Till I Kissed You (20 page)

He might not be accusing her, but he certainly wasn't clearing her either. “I expect a call in the morning with anything you discover.”

“I'll file my report and Sheriff Thomason will follow up with you in the morning.” He stepped back and closed the door. Before she made it a dozen feet, he cracked the door back open. “Miss Lovell, why don't you stay at your mama and daddy's tonight?”

She glared over her shoulder and didn't answer. Dealing with her mother was the last thing she needed tonight. The woman was a drama magnet and gossip queen. By the time the sun was up, she'd have told everyone a serial killer was roaming Cottonbloom, and Regan was his target. The excitement would trump the worry. Then she'd have to hear yet again about how inappropriate her role as Cottonbloom mayor was.

Stubbornness, pure and simple, had kept her from calling the security company already. Giving Sawyer the satisfaction of possibly being right had stuck in her craw. She should have listened to him. Hindsight was an evil bitch.

She drove by her house, but nothing moved. Her parents' house was dark. It was ten. They were in bed watching TV or maybe even asleep by now. She drove around the block, pulled into her driveway, and sat in the car with the doors locked.

The longer she sat, the stuffier the air inside became and the more paranoid she grew. It was how she felt after a scary movie, as if everything held sinister portents. Only this time it was real life.

She fumbled her phone out of her purse and dialed Monroe. It went to voice mail. She and Cade were probably getting busy. She scrolled through her contact list. Mostly clients or government officials. No one she trusted to protect her from boogeymen.

She could call Sawyer. Her conscience ticked off the many reasons why she shouldn't. But the deep-down truth was he was the only one she trusted—even though she didn't trust him. The conflict made no sense whatsoever.

The finger that tapped his name trembled. It rang once. What was she doing opening this door? Worse danger than the boogeyman waited behind it. It rang twice. She should hang up.

“Regan. What's wrong?” His voice was sharp.

“Why does anything have to be wrong?” She tried a laugh, but it trailed off as she stared at a bush near the corner of her house. It moved, but not with the wind. She tightened her hand on the steering wheel. She should head to her parents'. Deal with the fallout in the morning.

“Because you're calling me at ten on a weeknight. Did the budget not pass?”

“No, it passed,” she said absently, the movement growing more violent. A bird flew out of the top of the bush followed a heartbeat later by her neighbor's black cat. “Holy hell!” The words were out before her brain registered the harmless events. Well, maybe not harmless for the bird.

“Where are you? Tell me right now what's going on?”

If she wasn't mistaken, panic that neared the level of her own crackled over the phone. “I'm at home in the driveway in my car. I'm fine. It was just a cat.” She sank down in the bucket seat, feeling lightheaded in the aftermath of the pulse of adrenaline.

“Don't you fucking move.” The line went dead with a double beep.

Probably she should feel pathetic and weak for sitting there. She didn't. Relief loosened her hands, and she gathered her purse to her chest and waited. Eight minutes passed. She tensed at the sweep of headlights on her street, but the sight of his truck settled warmth in her chest.

She slipped out of her car. The truck jerked to a stop, half on the curb, and he was out and running around the front. He grabbed her upper arms and skimmed his gaze down her body and back up, relaxing when he met her eyes.

“You scared me,” he whispered. “What happened?”

Her gaze performed a similar trek. The same pajama pants he'd worn the night she'd accused him of tomato mischief hung low on his hips. A plain white T-shirt covered his torso. He hadn't even stopped for shoes, his bare feet covered in dewy grass.

She clutched her purse tighter when she really wanted to throw herself in his arms. He'd come because she'd needed him. No explanation necessary. A lump of emotion that beat the same rhythm as her heart clogged her throat.

“My shop was broken into tonight.”

“Robbery?”

“Vandalism. And a warning spray-painted in red across a wall in my office.
Stop the festival or else
.”

“Let's get inside.” He put an arm around her shoulders, and she relished the weight and security.

