Till I Kissed You (7 page)

“Diet Coke still your thing?” He held out a can.

She took it. “On occasion. I usually stick with water. Or wine.” She giggled, and then cut herself off when the grating noise hit her ear.

He smiled, pulled one of the metal chairs out, and sat with his knees spread wide. It was like an arrow drew her gaze straight to his crotch. Ridiculous. No, she was beyond ridiculous. Giving herself a mental shake, she joined him, scooted under the table, and crossed her feet at the ankles, her knees pressed together like she'd been taught in cotillion. A classic ladylike stance. Unfortunately, the seventy-year-old woman with perfect bottle-blonde hair hadn't covered the proper etiquette in dealing with unrequited lust for an old lover you were supposed to hate.

“How's your car running?” He took a swig of his root beer. She almost smiled. She'd forgotten how much he loved the stuff. She couldn't stand it.

“Fine. Got a new battery just in case.”

“Good. Good. You're back in heels, so I assume your foot is all better.” An awkward silence descended. “Is there something else going on you want to talk about?” Hesitancy lurked in his words almost as if he were as nervous and discombobulated as she felt.

“Actually, yes.” She toyed with the tab of her Diet Coke, finally pulling it and taking a sip. It burned going down and helped focus her thoughts. “There's no one else I can talk to. People already think I'm taking this festival too seriously.”

“I know the feeling.”

She looked up from her can to find him smiling. She couldn't seem to stop the smile that came to her face in return. “I met with Ms. Martha this morning.”

“Was she right about the structural integrity?”

She dropped her smile to narrow her eyes at him. “As a matter of fact, she was. I had Mr. Neely come down. You know what this is going to mean, don't you?”

“Everyone downtown is going to want a reassessment.” Although he sounded sympathetic, suspicion that he'd been the one to feed Ms. Martha her speech tempered her lust and the camaraderie that had briefly flared.

“Exactly.” She pointed her finger at him, ready to accuse him, but stopped herself. Whether he was behind it or not, having Mr. Neely verify or modify the reassessments was the right thing to do. She wasn't out to gouge her neighbors. “But it's neither here nor there. I'm here because I saw something in Ms. Martha's storage room.”

He sat forward and laced his fingers on the table. His hands were bigger than she remembered, wider, his fingers thicker. She took another sip of Coke and dropped her focus to the concrete floor.

“A gas can was hidden under a tarp.”

He was silent.

“I'm insane, right? You don't need to tell me.” She darted a look at his face, stood, and barked a laugh. “I mean, it's Ms. Martha, right? Forget I said anything. Forget you saw me. Forget everything.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Hold up. Sit down.” His voice was clipped and authoritative. She obeyed, no protest forthcoming. They stared into each other's eyes. He still held her wrist, his other hand pulling at the hair on his chin.

“It's a little…” He tilted his head.

“Crazy, I get it.” She half-stood, but he didn't let her go. This time instead of pulling or commanding her to sit, he simply caressed the inside of her wrist with his thumb. Every nerve ending sparked and it would have taken an explosion to move her. Actually, her heart felt like it might explode. She sank back down on the edge of the seat. He let go, and as if unplugging from an electrical source, her heart paced slower.

“I was going to say ‘far-fetched.' But we can't discount it. Ms. Martha's obviously passionate about her business. It's her life's work. Who knows how far she'd go to protect it.”

“I've wracked my brain to think of why she would keep a gas can in her storage area.”

“What was in it?” He tapped a finger on the table.

“I'm assuming gas?”

“But was it regular unleaded or kerosene?”

“I'm not sure I could tell the difference. Anyway, right after I noticed the can, she invited me into the shop for a tea, and I had no excuse to go back into the storage area.”

“It could be for her car, but she drives a reliable sedan even if it has some years on it. The city takes care of the landscaping, right?”

“Right. So no need for a weed eater or lawn mower.”

“A generator? Or a space heater for winter?”

