Till I Kissed You (2 page)

Labor Day weekend had been the obvious choice, but because Sawyer had already claimed it, she had been willing to grit her teeth and pick a different weekend—the Fourth of July perhaps, even though it would make planning tight. But once the editor of
Heart of Dixie
got wind of their two festivals, they had insisted the two sides of Cottonbloom hold them the same weekend. The magazine wanted to play up the decades-old rivalry. Regan hoped they didn't come off as backward as the Hatfields and the McCoys. The grant money had been too important for either side to back down.

“This festival is not a major draw on your tax dollars. A copy of the budget has been available for review for several weeks. The vast majority of your taxes are going to infrastructure improvements and beautification projects. The trees downtown are beautiful, but we can't ignore the fact their roots are affecting our streets, our sidewalks, and our plumbing. You're all here because you care about our town, and no one in this room wants downtown Cottonbloom to follow so many American towns into disrepair. Don't forget, I am a downtown business owner as well.”

“But not on the riverfront. Why was I assessed higher than a business not twenty feet away?” Ms. Martha asked.

“You understand, I didn't perform the assessments. We had an outside real estate firm examine all the properties.”

“Well, they didn't look close enough at mine. I have plumbing backups that fall under city jurisdiction and there are”—she glanced down at the sheet in her hand—“structural integrity issues with the back alleyway brick wall that affects the value. I ask for a reassessment to be done taking all of this into account.”

Regan massaged her temple. Someone must have fed Ms. Martha those lines. Someone out to sabotage her. Her gaze swung toward Sawyer. His expression hadn't changed from the mysterious, serious mask that had fascinated her as a teenager. Now though, she knew what was behind it. A two-faced jerk.

Her face heated. Damn her fair skin. She could almost feel the flushed splotches break out. Everyone would assume she was embarrassed or frustrated, when in truth she wanted to march over and punch Sawyer Fournette in the face.

Never let them see you sweat.
The old line from a commercial from her childhood popped into her head.

“Is that acceptable, Mayor?”

She swiveled toward the town accountant. “I'm sorry, what was that?”

“Councilman Crane motioned to postpone the budget vote until Ms. Martha's concerns are addressed.” She opened her mouth to protest until he added, “And I seconded it.”

Unless she wanted to seem like a power-hungry steamroller, she couldn't see a path to push the budget vote through tonight. The smile she pasted on had been perfected on the pageant circuit. “Of course, I agree. I motion we reconvene one week from today. Same time and place to discuss any changes and vote.”

One of the councilwomen down the line seconded her, and the meeting broke up. She stood up and turned toward the side door, but Sawyer's black shirt and fine backside were halfway out the door, leaving her killing glare impotent.

She scooted out of the meeting hall by the same door Sawyer had left through. A more patient mayor would have fought the gauntlet of people to the door, offering platitudes and reassurances. She wasn't in the mood for the kind of butt kissing politics demanded.

She wanted to stand up and tell them they either needed to accept the changes she was pushing through or accept that their town was dying. She wanted to ask why people couldn't see beyond their small patch of breathing space to embrace changes that would benefit future generations.

But she wouldn't. She would keep her mouth shut and smile while she worked behind the scenes to steer policies, compromising only when she was backed into a corner. Like tonight. No doubt, she'd be receiving emails and phone calls all week. A glass of wine and headache medicine were next on her agenda.

Her heels clacked on the marble floors, the air refreshingly cool after the body-jammed meeting room. Sawyer was probably laughing his butt off at her plight. Movement down one of the dim hallways leading to the county clerk office drew her attention, and she whipped her head around in time to see Sawyer slip around the corner and out of sight.

A banked fury that only he inspired filled her belly, and she didn't bother to muffle her steps. “Sawyer Fournette, what are you doing skulking around my building?”

He stepped out and propped a shoulder against the wall, resuming the position he'd held inside the meeting. This time she was close enough to see his ridiculous biceps pop. If anything, he'd gotten in even better shape working in the garage with his brother Cade. She couldn't contain a huff at the injustice.

