Till I Kissed You Read online

  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.

  It had been a long time since he’d seen her with bedhead and no makeup. She looked good. Better than good. She looked approachable and sexy and too much like the girl he’d fallen hard for.

  Giving himself a mental shake, he gathered the medical supplies, set them on the table, and pulled up another chair, so they were sitting knees to knees. “Let’s see your foot.”

  She hesitated and narrowed her eyes. He narrowed his right back and made a “come on” gesture with his hands. She lifted her foot, and he wrapped his hand around her ankle. The bottom of her foot was streaked with river mud. He couldn’t tell how much of the red on her big toe was polish and how much was blood.

  “Can you wiggle it?” She wiggled all her toes. He took her big toe and maneuvered it around. “Not broken. Let me clean it up.”

  It took several cotton balls to clean her entire foot. When he stroked down her arch, she hissed and jerked her foot. “There’s something stuck. A piece of a pinecone, I think. Can you see it?”

  Now that it was clean, he could see the embedded thorn and the angry skin around it. “You got yourself good. Did that happen out here too?”

  “No, it was when I went chasing … that man through the pine trees out back of Mother’s.” A thread of suspicion still lilted her words.

  He harrumphed. “It wasn’t me. I promise I was sound asleep when I heard you skid to a stop outside. Hang on. I need tweezers.”

  He grabbed tweezers from the medicine cabinet in his room. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he stopped. His hair was sticking up everywhere. He smoothed it down as best he could, but it was hopeless without getting it wet, and that would be too obvious.

  He returned to the kitchen. She had maneuvered her leg up and was examining the bottom of her foot in a feat of flexibility that had his southern regions jumping again.

  Clearing his throat, he sat down and pulled her foot into his lap. “Okay, this might hurt a little. You ready?”

  After a half-dozen tries, he got the thorn out. She had clutched the edge of the chair with both hands and was grimacing. “You got it,” she said on a sigh.

  He held up the quarter-inch long sliver of pinecone. Blood welled out of the site, and he pressed a cotton ball against it. At the same time, he rubbed her foot with his other hand, his thumb stroking along her arch and pressing into the ball. Her foot relaxed. He couldn’t recall ever giving her a foot rub when they’d been together. His teenage hormones had kept him focused on the more obvious parts of her body.

  Now though, he could appreciate her slender foot and delicate ankle and the endless length of leg attached to them. His gaze slid all the way up to where her soft thigh disappeared into her shorts and then higher to where temptation called. The outline of her breasts was barely visible under her pink T-shirt, but her nipples were peaked against the thin fabric.

  While he rubbed, something she said niggled at him. He quit his semimassage and tightened his hold on her foot. “Hold up. You chased some strange man through the woods? By yourself? Barefoot and wearing that?” He gestured over her.

  “I thought it was you.” She half-shrugged, which only drew his gaze back to her chest. Part of him wished it had been him and that she’d caught him like last time.

  “Did you see his face?”

  “He was wearing jeans like the ones you were wearing the other night. And a hoodie. But he was built kind of like you. Tallish and—” She shook her head and picked at fraying threads on the hem of her shorts.

  “And what?”

  “You know”—she rolled her eyes and blew a piece of hair off her forehead with a huff—“not fat. Sort of muscular, I suppose. He took off for the river.”

  “What were you going to do if you caught up with him?”

  “I don’t know. Tackle him. Yell at you—him.”

  “What if he’d pulled a gun or a knife or hurt you, goddammit?” He held her foot in one hand and slid his other hand up her calf to squeeze. The thought of whoever this man was hurting her in any way set his blood on fire and filled him with a fear-tinged anger he couldn’t tamp down.

  She yanked her leg out of his hands, arched it to the floor, and stood. “It never crossed my mind it could be someone else, okay? First you come to the meeting, then I see you driving by last night. With your lights off. What am I supposed to think?”

  He stood, crossed his arms, and bent over to put them face-to-face. “Maybe you could assume that I’m not a douche-bag asshole. Maybe I’m worried about you.” For the second time in as many days, he wanted to reclaim his words. He backed away and leaned against the counter.

  A hesitancy softened her features as she sat back on the edge of her seat. “Are you worried about me?”

  “Look, the pavilion was burned down. Crayfish baskets were vandalized. Now this. It all ties back to these festivals, and more specifically to your side of town.”

  “The baskets were on yours.”

  His gut told him the baskets had been collateral damage, especially considering the letter she’d received but hadn’t mentioned. He wanted her to tell him. Trust him. “Has anything else happened?”