She bit her bottom lip and wrapped both hands around her sweating can. “I didn't see a generator, but her storage area was pretty packed. A space heater would make sense.” Now that Sawyer was shooting holes in her theory, her embarrassment factor was rising.

“Do you think she saw you?”

She shrugged. “I have no clue. I wasn't snooping for dirt on her. I'm being silly and paranoid, aren't I?”

He sighed and rubbed his cheek. Was the hair coarse or soft to the touch? She tightened her hold on the can and took a swig.

“Don't get mad at Monroe, but she mentioned the weird letter you got.”

She tore her gaze away from his beard. Monroe was going to get an earful. “I told her that in confidence. Just to get her opinion.”

“And what was her opinion?”

“She thought I should turn it over to Chief Thomason.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because the letter didn't make specific threats. It was childish even. While an anonymous letter is unusual, I get hang-ups and irate phone calls on occasion. I get that I can be aggressive and my plans have peeved some people off, but I'm going to keep Cottonbloom alive, Sawyer Fournette. Watch me.” She jabbed a finger in his direction.

Instead of firing back, a slow smile spread across his face. “I always loved to hear you talk like that, Regan. I thought you'd change the world.” His smile crumpled into a more complicated expression, and an unspoken question seemed to fall from his lips.
What happened?

Her high school dreams had included world travel followed by world domination. She'd planned to graduate with her political science degree, become a Rhodes scholar, spend a year studying abroad, and go to Washington. None of that had happened. She'd ended up with a degree in interior design and back home in a town that most people couldn't locate on a map.

“Maybe I won't change the world, but I can make things better here, can't I?” Emotion roughed out the stridency in her voice.

“You sure can.” Was that pity in his eyes? “Do you still have the letter?”

“Of course.”

“Can I see it?”

“I suppose. Although, I don't know what good it's going to do.”

“Humor me. Is it at the shop or at your house?”

“Shop. It was delivered to my house mailbox, although it wasn't in an envelope.”

“This person knows where you live?”

“Most people know anyway, but a thirty-second internet search is all you need.”

He muttered a curse that would have her cotillion teacher clutching her pearls. “Do you have a security system?”

“As a matter of fact I do.” While technically true, she hadn't actually contracted a firm to monitor it, so it was useless, except for the sign informing any would-be intruders that one existed. She hesitated, knowing another can of worms was about to be spilled. “I got another letter.”

He straightened. “When?”

“This week. After the budget meeting.”

“Before or after you gave chase to the stranger in your mama's backyard?”

She considered a white lie, but with his hazel eyes boring into her, only the truth emerged. “I found it that morning in my mailbox.”

He threw his arms up before crossing them over his chest. Tension made his arm muscles flex. She took another swallow of her drink.

“I'm surprised you're here for help and not to accuse me of writing them.”

Strangely, it had never crossed her mind that he might be behind the letters. Not his style to hide behind paper cutouts. The fact he assumed they were handwritten confirmed her intuition. “Anonymous threats aren't your style.”

“You need to be more careful, Regan. Don't go running after strangers in the dark.” The serious worry in his voice in turn worried her. She was hoping he would dismiss the letters, laugh them off.

“You don't think I could take Ms. Martha?” She forced tease in her voice.

His lips quirked up. “If it came to fisticuffs? Yes. But even little old ladies come packing heat in their pocketbooks these days.”

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Are we actually discussing the possibility of Ms. Martha assassinating me? We really are losing it, Sawyer. They're going to lock us in padded cells next to each other.”

He laughed, the rich, booming sound filling the small room and reverberating off the concrete. A flutter of wings beat in her stomach and expanded into her chest. More than anything, that's what she'd missed after they'd broken up. His laugh, full of joy and promise and life.

“I think we can evade the little men with straightjackets a little while longer.” His laughter faded like the dying rumble of thunder. “Putting an assassination attempt from Ms. Martha aside, she did not cut the crayfish baskets. You might have been able to haul them up and cut them, but not her. The logical conclusion is the same man who was lurking outside your mama's house cut the baskets.”

Her gaze met his and held. “Seems like we both have an interest in finding that man.”

