Till I Kissed You (9 page)

Another streak of lightning across the sky illuminated him briefly before he was lost to the darkness. The longer she sat staring, the more confused she grew. She didn't like confusion.

One moment didn't erase the past. She'd stood, brushed the leaves, pine needles, and grass from her clothes the best she could, and decided to stick with what she knew, what was easy. Anger.

“Well, the rabbit kerfuffle was two months ago. We've moved past that, I think.” Regan tossed the brochure back on the desk, the inconvenient hot flash passed.

“Really? What does that mean, exactly? Are you two combining resources for your festivals?”

“No. Let's not get crazy. But we are trying to figure who is behind the trouble. Whoever is behind the pavilion fire and the crayfish basket vandalism is hurting us both. Plus, I almost caught someone who was trying to get into Mother's garden with a bottle of industrial-strength plant killer.”

Monroe stifled a laugh.

“This is not funny in the least. Mother's house is the pinnacle on the Home and Garden tour of Cottonbloom. If her garden is dead, then what?”

“You'd probably sell even more tickets to people wanting to rubberneck at the carnage.” Monroe stepped to a chair and sank onto the edge, crossing her legs and leaning forward. “Seriously now, what happened with the possible tomato marauder? You sure it wasn't Sawyer?”

“He got away, I reported it to the police—who did nothing, by the way, except increase patrols for the night—and I confirmed it wasn't Sawyer.” Regan picked up the nearest pen and tapped it on the desk.

“Don't you think it's time to show that weird letter to the police?”

A knock sounded on the front door, followed by a male voice. “Regan? You in here?”

Her hand jerked, and the pen flew across the desk and skid under the filing cabinet. “Back here,” she called out.

Monroe's eyebrows rose and she mouthed, “That's Sawyer.”

“I know,” she mouthed back before pasting a smile on her face and rising.

Sawyer filled the doorframe to her office, and her mouth went dry. How could the man look equally as attractive scruffy in grease-covered overalls as he did clean-shaven in nice jeans and a golf shirt? Out of all the errant, inappropriate thoughts ricocheting through her head and body, the one that stuck was regret she'd never gotten to gauge the softness of his beard.

“Howdy there, Monroe.”

“Hi Sawyer.” Monroe rose, nodding her head and looking back and forth between them. The small, amused light in her eyes told Regan to expect an interrogation later. “I need to get cleaned up before Cade gets home.”

Sawyer stepped farther into her office to let Monroe sidle by. The bell on her front door jangled, then silence descended. Sawyer looked too big and masculine for her office. Although she did work setting up spec homes for local builders, women with too much time and money on their hands were her bread and butter. Her office looked like
Southern Living
and
Better Homes and Gardens
had mated and produced a litter of peach and pink and flowered swatches. Had she looked as out of place in his domain as he appeared to be in hers?

“Do you want a drink?” she asked, already swiveling to her filing cabinet.

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shifted on his feet. “Maybe. What'cha got stashed?”

“Some top-shelf Jack.”

“Damn, girl. I thought you were a Boone's Farm addict.” Humor roughened his voice.

“I matured.” She gave him a half-shrug.

“That you did.” Any humor was gone, but his voice retained a rough edge.

She didn't know how to take his comment. Normally, she would be put on the defensive, but nerves kept the outrage at bay, and she was happy to have something to occupy her attention. The glasses tinked against each other as she pulled them and the bottle from the bottom drawer. He took the seat Monroe had recently vacated, lounging back and spreading his legs wide.

She poured a shot worth in each crystal tumbler and slid his toward him. “Hope you don't mind it neat.”

He picked up the glass, the overhead light fracturing into a cascade of colors against his wrist. He took a sip and she followed suit, hoping the alcohol would impart a measure of calm to her frazzled state.

“That's good stuff.” He hummed and fingered the stack of papers on her desk. On top was one of her many lists. “That is quite the to-do list, Regan. Number one, confirm string orchestra. Number two, Coach Hicks's attire.” He looked up. “What does that mean?”