  “Nothing.” Her gaze skated over his shoulder as she unraveled a thread on her shorts. “So you came to the meeting last night to make sure I was okay?”

  The conversation was going south quick. “I need this festival to happen. I’ve got a lot invested in making it a success. Your side of the river will be fine without it. My guess is you could have a fund-raiser like you had for Monroe and raise the money for your project. I don’t have that luxury. Cottonbloom
Parish needs the shot of tourism dollars and the hope that coverage in Heart of Dixie will bring.”

  “Of course, it all comes back to the competition.” She gave an almost-laugh that he wasn’t sure how to interpret and sat back with her arms folded under her breasts.

  “That’s right.” He forced himself to meet her stare so she wouldn’t guess he wasn’t telling the whole truth. She dropped her gaze first. His entire body deflated now that her brown eyes were no longer boring into him.

  “Thanks for the first aid. It’s late and I’d better check on Mother. I’ll let myself out.” She pushed the screen door open and limped out. He let her go before he could do something too telling like insist she call him when she got home.

  A car door slammed. The void she’d left seemed to expand like a black hole. A loneliness that he hadn’t battled for a long time settled over him. Finally, he moved, flipping the light off and checking out the front window.

  Her car was still there. The headlights were on, but flickering. Her battery didn’t have enough juice to get her car started. Everything went dark, but she didn’t get out. Even if she wasn’t there voluntarily, the fact that she was there at all seemed to fill the hollowness that had burrowed in his chest. He didn’t want to examine the meaning.

  Should he leave her to swallow her pride and come to him for help? She’d probably try to hoof it all the way to town, barefoot. He chuckled until he thought about what could happen to her all alone on a country road in the middle of night.

  He grabbed his truck keys and stepped outside. She was sitting in her car with her hands on the wheel, her head back and her eyes closed. He rapped on the window.

  Without opening her eyes or moving, she said, “My battery’s dead.”

  “I kind of figured. Pop your hood. I’ll give you a jump.” His behemoth of a truck could have squashed her Bug. He set up the cables and started his truck. The engine rumbled so loudly he didn’t bother trying to speak, only made a hand gesture for her to crank her car.

  It fired up immediately. He removed the cables and dropped her hood. She rolled down her window and he leaned over and laid his arms along the sill.

  “Thanks again.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and kept her eyes focused toward his truck. “I’ve been a pain in your butt tonight, and I’m sorry.”

  He grunted. Stringing together the words “thanks” and “sorry” must have cost her dearly.

  “As soon as I get this budget through, maybe whoever is causing problems will stop. I’ll try to stay out of your way and … stuff.” She rolled up the window, and he was forced to step back.

  Her taillights disappeared. Maybe passing the budget would stop the trouble, maybe it wouldn’t. The truth was he was less concerned about the festivals and more concerned about her.

  Chapter Four

  Sawyer stepped into Rufus’s Meat and Three with a two-fold purpose. He wanted to have a word with Wayne, the parish sheriff, and ask him to feel out his Mississippi counterparts for news on Regan’s trespasser. If she had mentioned to law enforcement she suspected Sawyer, asking outright might distract from the real perpetrator. Gloria, the sheriff’s dispatcher, had let Sawyer know where to find the sheriff. While he was at it, he planned to pick up plates of fresh-smoked barbeque for Cade and Jeremy.

  Sure enough, the sheriff was at a side table sipping at a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee with Sawyer’s uncle Del. The two of them appeared to be having a serious conversation.

  He took one step toward them when familiar feminine laughter caught his attention. Holding a brown paper bag, Regan emerged through the curtain separating the kitchen from the dining room. A grinning Rufus trailed her. A wary suspicion had him bypassing the sheriff.

  “Howdy there, Sawyer. What can I do you for? Your usual?” Rufus wiped his hands on a mostly white hand towel tucked into his apron string. His grin was guileless, the thin planes of his face crinkling with his usual good humor.

  “Make it three plates and teas to go, please.”

  Rufus disappeared behind the curtain. Regan had sidled away and was halfway to the door before Sawyer caught her. “What are you up to?”

  “Absolutely nothing besides grabbing some barbeque to go.” She shook the bag and spoke in a singsongy, smiley voice.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I happen to love Rufus’s barbeque, if you’ll remember.” Wariness replaced her faked innocence, and she quick-stepped out the door.

  He did remember. Remembered sharing more than one picnic with her on the riverbank. He glanced over at his uncle as he followed Regan. Delmar nodded at the sheriff but was watching Sawyer. Regan was halfway across River Street, heading to the walking bridge. Instead of her usual heels, she was wearing flat shoes and moving fast.