“I'm not skulking.” His gaze darted to the side.

“Well, the front door is back thataway.” She kept her tone mocking and thumbed over her shoulder. “Are you planning to break into the tax assessments or something?”

This time he met her gaze with a huffy sigh of his own. “Of course not.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Heard you were voting on the budget tonight. Checking out the competition.”

Not buying what he was selling, she studied him, stepped closer, and hiked her purse up on her shoulder. “It was you, wasn't it?”

“What are you talking about, woman?”

“That you would stoop so low to give Ms. Martha a script to read from. Seriously, that is pathetic. Did you blackmail Crane into motioning for the delay too?”

He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his nape. “Let me get this straight. You think I masterminded the delay in your budget vote by secretly meeting with Ms. Martha and Councilman Crane?”

The way he said it made her feel like a fool, which only drove her ire higher. “Maybe. And it's your fault I was all distracted and didn't get a chance to respond.”

“How was that my fault?” He leaned in. His scent muffled the institutional smell of the courthouse. Another black mark against him. Why couldn't he smell like BO or garlic instead of a woodsy, pine-scented cologne that cast her back a decade to the bed of his truck?

“I don't know, but it is,” she said weakly. The truth was too embarrassing to speak aloud.

They stood too close. Neither of them pulled back or spoke. The moment veered from confrontational to uncomfortable to downright awkward, yet the way his hazel eyes warmed and narrowed on hers hypnotized her as if seeking all her secrets.

She didn't like him, not one bit. That fact didn't stop the call of her body whenever he was within ten feet. Okay, maybe closer to twenty-five feet. The physical attraction was an inconvenient echo from their past lives together.

Her brain clamped down on her body, and she spun around and stalked out of the hallway toward the front doors. The crowd had thinned out, leaving only a few diehard citizens. One called her over. Even though she desperately wanted to be home, she smiled and changed directions.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sawyer push the front double doors open. Her shoulders relaxed. She preferred arguing about the property tax increases to dealing with Sawyer. He left her feeling off-balance and unsure of herself. Unusual and unwelcome conditions.

It was another twenty minutes before she extricated herself from the next man who wanted to discuss zoning regulations of all things. The parking lot was almost deserted. Almost. A shiny black pickup sat two rows over from her red VW Bug. Sawyer was propped against a column in what she was now referring to as his Sawyer-stance. He must have practiced in the mirror and decided it emphasized all his good parts. Not that she'd noticed any bad parts, dangit.

“The custodian is fixing to lock up, so you won't be able to sneak back inside.” She stomped down the stone stairs, and he fell into step beside her.

“Just getting some air before I head out. It's a pretty night, isn't it?” He sounded friendly, jovial even.

She shot him a suspicious side-eye. What was he up to? Deciding to play along, she looked up. Even with the town's light pollution, the sky was unusually full of stars. A cool front had moved in and cut the humidity, making the night pleasant.

When they reached the parking lot and he should have headed left toward his truck, he kept pace with her. She pivoted toward him with her hands on her hips. “Okay, what's going on?”

“It's dark. There's no one around. I'm making sure you get to your car is all.”

A warmth unfurled in her stomach as a good portion of her vitriol faded. “I'm a grown-up. I can handle myself.”

“I would do this for any woman, so don't go thinking you're special or something. 'Cause you're not.”

His words snuck past her defenses. She swallowed against a sudden well of tears. What was wrong with her? The question had too many meanings. Why was she crying over some petty insult? Why had he cheated on her so many years ago? Why did he still have the power to wound her so brutally? Why couldn't she let the past go and move on?

She sucked her top lip between her teeth and bit down hard. She spun away and strode to her car. Her heel stuck in a crack, and she stumbled. Cursing under her breath, she slipped her foot out, bent over, and yanked the heel from the crack, continuing with one shoe on and one off with as much dignity as she could muster. He was probably doubled over, hee-hawing at her less than graceful retreat. Sliding behind the wheel, she finally looked at him.