With a flick of her hand, she took the paper. “It's for my block party this weekend. Remember our pinky promise?”

“Yes, but what about Coach Hicks?” His lips twitched around the edge of the glass as he took another sip.

She cleared her dry throat and took a sip of her own. “The football players are manning the popcorn machine.”

“What about his attire?”

“You know he likes to wear those polyester shorts that are way too short and tight around his”—she gestured vaguely—“you-know-whats. I'm afraid it will put people off the popcorn.”

A second passed before Sawyer's laugh reverberated around her. It came from deep in his chest. He had the best laugh, the most infectious laugh, the sexiest laugh of any she'd ever heard. A chuckle shot out of her in response.

With his face still crinkled and his eyes shining, he poked around some of the other papers on her desk. “You got a list with ‘catch tomato marauder, gazebo arsonist, and basket desecrater' in here?”

“No, but you might find one titled, ‘How to Drive Sawyer Fournette Around the Bend.'” More giggles escaped.

“That checklist is complete and notarized, sweetheart.” He picked up a stapled set of papers. “You got Cottonbloom Bakery to sign a contract?”

“Of course I did. They have agreed to provide a service for payment. If something happens, we both need to be protected. Surely you and Rufus have some sort of written agreement.”

He tossed the contract back on the stack. “If jotting some numbers down on a paper napkin counts, then yes, we do.”

“Sawyer, what if Rufus doesn't follow through for some reason?”

He made a scoffing sound. “Sometimes you've got to take people on faith and trust them.” Any amusement drained away as they stared at each other longer than was comfortable. “Now … how about those letters?”

“Yep. The letters.” That's what he was here for. Not a semifriendly drink or some laughs or an old-new connection that strengthened every time they were together. She reached into the top drawer and handed over both letters. He'd somehow scrubbed all the black grease off his hands and from under his nails, making the small cuts and red blisters more noticeable. Not so long ago, he'd been a paper-pusher at the auto plant and now he was working as a glorified mechanic.

“Do you like it?”

His head startled up from examining the first letter, the other still folded closed. “Like it? I'd qualify as a first-class a-hole if I enjoyed reading letters that threatened you.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean the letters.” She took another sip of whiskey. Heat spread through her stomach, but she wasn't sure if it was a result of the liquor or the protectiveness that stretched a mile wide in his voice. “Working in the shop. It must be quite the change from your job at the factory.”

“An understatement.” He took a sip too. “But mostly different in a good way. You have no idea what it's like to call a man into your office to tell him he no longer has a job. Good, hardworking men with wives and kids. Women too. Single moms.” He tossed back the rest of the drink. “And there wasn't a damn thing I could do except pat their backs and give them information about social services, food banks, career training.”

Torment and regret lined his face, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl across the desk to kiss a smile back on it. She leaned forward and clutched the edge. An image of him dumping her on the floor and wiping her cooties off flashed. She forced herself to pick up her glass and murmur a simple, “I'm sorry.”

He shook a smile back on his face, but it was strained. “Cade is technically my boss, and I'll be honest, he can sometimes be a bastard, but I don't have a problem going toe-to-toe with him. And if we take it to the toolshed to settle a disagreement, there's no human-resources dragon breathing down my neck.”

“So you don't mind doing grunt work on the engines?”

“That's my favorite part. It's why I got into engineering to begin with. We've come up with some amazing concepts already. I even filed my first patent.”

The pride in his voice tugged a smile out of her. “Congratulations.”

He smiled in return, holding her gaze for so long the silence built to a crackling tension between them. He cleared his throat, set his empty glass down, and unfolded the second letter. She watched his face for a reaction.

Although she'd told Monroe time and again the letter was amateur and didn't bother her, she'd taken the first letter out and read it so many times, the creases along the folds were pronounced. He held the two side by side.

He hummed, his expression one of concentration, not anxiety.

“It's nothing, right? The work of someone with too much time on their hands.”