  “Hold up, woman,” Sawyer called. She ignored him, and he jogged toward her, catching her at the midpoint, the water gurgling under them. “How’s your foot?”

  His question seemed to surprise her. “Still hurts a little, but it would be worse if you hadn’t gotten the thorn out.”

  “What were you and Rufus talking about? Does it involve the festivals?”

  She leaned back against the rail. “Not really.”

  He stepped forward to bracket her with his hands on the rail. He didn’t trust her not to run, and it was too hot to give chase. “You already went behind my back and hired my blood kin to help you. If you’re doing it again with Rufus, I’ll—”

  What would he do? Take her across his knee and spank her? An entirely inappropriate image flashed. What kind of panties did she have on? Had she graduated to sophisticated lace or were they the simple white cotton she’d worn in high school? He tried to distract himself from thinking about her underwear by staring at her chest. The fabric of her blouse was pulled taut. Her bra was definitely lace. He shook his head and stared down at the water. He could use a dip in the cool water.

  “I was asking him if he had an idea who might have been at Mother’s last night, if you must know. He tends to hear things.”

  He returned his attention to her. “When did you and Rufus get so chummy?”

  “It’s not as if you have dibs on everyone in Cottonbloom, Louisiana, Sawyer. I happen to love the food. I’ve been going over there for years. Ever since—” She harrumphed.

  “It was nothing about the festivals?” As soon as her eyes darted to the side, he tensed.

  “Well, I mean, we might have discussed a few things revolving around food.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what you’re serving, is all.”

  “Why were you discussing it?”

  “I was thinking about expanding our offerings. Wanted his opinion.” She concentrated on picking the paint off the rail instead of meeting his eyes. Their fingers were an inch apart.

  “You’d better not expand into crayfish, Regan Lovell.”

  Her face sparked with equal amounts defiance and mischievousness. “Cottonbloom is not the only parish that harvests crayfish.”

  The wood of the rail bit into his palms. “You will not serve crayfish in any way during your Tomato Festival. I want your promise.”

  He’d forgotten how soft the brown of her eyes could be when she teased him. How her hair sparked in the sun. He was cast back more than a decade to the first time he’d ever seen her and knew his life would never be the same. Of course, that was partly because of the concussion that had ended his fledging football career.

  They had both been freshmen in the rival high schools. He was playing football for Cottonbloom Parish, Louisiana, and she’d been a cheerleader for Cottonbloom, Mississippi.

  The rivalry between the two schools was unparalleled in both states, perhaps only topped by the Egg Bowl, the annual Ole Miss–Mississippi State matchup. The rest of the season was warm-up for both teams. If one team won every other game on their schedule, but lost the game to their across-the-river rival, the season would be deemed a failure.

  He’d noticed her as soon as she’d run ou
t with the other girls. She was tall and thin, her legs amazing in her pleated short skirt. Her hair had been longer then, her beribboned ponytail halfway down her back and glinting under the towered stadium lights.

  His first play on the field had sent him to her side as a wide receiver. Trying to play it cool and failing, he’d almost missed the quarterback count. The ball came to him, but he’d been unable to tear his gaze off her to concentrate on getting downfield. The cheers of the crowd had turned into white noise.

  His world had tipped and spun on its axis—literally. Next thing he knew he was being carted off on a stretcher. While he’d been staring at the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, a Cottonbloom, Mississippi, linebacker had pile-driven him to the turf. The concussion he’d suffered had convinced him baseball was the less dangerous option.

  As much as everyone’s parents and grandparents played up the rivalry between the two sides, the kids rebelled and often socialized across the river boundaries. The occasional fistfight might break out, but that just gave everyone something to gossip about in anticipation of the next party. The first opportunity he had, he’d dragged his buddies over the river. Sure enough, she was there and, even better, she’d remembered him. He hadn’t cared that her first reaction was teasing laughter. He’d been a goner as soon as her soft brown eyes had met his.

  They’d talked all night. It had taken another year of their paths crossing to convince her to meet up with him alone, but he couldn’t bring her back to the trailer he shared with Cade and Tally, and her parents didn’t approve of him, so they met on the river. He took Cade’s boat upriver, and she cut through the field behind her house. Dreams of her running through knee-high golden grass toward him, her laughter trailing, still haunted him.

  “I wasn’t going to serve crayfish. I’m not malicious,” she said grudgingly.

  “You hired my uncle and painted graffiti on one of my buildings.”

  “Kettle, meet pot.” She rolled her eyes, but a smile played at her lips. “You want me to pinky-promise you or something?”