 

Chapter Six

Sawyer stared into her big brown eyes. It had been a long time since they sat across from each other at a table and talked. Even though her shop was closed on Mondays, she was in a professional knee-length skirt that hugged her curves and a pretty, floaty blouse with geometric shapes all over it.

Her eyes were soft and pretty, the lashes long and curled and painted black. Doe eyes he used to call them. She didn't need the artificial enhancers. She looked even prettier like she had the other night at his house. No makeup and in a T-shirt and shorts.

She'd look even better naked in his bed. Once the errant thought popped into his head, he couldn't cram it back into his subconscious. All he could picture was her hair loose and her body spread over his mattress. Maybe she'd keep those heels on. His gaze ran down her long legs to the strappy high-heels she wore, pink toenails peeking out the ends.

He ran his scabbed, dinged-up, dirty hands down his legs. His palms had gotten clammy all of a sudden. Like he was nervous or something.

“Have you got any ideas?” she asked.

His gaze shot back to her face. Had she guessed the direction of his thoughts? Because, hell yes, he had ideas. Lots of very dirty, erotic ideas. He shifted on the chair.

“About figuring out who the man is?” This time her question was more tentative.

He had to pull it together before she guessed anything. “The man. Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I've already asked around and no one knows, or else they're staying quiet.”

She bit her lip. Again. Did she know how crazy that made him? That straightjacket might become a reality. Or maybe she did know he still harbored a tiny, inconvenient attraction to her and was tormenting him on purpose. One thing she'd never been was a tease. Of course, that was before the nuclear fallout.

Voices carried from the shop floor. Cade was pissed about something. Sawyer craned his neck and could see the shoulder of another man, an emblem on a tan sleeve. Sheriff Wayne Berry.

“What the…” He stood and walked out on the shop floor.

Wayne had his hands up as if trying to diffuse the situation. “Now Cade, it was a tip.”

“From who?”

“Anonymous.”

“Well, now isn't that convenient.” Sarcasm turned Cade's voice into barbed wire.

Jeremy, their new hire, looked like the Grinch had stolen all his Christmas presents.

“What's going on, Wayne?” Sawyer smiled and held out a hand for a shake. His role had always been the peacemaker of the family, even before his parents had died. Plus, the hostility that had been bred into Cade through years of run-ins with the law growing up hadn't tainted Sawyer. He actually liked Wayne and, even more, respected him.

“A tip came in this morning that Mr. Whitehurst was seen the night of Thursday, July thirtieth, vandalizing crayfish baskets.”

They looked to Jeremy. Bitterness tightened his face and flavored his small smile. “It wasn't me. But isn't that what
everyone
says?”

“Can you give me your whereabouts that night around midnight?” The sheriff pulled out a tablet phone to make notes.

“I was already working here, so I was asleep. Work starts by seven sharp every morning.”

“Can anyone corroborate you were at home that night?”

“Nope. I was sleeping alone.” Jeremy already looked defeated.

Cade threw a wrench into an open metal drawer on the red toolbox. The clang echoed through the shop. “This is bull—”

“I can tell you he's been on time every morning since he started work.” Sawyer laid a hand on Cade's shoulder and patted in an unspoken plea to let him handle things. “And I'll add that he hasn't acted like he's been out all night. He comes in, works hard, and doesn't complain.”

He and Wayne stared at each other for a moment. The sheriff sighed, clipped the tablet back on his belt, and turned to Jeremy. “Look, take this as a warning to stay out of trouble, son. If you didn't do it, then someone is out to smear you. If you did do it, I'll track down more evidence that will support a warrant. Understood?”

Jeremy chucked his chin in a knowing, bitter acknowledgment. “Sure. You're saying one way or another, I'm up shit creek.”

The sheriff left the way he entered, leaving a heavy silence. Sawyer turned around and bumped into Regan. He hadn't realized she'd followed him. Their gazes met for a heartbeat. She walked around the mounted engine. Her heels clip-clopping, her ass swaying, her calf muscles flexing.