behind the shops.

It was wide enough for a regular-sized pickup but partitioned from the nearest parking lot by a hip-high brick wall topped with tea rose bushes in full bloom. Part of her beatification project. Except now she was regretting the choice. The cloying scent made her stomach roil.

She rubbed her arms, her skin almost painful to the touch, and dropped to a squat, feeling faint and flustered with the ebb of adrenaline. Sawyer rounded the corner and stopped. Full dusk was upon them and the parking lot lights leaked weakly through the thick bushes, leaving her in deep shadows. Maybe he wouldn't see her and move on.

His gaze latched onto her immediately. But of course, she couldn't escape his superhuman Fournette sight. He stepped closer, tentatively as if she might spook. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” It was a lie. A sweat had broken out on her forehead in contrast to the shivers making goose bumps pop up in the cooling air. She dropped to her butt and stretched her legs out in front of her. Her hands shook as they smoothed down her shirt. She needed him gone so she could get her game face back on and wrap up the block party. Only then could she collapse in bed and sleep. Her soft sheets called like a siren's song.

He squatted next to her. She traced the straining seam of his jeans with her eyes. He had nice legs. Muscled and covered with hair. Manly. At least he used to, she hadn't even gotten a glimpse of them last night.

“I didn't even get to see your legs last night, Sawyer.” The words bypassed her brain, emerging from her mouth straight to her ears for processing. She covered her mouth before something even worse could come out.

“We could remedy that.” Surprise, but also amusement, sparked in his voice even though it was too dim to see his eyes. “I figured you'd be more upset with me.”

“I'm really freaking mad.” She tried to work some outrage into her voice, but the effort required was too great. Behind the ungodly thumping, her brain wanted to launch into a lecture about civic duty and pinky promises. Instead she mumbled, “You didn't call or text or anything today. I know it was a mistake, but…”

She stopped herself from admitting her feelings were hurt. What kind of loser admitted something like that to a man who had barged into her house and took her against a wall? A pathetic loser.

“I should have. I meant to.”

“By the way, I'm on the Pill. Thanks for your concern.” Anger lent her strength and she pushed off the ground. Vertigo skewed her perception. She listed and grabbed hold of whatever was near. The solid muscle of his biceps flexed under her grip.

“I'm so sorry, Regan. I really … Jesus, you look terrible.”

“Nice wrap-up to your apology.” She ran her tongue over her dry lips but was afraid to let go of him. The wall supporting her butt and his arm were the only things keeping her upright. The law of gravity seemed to be betraying her.

“When did you last eat?”

“I had an iced coffee and a bag of chips for lunch. Things got busy.” Had a cold front moved in? Any residual heat from the day had dissipated, leaving her shivering. “I'll go get some popcorn or a cookie or something. I'll be fine.” She forced herself to loosen her grip on him, but before she could push off the wall, he moved in front of her and tucked her hair behind her ear, brushing her forehead.

“You're hot.”

“Thanks, but even if I was inclined to give you another shot, it would not be up against another wall. Especially a brick one.” His muffled laughter had her batting away the hand grazing along her face and neck. “Quit it.”

“I mean, you have a fever, woman. Not that you aren't hot in other ways too.”

She touched her forehead with the back of her hand, but couldn't interpret heat from cold.

“I'm taking you home and putting you to bed.”

“No. I can call Monroe or my mother or someone.” She should push him away and crawl to her car. All she needed was some medicine and a good night's sleep.

“Let me help you, baby.” His voice had dropped and roughened. “Let me take care of you.”

Exhaustion swamped her. She was beyond arguing. Voices echoed down the stretch of alley. Sawyer shushed her even though she hadn't spoken. Forming words required too much effort. His arm slid around her shoulder, and she leaned into his chest, her cheek squished against his T-shirt. His warmth wrapped around her, and the thump of his heart soothed her into a state between wakefulness and sleep.

He tensed, but didn't say anything. Voices too far away to knit themselves into words drifted to them. She blinked her eyes open. Delmar Fournette and Ms. Martha were illuminated by the headlights of his old truck. Why didn't Sawyer call to his uncle?

She snuggled closer and closed her eyes. Sawyer would handle everything. Take care of her. Dangerous thinking but she didn't care. His chest rumbled against her cheek. Words hung but, as if they were foreign, she couldn't decipher them. It didn't matter because he was talking on his phone, not to her.

Time passed. His heat helped control her shivers. A bright light invaded her consciousness. She squinted. A truck moved closer. She was lifted in his arms and set on soft leather, the support not as welcome as her bed would be but better than the brick wall.

She slit her eyes open. Sawyer and Cade stood in the open driver's side door. Cade actually appeared concerned. Must be a trick of the shadows. Cade had never liked her, even when things had been good between her and Sawyer.

Sawyer climbed behind the wheel and shut them in. He backed out of the alley, leaving Cade standing in the wash of the headlights, the bright light making her head swim. She closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, they were at her front door and she was in his arms again. “Regan. Regan, baby, I need a key. Do you have one on you?”