She unlocked the door and pushed it open. He glanced toward the still-defunct control panel and back at her, but didn't comment. As he made his way into the house, he flipped lights on, checking her bedroom and even upstairs. But now that she was inside and with him, she wasn't worried. No one had been there.

She went to the frig and pulled out two beers, uncapping both and handing one over when he returned. “Everything looks fine. Now, tell me everything.”

She did and realized how little information the deputy had imparted. “Honest to God, I think he suspects me.”

Sawyer's lips twitched around the rim of the bottle before he took several swallows. The strong column of his throat worked, and she laid her cold bottle against her cheek. He set his bottle on the counter and her gaze transferred to his lips.

The feeling of them on hers and teasing her breasts made her fan herself with a hand. Why did he have to attract her like a gnat to a bug zapper?

“Now that I'm inside, everything will be okay,” she said.

“You were just sitting in your car waiting for someone to walk you to the door?” He leaned back against the counter and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Your mama is four houses down.”

“You know what Mother's like.”

“Yep, I know.” While her voice had contained a fair amount of exasperation and amusement, his had been all bitter.

Regan broke his gaze and tore at the label on her bottle. The wave of guilt was as strong as it was unexpected. Her mother's vitriol and prejudice against Sawyer had poisoned their relationship. Regan had been desperate for guidance in those harsh days after their breakup. Her mother had provided comfort but also a way forward that included cutting Sawyer out of her life. At the time, it had seemed the wisest path.

“I called Monroe, but when she didn't answer…” How could she put her feelings into words without opening herself to him? The events of the night had left her feeling raw and exposed. She forced a smile even as she kept her gaze focused over his shoulder. “You and Monroe are the only ones who wouldn't think I was a whack job for being scared.”

“You own a gun?”

“No.” Her smile dropped.

“I'm staying on your couch.”

“You don't have to. Really.” Her protests were weak. She wanted him to stay.

He smiled, not in a smirking knowing way, but in a sweet, rock-solid way that had her choking out thanks.

She retreated to her bedroom and riffled through her pajama drawer. Her choices included a silk teddy set with the tags still on. Too sexy. A holey, soft T-shirt. Too pathetic. A cute yet comfortable tank with matching striped shorts. Just right.

She went through her nightly routine, hyperaware he was in her house. She grabbed a new toothbrush, an extra blanket, and a pillow from her bed.

He was lounging on the couch, his knees spread wide and his hands over his head, SportsCenter at a minimum volume. He appeared comfortable and at ease.

“I brought you some stuff.” She set everything on the nearest cushion and shifted on her feet, her gaze directed at the TV even though she wasn't paying attention. Every nerve ending seemed to strain toward Sawyer. “If you want to use one of the upstairs rooms—”

“I'm fine on the couch.” He reached for the toothbrush. “Anyway, I don't want to be too far away. Just in case.”

“Look, I really do appreciate you coming over. You've been great about everything, considering…” Her words were weak and unsure.

“Considering what?”

“Considering our past. We haven't exactly been friends the last few years. And the festival competition didn't help matters.”

He tapped the toothbrush against his palm. “Things have been weird, but I've never stopped worrying about you, Regan. Even when I didn't want to.” The last came out as a whisper.

Their eyes met. The resentment and dislike that had grown over the years had changed sometime in the past few weeks. Or maybe the complicated range of emotions on his face and rushing through her had always been there. Dislike was easy. Whatever was sprouting between them was not.

She retreated step by step until her back hit the doorjamb to her room. Feeling like a coward, she said, “Good night,” and closed her door—the physical barrier a poor substitute for the emotional one that was being bulldozed down a little each day.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to remember why they'd ended things for good. The picture of a sleepy, tousled-haired Sawyer in bed with the naked big-boobed brunette with smudged mascara was branded onto her brain.

Tears burned her eyes, as if it had happened yesterday and not a decade ago. Could the present make up for the past? Could she forgive him? Could she forgive herself? She had set the awful events into motion. She fell asleep with “if onlys” scrolling through her head. Restlessness plagued her as she relived alternate futures in her dreams.