He was standing where she'd left him, not so much as smiling, as if someone had yelled “Freeze!” She drove off, making the turn onto the main street with a squeal of her tires. That glass of wine waiting at home had just turned into a bottle.

*   *   *

Sawyer wanted to stuff the words back in his mouth. The woman could rile him up like no one else. He hated the way she could make him feel guilty and self-righteous and turned on all at the same time. But, the look on her face … Surely, those hadn't been tears in her eyes. And, had her chin quivered? If he didn't know any better, he'd think he hurt her feelings. A stabby pain poked around his chest as if his heart was trying to kick his butt.

He didn't mind her thinking he came to the council meeting to goad her. Let her assume he was behind Ms. Martha's demands. Because the truth was much more damning. She
was
special, and he'd come tonight because he was worried about her.

Damn but she was hot as sin when she was mad. That shot of red in her blonde hair was no lie. The heels she traipsed around in made her legs look killer, and her polished, professional clothes made him feel like a straw-chewing swamp rat.

When she'd cornered him in the dim hall, the same dizzying, off-balance stomach lurch he'd felt the first time he'd ever seen her had him leaning against the wall for support. He'd nearly done something imbecilic like lean in and take her lips. Maybe spin her around and press her against the wall. Thank goodness he'd tamped down the urge. She would have kneed him between the legs and laughed.

After staring at the blank space she'd left for too long, he got himself moving in the direction of his truck. He hesitated on the turn out of the parking lot. Left would take him back across the river and to his farmhouse. Right would take him into the heart of Cottonbloom, Mississippi's, nicest neighborhoods.

He turned right and muttered, “Tally's right. I am losing my mind.”

Foolish thoughts reverberated in the silence, and he flipped on the radio. Ever since the pavilion fire in June, he'd been concerned someone was out to sabotage the festivals. Adding in the suspicious letter Monroe had mentioned Regan received and the crayfish basket vandalism in July, and his concern had exploded into outright worry.

He'd lost sleep going over every scenario. The most likely explanation centered around Regan's plans for Cottonbloom, Mississippi's, revitalization. He couldn't imagine any of his people sabotaging crayfish baskets. The parish economy followed the harvest. A good harvest meant increased dollars and more jobs. A bad harvest meant seasonal layoffs or worse. The food banks running out of donations and good people moving to bigger cities for work and never returning.

The reassessments and increased taxes had ratcheted tensions upward on the Mississippi side of the river. He commiserated with business owners like Ms. Martha. It was a challenge to stay competitive, and losing the Quilting Bee would be gut-wrenching. It had been there since Sawyer could remember.

On the other hand, Regan was doing good work. She had turned downtown Cottonbloom, Mississippi, into something special and was poised to make it amazing. Already they were attracting out-of-towners and pulling in money. Her festival was just another piece of the puzzle for her, but she had seriously derailed his modest efforts to bolster the economy on his side of the river.

He needed that grant money for his plans. Financing the restoration of Cottonbloom Park and the baseball fields was impossible with the current parish budget. He couldn't justify taking money away from social and road projects for the park. While flipping through a
Heart of Dixie
magazine in the break room at the auto factory, he'd spotted the call for entries.

Maybe Regan hadn't realized he'd already entered, but she hadn't backed out once the magazine insisted they hold competing festivals, highlighting the already divided, sometimes acrimonious nature of their towns. Apparently, calling dibs didn't work as an adult. He'd been angry, and in his anger had done some immature, debatably insane things to needle her. She'd retaliated with glee. Recent events, however, had tempered his fury into something else.

His drive down streets lined with stately oaks and big two-story brick or Colonial-style houses had him tightening his hands on the wheel. It wasn't the money. He could afford any one of the houses. Fournette Designs paid even better than his position as manager at the auto factory. His discomfort ran deeper.