Till I Kissed You (3 page)

He was an interloper in Cottonbloom, Mississippi. The disdain from people like Regan's parents had left an indelible mark on him. One he'd tried to erase, but had only ever managed to cover up. Something would happen—a look, a word—and old insecurities would bleed through his confidence. Dating Regan in high school had been reaching for the stars, amazing until he'd been incinerated.

He crossed paths with a rough-looking silver truck heading in the opposite direction and pumped his brakes. What the heck was his uncle Delmar doing in Cottonbloom, Mississippi, this time of night? The silver truck's one working taillight faded in the distance, and Sawyer put the oddity to the side. His uncle's nighttime activities were none of his business. Never had been. Anyway, Sawyer hardly wanted to explain why he was out and about.

Feeling a little like a stalker or an ex-boyfriend, which technically he was, he turned onto her street, killed his headlights, and sank down in his seat, even though his big black truck was unmistakable.

The old truck she used to haul furniture and her red VW Bug were in the driveway of her house, the garage doors shut. A couple of lights were on in the front of her house, and movement shadowed behind too-thin curtains. Everything was quiet. He blew out a breath and kept driving, flipping on his lights at the end of her street.

She was safe. For now.

 

Chapter Three

The next night, Regan lounged on her couch eating popcorn and nursing a headache. Whether it was remnants of a hangover or from all the calls and texts and emails about the city budget or the second mildly threatening letter that had been waiting in her mailbox, she couldn't pinpoint. All she wanted was a quiet night of mindless TV.

Her phone vibrated. She rolled her eyes and glanced at the screen, ready to let it go to voice mail. She was officially off the clock. It was her mother. Dare she not answer? Her parents lived four houses down the street and could step onto their front porch and see her car in the driveway. While her interior design shop downtown was in a great location and quaint, it was short on storage and her garage was full of knickknacks and tables and lamps instead of her car.

Sighing, she pasted on a smile—because her mother could tell even over the phone—and answered. “Hello, Mother.”

“Thank God, you're there. Someone is behind the garden.” The strident panic in her mother's voice had Regan bolting up and spilling popcorn everywhere.

“Geez. Are the police on the way?” She was out the door and running down the sidewalk in two seconds flat.

“I haven't called them. Thought it might be that Fournette boy again.” Even over two years of dating, her mother had never referred to Sawyer by name. He'd always been “that Fournette boy” or, when she was really trying to make a painful point, “that Louisiana rat.”

Unfortunately, her mother was probably right. She was almost positive she'd recognized the tailgate of Sawyer's truck last night. Who drove down someone's street with their headlights off unless they were planning something nefarious?

“I'm going straight around back. Where's Daddy?”

“At the American Legion playing cards.”

“Call the police.” She disconnected, slid her phone into the back of her shorts, and jogged on her toes around the backyard fence. Sawyer was in for it. She was going to take him out this time. No mercy.

Two months earlier, Sawyer, his brother Cade, and his uncle Delmar had snuck across the field from the river intending to drop rabbits in her mother's yard. The herd would have destroyed her mother's prize tomato plants.

But her connections on his side of the river had paid off. Rufus, of Rufus's Meat and Three fame, had let something suspicious slip when she'd been picking up her weekly pork barbeque fix.

She'd jumped Sawyer—literally—before he could complete his mission. Their roll around the ground had ended with him pinning her wrists by her head and his body pressing her into the high grass. The rest of the memory she shoved out of her head. She needed to focus.

She slowed at the back edge of the fence and peeked around. A man in dark wash jeans like the ones Sawyer had been wearing at the town meeting and a gray hoodie pulled over his head was running a hand along the fence, searching for the gate latch.

With a rebel yell that would have made her ancestors proud, she sprinted toward him. He startled around, frozen for a moment. Dropping whatever was in his hand, he took off through the copse of pines, heading toward the river.