A bang startled her upright in the bed, the covers clutched to her chin. Sawyer burst into the room, and she let out a short yelp.

“Are you okay? What was that?” Dawn leaked through her partially drawn curtains, highlighting his bare chest and low-hanging pajama pants.

She stumbled over a few uhs and ahs. He stalked to the French doors that let out onto her back patio and ripped the curtains open.

The orangey light from the sunrise outlined his body. An answering flame lit in her belly. She dropped the covers and almost reached for him. Damn the past and the future. She wanted the in-between. That slice between night and day.

“A bird. Poor fella broke his neck chasing the sun in your window.” He drew the curtains closed, and the moment was snuffed out along with the light. If she wasn't careful, she would end up like that bird. She flopped back onto the pillows. He joined her, stretching out on top of her covers, his hands linked under his head.

“Quiet night except for errant birds.”

“Yep. Guess I didn't need you after all.” She hoped he'd put the roughness in her voice down to sleep. “You'd best head out soon. Mother is up at the butt-crack of dawn to walk her dogs.”

He shifted and propped himself up on an elbow to look down at her. “And you're worried about what she'd say? Thought you were a grown woman, Regan.”

“I am.” She pushed up slightly on the pillows to even their faces. “But appearances still matter around here.”

“Not to me, they don't. I came over last night because you called me. Because you needed me. Anyway, I didn't lay my dirty, swamp rat hands on you, did I?” His bitterness made her stomach roll.

“I'm not ashamed—I was never ashamed of you, Sawyer.”

“Why didn't you take me to your prom then?”

Her mouth dropped, but all she could do was shake her head. The question was so unexpected, she could only reach for the truth. “You tried to hide it from me, but I knew.”

“Knew what?”

She swallowed hard. “I knew how poor you were.”

He stilled. “I doubt that.”

“I went to your place once.”

“What place?” His question was tentative, probing.

They'd never gone to her house or his. Their places were the bed of his brother's truck, the skiff he'd take upriver to behind her house, the soft moss under the trees on the bank. Snatches of time in the neutral zones between their lives. It was understood he wasn't welcome at her house, and he'd made it clear his place was off-limits.

“The trailer in the woods.”

“When?”

“Your birthday.” She sat cross-legged and shifted to face him. “I was going to surprise you.”

He rolled to his back. “I guess you were the one surprised.”

“Yes and no.”

“What does that mean?”

More light snaked into the room, the bright sun promising another scorcher of a day. It also highlighted the defensive set to his face.

“People like to talk. Especially once it was common knowledge we were together. I heard all kinds of stuff from girls who thought I should know that your brother was a poacher and that your family got clothes and food from the church charity bank.”

“Did you believe them?”

The shame on his face told her it had all been true, and she spoke her own truth. “I didn't care if it was true or not. It didn't change how I felt about you.”

The tight lines around his eyes eased as he cast them toward her. “But something changed how you felt about me or you wouldn't have broken it off. Was it your mama?”

Her own shame welled up from an ugly place she tried to deny. Maybe it was time to excise the poison. “Yes,” she whispered. She cleared her throat and continued. “Even before I left for Ole Miss, she planted doubts. And, once we were apart … I was young and she was my mother. I thought that she had accepted you were good enough for me. You were in college studying engineering, for goodness' sake.”

“You went along with her plans and broke up with me.” His resignation and disappointment fed her shame.

“She made it sound so logical. I felt smart and mature. A break to see what else was out there and if neither of us found anything else, then we could get back together and she'd support us a hundred percent.”

“Pretty smart of her really. She shoehorned us apart, and then worked on pushing us so far from each other, we could never find our way back.”

“Yeah, except, I realized in less than twenty-four hours that being smart and logical shouldn't hurt so bad. I tried to find my way back to you.” Under the shame, her anger grew. Anger at her mother, at Sawyer, at herself. The combination was potent and devastating.