She fumbled in her pocket and handed her keys over. He managed to unlock the door and open it with her still in his arms.

“What about your security system? Is there a code I need to enter?”

She vaguely waved a hand, not lifting her head off his shoulder. “It's not hooked up.”

“What am I going to do with you?” His voice held a note of exasperation, but was soft, almost affectionate. Her fever must have spiked higher. “Is your bedroom up or down?”

“Down.”

Without turning any lights on, he picked his way to the master bedroom. It looked over the garden toward the river. The drapes were open, moonlight reflecting off the whites and creams of her bedding.

He set her down, so she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Tossing pillows over his shoulder, he mumbled something about naked birds and suffocation. When he was done de-pillowing her bed, he stood back and put his hands on his hips. The moonlight limned his body but threw his face into deep shadow.

A question hung in the air between them, unasked and unanswered. Finally, he moved to her dresser and opened and closed drawers before coming back with an old college football T-shirt she only wore when doing chores.

“Do you want me to…?” He held the shirt out, the tentativeness in his voice and manner in contrast to his normal behavior.

“Turn around.” Her voice was scratchy, as if it had been days since she'd last spoken. He turned. It didn't matter that he'd seen most of the good parts already, she felt more vulnerable than she had last night.

The buttons of her blouse were like little puzzles to her clumsy brain and fingers. After exchanging blouse for T-shirt, she unhooked her bra and worked it out of one sleeve. Then she laid back and shimmed her jeans off. They landed next to his boots, and he shifted as if ready to turn around.

“Hold up.” She scooted back and slipped under the sheets. Between the softness of her old T-shirt and the warmth of her thick comforter, she let out a soft little moan of relief.

He took her noise as his cue and loomed over her, his palm over her forehead. “Where do you keep your medicine?”

“Kitchen.”

He disappeared and she closed her eyes, drifting off. The mattress dipped and something wet landed on her arm. “Sit up and take these.”

She was beyond arguing and swallowed the pills without a peep, settling back into her nest, falling asleep within minutes.

*   *   *

Sawyer kept watch over her for a long time. Her restless movements and little whimpers ceased after a half hour. He cupped her cheek and she nuzzled into his touch, her lips tipping up. What or who populated her dreams to make her smile so sweetly? Was it wrong to hope it was him?

She was still too warm, but the blaze of her fever was under control. Damn, she had scared him. She'd been working too hard, not eating well. No wonder she was sick. The budget, planning the block party and the festival, an on-the-loose arsonist, the letters had stressed her out. He was loath to add himself to the list, but he probably hadn't helped matters.

I'm on the Pill. Thanks for your concern.
Her words gouged another path of guilt though his heart. He hadn't even considered protection last night. His only thought had been to get inside of her—fair means or foul.

He promised himself if he had the chance, he'd make it up to her. This was a start, even though he wasn't a hundred percent sure she would appreciate his efforts once she was feeling better.

He wandered back into the entryway, stared at the unlit control box for her security system, and shook his head. How could he keep her safe when her independent streak was a country mile wide?

Other worries inserted themselves. He pulled out his phone and hit his brother's name.

“Everything good?” Cade asked in place of a greeting.

“She's in bed and her fever seems down.”

“Good. Monroe offered to come over, but I told her you got it covered. Am I right?”

Sawyer glanced toward her bedroom and settled into one of her overstuffed couches. “I got it. Listen, something happened while I was waiting for you to bring the truck around. I'm not sure what to make of it.”

“Shoot.”

“Uncle Del and Ms. Martha went through the back of her shop. He came out with a gas can.” He briefly outlined what Regan had seen the day of the reassessment.

Shuffling came from Cade's end, then quiet. Finally, he said, “You think Uncle Del is the arsonist?”

“I couldn't hear what they were saying.” Silence followed his non-answer.

“Let's assume the same person or people are responsible for burning the pavilion down and cutting the baskets. Would Uncle Del mess with the livelihood of his neighbors?”

“I don't know.” His uncle had never been picky in terms of what jobs he'd taken as long as money was involved. Still … “I don't even know that Ms. Martha is involved. It could all be very innocent.”

“But?”

“I got a bad feeling, is all.”

“You sure your feelings for Regan aren't clouding the issue?”

He hesitated. His knee-jerk reaction was to deny he had any feelings whatsoever for her, but after his earlier confession and Cade's witness to his need to care for her, he was beyond denials. “Maybe so.”

“Only one thing to do.”

“What's that?”

Cade harrumphed. “Ask Uncle Del what the hell is going on. How about we go fishing tomorrow?”

Sawyer stared once more into the dark bedroom. “If Regan is better.”

“I'll send Monroe over in the morning.” Cade disconnected.

“Dammit,” he muttered, not sure if he was mad at his brother's high-handedness or disgusted with his own pathetic urge to sit at Regan's bedside until she was better.

Restlessness kept him from settling down on the couch. Instead, he wandered her house, searching for clues to understanding present-day Regan Lovell. He picked up one of the pictures on the mantle.