She followed. A pinecone bit into the arch of one foot and sent her reeling into the rough bark of a nearby tree. The sharp spines of another cone grazed the outside of her other foot. She limped through the rest of the trees like navigating a minefield. Nothing moved, as far as she could see in the dark. Sawyer had escaped.

“Sawyer Fournette, you coward!” Her words echoed through the night.

The pain in her foot paled in comparison with her anger. She skirted the pine trees and found the bottle he had dropped by the fence. Grass killer. Powerful enough to kill tomato plants too.

She let herself in through the back gate. First thing tomorrow, she would buy a padlock. Her mother rushed out of the back door. Deputy Thaddeus Preston stepped out behind her at a more sedate pace.

“Well?” her mother asked.

“He got away, but he dropped this.” She handed the bottle over. All Preston did was hum and turn it over to read the back label. “It was Sawyer Fournette, Deputy, you know it was.”

The deputy turned icy blue eyes on her. Truth be told, the man intimidated the snot out of her, even if she was mayor and technically his boss. Keith Thomason had been police chief since she'd been in middle school, and she and Keith were on a comfortable, first-name basis. But, with Thomason's retirement imminent, Thaddeus Preston was biding his time to step into the bigger shoes. He was gruff and formidable and more than competent.

“You're positive? You want to come down to the station and file?” A single dark eyebrow quirked.

Regan shifted on her feet, the throb on the arch of her right foot growing more pronounced. “I didn't actually see his face, but it was him. You know about the rabbit fiasco in June. And I'm pretty sure I saw him driving down our street last night. With his headlights off. It's only logical.”

Preston sighed. “I heard about the rabbit fiasco, along with everyone else, but no official complaint was filed. Did you call anything in last night?”

“No.” She huffed. “He wasn't doing anything but driving.”

“Exactly. Seems to me
whoever
this was intends harm to your garden, not to you, Mrs. Lovell.” He directed his comments to her mother, which made Regan feel about ten years old.

“Can you at least dust that for prints or something?” Regan asked.

“We can try.” His radio beeped and a woman's voice rattled off some numbers. “Another call. My guess is the man won't be back, but make sure you lock up tight and call if you see anything suspicious. Anything at all. My patrols will keep an eye out and drive by more often than usual. Night, ladies.”

The hint of condescension in his voice sent her anger-meter to boil. Fine, if he wouldn't pursue Sawyer Fournette, she would. In fact, if he was in his boat, which made sense since he took off toward the river, she might be able to beat him home and catch him with his pants down—so to speak.

“You lock up and call Daddy. I'll talk to you tomorrow.” She bypassed the house and made for the side gate. Her mother called out a protest she ignored. If she was going to catch him, she needed to hightail it to his farmhouse.

She grabbed her keys and was on the road in thirty seconds. Counting on Deputy Preston to be tied up with his other call, she drove fast and reckless, skidding to stop by the drooping willow tree out in front of Sawyer's old white farmhouse. Not even the porch light was on, and she fist-pumped. Unless he was playing possum, she'd beat him back.

She turned the car off, but left the keys in the ignition and the door open in her haste. Curses and exclamations and insults rattled through her head as she ran around the side of his house toward the river. She didn't bother being quiet.

A shaft of moonlight reflected off the rippling water. She stopped. Her feet sank into the damp sandy bank. A boat tied to a wooden pylon of a small dock made a thumping sound with the current. Nothing moved. Even the frogs and bugs had quieted in the heart of the night.

Her mind whirled. Sawyer probably had more than one boat and more than one mooring on the river. He owned a large parcel of land. But she was barefoot, and it was black as pitch through the trees farther downstream. It would be foolish to keep going. What now?

“Who's out there?” Sawyer's deep voice boomed in the quiet.

She whirled, pinned by a flashlight. “Turn it off, it's just me.” She held a hand up and blinked, but couldn't see beyond the cone of light.

“Just you.” He barked a laugh that held no humor. “What are you doing out here? Holy hell, are you looking for more baskets to sabotage?”

“Me? Don't you dare turn this around on me. I'm here because you were upriver prowling outside of Mother's house tonight.”