He flipped the sheets over, but the backs were blank. “I honestly don't know. I mean, a lot of work went into this. If the perpetrator only wanted to disguise her handwriting, why not type something up and print it out, right?”

His use of the word “perpetrator” made the whole thing take on ominous tones. “Wait, why do you assume it's a she?”

“This is not a man's work.” He laid the second letter down and pointed to the T. “Look how loopy and formal it is. Not from a
Sports Illustrated
or
Car and Driver
.”

“Maybe it's a man who likes
Cosmo
.” She smiled when she said it, but her mind whirled around the possibilities. “Or quilting magazines? When I was at the Quilting Bee, I was flipping through a magazine and noticed that pages were missing.”

“You think Ms. Martha tore them out to cut the letters?”

“I don't know. I tear out magazine pages all the time for ideas or to show a client a piece of furniture or a layout. For all I know, she has binders of magazine pages just like I do.” She gestured to the filing cabinet and the stack of three-inch binders full of pages.

“You want my opinion?”

“You're the only one who doesn't think I'm crazy, so lay it on me.”

A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “Take this to Chief Thomason”—he laid the letters in the middle of her desk—“and ask him to keep up the increased patrols on your street. After reporting the man in your mama's garden, he might take it more seriously.”

She waited for more, and when none came, she threw up her hands. “That's it?”

“What are you suggesting? We search the Quilting Bee for incriminating evidence against Ms. Martha? Come on now.”

The way he said it drove heat up her face, and she took another sip of whiskey to cover the fact that that's exactly what she'd been suggesting. “You're right. That's way beyond the line.”

“Miles beyond. I'm parish commissioner and you're mayor. If either one of us was caught…” Sawyer shook his head, his gaze focused somewhere over her shoulder.

“Bad things.”

“Very bad.” The silence that descended was awkward, their eyes glancing off each other twice before she cleared her throat. He stood and rubbed his big hands up and down his thighs. The movement seemed to be born of the same confusion and uncertainty coursing through her.

She darted a quick glance at his face, but it was back to the same impassivity that had greeted her between bouts of annoyance over the last few years.

He led the way to her front door, but stopped with his hand on the knob, catching her eye. “Listen, be careful, all right? Cottonbloom is safe, but … until we know what's going on, don't do anything stupid, okay?”

“Like breaking and entering?” She kept her voice light.

“I know you aren't
that
foolish. I mean things like chasing strange men in the dark.”

“But that seems to be my favorite pastime this summer.”

He half-turned toward her and leaned in until their faces were inches apart. His face was solemn. “I'm serious, woman. Take care of yourself.”

He stepped outside and made his way across the street to his truck. She retreated and locked the door with trembling fingers. His words settled a knot of unease in her chest. Peeking through one of her blinds, she waited until his taillights disappeared.

Danger lurked, and she wasn't at all convinced Sawyer Fournette wasn't the biggest threat of all.

 

Chapter Eight

Two nights later, Regan eased along the brick wall, her heart pounding, her hand clutching the master key she'd filched from the courthouse offices. It was late enough that full darkness was broken only by the streetlights, but not so late that the streets were deserted. Perhaps she should have waited until the wee hours, but practically speaking, she had a full day of work plus a festival planning meeting the next day.

The sound of a vehicle going over the steel-girded bridge stilled her. The flash of a dark-colored sedan passed. Once it was well into Mississippi, she skulked farther along the alleyway wall toward the back door of the Quilting Bee. Her fingers found the crack in the bricks that went all the way through to the inside, and it guided her to the door.

She looked to either side of her. As of yet she hadn't actually done anything wrong—except “borrow” the master key. But once she opened that door and slipped inside, she could get in big trouble.

Sawyer didn't really believe Ms. Martha was behind the trouble, but Regan couldn't shake her suspicions. She needed proof—one way or another. The key was damp from her death grip, and she poked it at the lock, the darkness both a boon and a hindrance.