He was silent. The circle of light dropped to her feet before he switched off the flashlight. She was effectively blind.

“I haven't stepped foot over the river today.” His voice was softer.

She took a tentative step forward, blinking to regain her sight. “Someone was up there, and he sure looked like you. Who else would be creeping around Mother's tomatoes? With industrial-strength grass killer?”

He muttered, and she imagined him running a hand through his hair, because that's what he did when he was exasperated. “I swear it wasn't me.” A slap sounded on bare skin. “I'm getting eaten up out here by skeeters. Come on inside.”

Still mostly blind, she took two steps, caught a root with her big toe, and went down. Rocking on her hands and knees, she clamped her lips together and hummed until the acute pain receded.

“You okay?” He wrapped a hand around her upper arm and helped her up. She would have shaken him off if her foot hadn't been hurting like the devil. Her toe throbbed in concert with the pain of the pinecone thorn still in the arch.

He tugged her toward the house, and she limped alongside him. As they got closer, she could see he was shirtless and with her eyes cast toward him, she stumbled again. This time she did twist out of his grasp. “Slow down. I can barely see, thanks to your spotlight, and my foot hurts.”

“Why did you run out here without shoes on?”

“I was in a hurry to catch you in the act.” She rubbed her arm where his had been, her skin prickly and hot.

“In the act of what?” Was that humor she heard? If her foot hadn't already borne the brunt of enough abuse, she might kick him in his ankle.

“Coming home on your boat.” She still wasn't convinced he didn't beat her home and was trying to bluff her. Dangit, she should have checked whether or not the engine was warm. She glanced over her shoulder, but inky darkness hid the path back to the water.

She'd never been inside of his house. It seemed strange considering how well she knew him. Had known him. She hesitated on the steps up to a side door. He entered first and flipped the overhead light on, the soft glow restoring her sight. She stepped inside his kitchen. It was old-fashioned, but functional and cozy.

She finally got a good look at him. He honest to God looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. His hair was mussed and his stubble was thicker and longer than the night before. And his chest …

How many years had it been since she'd seem him naked? He had changed. Gone was the nearly hairless, lean boy-chest. His man-chest was broad and thickly muscled with hair a shade darker than on his head covering his pecs and trailing into green plaid pajama bottoms.

They rode low on his hips. A red stripe of underwear peeked over the top and made her think of Christmas and presents and unwrapping things. Time had been good, so very good, to him.

What must she look like? She'd already settled in for the night when her mother had called. Her makeup had been washed off, and she hadn't bothered with a hair dryer or flatiron after her shower, leaving her hair in its natural state, which was messy waves. She tucked a piece behind her ear and tried to smooth a section down her neck, but it sprang back up.

Her old cotton shorts were too short and frayed at the hems. Even worse, she hadn't put on a bra. Not that she was particularly well endowed, but the AC in his house was not her friend. She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted. A yelp snuck out when she put her full weight on her injured foot.

“Sit down. Let me look at your foot.” He turned a kitchen chair around and gestured before turning to riffle through a cabinet with a few bottles of medicine.

She sidestepped toward the chair, using only the heel of her hurt foot. Sitting gingerly on the edge, she waited with her hands tucked between her knees.

*   *   *

Sawyer fumbled a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a box of Band-Aids out of the cabinet. He took a long, slow breath. His heart continued a syncopated rhythm against his ribs like a marimba player.

The adrenaline that had jolted him from sleep to intruder alert in an instant had waned, but the aftereffects had heightened his senses. All his senses. He looked south and gave his twitching half-erection a silent but stern non-pep talk. It needed to be much less peppy.

Although that was asking a lot considering Regan was sitting in his kitchen in a pair of white shorts that showcased her legs, and if he wasn't mistaken—and he'd stared long enough to know he wasn't—she wasn't wearing a bra. After the shock of finding her in his backyard had faded, he'd had a hard time dropping the flashlight. The light had limned every line and curve of her body.