Her studio seemed closed-in and stark after the jumble and roominess of the Quilting Bee. In her small office, she plugged room measurements into her design program, then moved a block that represented a couch around the grids.
The can of gasoline niggled at her. She pushed the mouse aside and pulled out the letter she’d received in June, not long after the assessments had taken place but before the pavilion had been torched. Letters cut from magazines and glued onto a plain white sheet of paper had been waiting in her mailbox at home.
STOP THE FESTIVALS. OR ELSE.
The second letter was much like the first, and she spread them out side by side. Its message seemed more ominous in light of recent events.
STOP THE TAXES. OR YOU WILL PAY.
The first letter had struck her as adolescent and amateurish, as if a teenager had overheard his parents complaining and decided to do something about it. Monroe had told her to go to the police, but citizens aimed their ire at her on a regular basis. It came with the job.
She received texts and voice mails that could be construed as threatening. Things were said when passions got hot. She appreciated the fact people were as passionate about saving Cottonbloom as she was, even if their opinions on methods differed. Anyway, that first letter wasn’t an arrestable offense.
The second letter, however, was more worrisome and pointed to a downtown business owner. Only one came to mind. Monroe already thought she was headed straight off the deep end because of the festival competition. If she presented her niggling theory about Ms. Martha, they might haul her to the nearest psychiatric ward.
There was only one person who was as crazy as she was. Sawyer Fournette could be counted on to either shore up or punch holes in her theory. She dawdled another hour, weighing the pros and cons.
He was the last man she should be going to for help of any sort, especially after their most recent run-ins. The sense of camaraderie and understanding building between them would lead to trouble.
He was dangerous. Not that she feared him. Just the opposite. His strength and care and general air of competency made him easy to lean on. But she couldn’t afford to trust him. She’d blindly taken that road once and had stumbled back broken and destroyed.
Filled with a sense of inevitability, she locked up and slipped into her red VW Bug. She’d gotten the battery replaced so at least there wouldn’t be an embarrassing repeat of the other night. She would duck in, get his opinion, and duck out.
When she saw that his truck was gone and his house deserted, she headed toward the garage he had set up with Cade to make Fournette Designs a family business. Although she hadn’t been there, she’d heard enough about the venture from Monroe to know where to go.
She turned onto a recently blacktopped drive off the parish highway. It snaked through tall pines. Clearing the shadows, she emerged into bright sunshine and tapped the breaks. The size of the building jolted her. She expected a poky metal two-car garage. The two-story structure of cement block and corrugated metal was long enough to hold half a dozen cars easily. All the bay doors were closed, but both Sawyer’s and Cade’s trucks and a motorcycle sat out front.
She pulled in beside Sawyer’s shiny black monster. She might’ve wondered if the size was in compensation for other shortcomings, but she was intimately aware of the fact Sawyer had nothing to compensate for.
She tried not to think of what he wasn’t compensating for. The more she told herself not to think about it, the more she could think about nothing else. Like how the faint outline against his pajama bottoms had made her skin feel close to incineration. Or the startling sensation of him inside of her the first time they’d had sex.
Oh God, she had to stop her brain. Or her body. Or whatever was making her hot for Sawyer Fournette. Before she turned the car off, she jacked the AC to max and flapped her shirt to try to cool down. This was strictly about festival business.
She smoothed her hair back in its twist and checked her face in the rearview mirror. Flushed but only a little splotchy. Finally emerging from her car, she wobbled across a mixture of grass and gravel at the edge of the blacktop to a door that seemed small compared to the bay door.
She heard men’s voices and a thumping sound of machinery. A knock would go unheard, so she cracked the door open and stuck her head inside. Wearing gray coveralls and rubbing the palm of one of his hands, Cade Fournette was staring at an engine that hung by chains from a steel beam. A blond man in grimy jeans and a blue T-shirt winched the engine higher. Sawyer was nowhere in sight, but the mechanical thumping sound continued.
She stepped fully onto the concrete floor of their garage. Cool air wafted around her. They’d had the huge space air-conditioned, and fans were mounted to provide crossflow. Everything was surprisingly clean, but then again, they’d only been in the space a matter of weeks.
The speed with which it had been constructed had been the talk of the town. Even her side. But then again, Cade Fournette had rolled back in town with money. Lots of it, if rumors could be trusted. Which generally they couldn’t, but Monroe had let slip a few details that corroborated the whispers. Poor boy made good, indeed.
Although Sawyer had tried to keep his circumstances as hidden as possible, she’d gotten hints at how difficult his childhood had been after his parents had been killed by a drunk driver. She was happy for Cade, but even happier her best friend had found love.
“Hello.” Her voice echoed and took on a tentative quality in the space. Both men looked over at her. Cade didn’t move, so she took a step forward. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt. I’m looking for Sawyer. I saw his truck outside.” She thumbed over her shoulder and shifted on her feet.
Cade cleared his throat but didn’t move. “Of course. We don’t get too many visitors out here.”
Usually, Cade treated her as if she carried the plague, no matter that she was Monroe’s best friend. But, surprise lightened his voice, and while she didn’t exactly feel welcomed, he didn’t seem inclined to toss her out either.
“I’m sorry to bust in, but it won’t take long. Festival business.”
“Come on back to the break room. Sawyer’s buttoning up an engine.” He led her to a stark room that was empty besides a dorm-sized refrigerator on the floor, a card table, and three metal folding chairs. “Wait here and let me get him. There’s Cokes in the frig. Help yourself.”
She paced the room a few times. Uncertainty hammered away at her. What was she doing coming to the one man who wanted her festival to fail so he could win the competition? Maybe there was a back door she could slip out of without anyone being the wiser.
Before she could act, Sawyer blocked the doorway, tugging off black gloves. She took a step backward and swallowed past a huge lump. Her gaze roved despite instructions to stay on his face.
The top half of his gray coveralls had been stripped off, the sleeves tied around his waist to keep them from falling to his ankles. A tight white undershirt was streaked with black grease. His hair was a disheveled mess, his stubble classifying as a beard. She’d never entertained erotic fantasies about a mechanic, but that would change tonight.
His gaze seemed to be drifting up and down her body as well, and she shifted on her heels. He stepped closer. Was he going to back her up against the card table? Was he going to lift her on top and push her legs apart? She wasn’t sure whether warnings to flee or entreaties to stay were making her stomach hop like a bullfrog on crack. She pulled in a sharp breath.
He bypassed her by a good three feet and squatted in front of the mini-frig. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure. Okay.” Her voice cracked like an adolescent boy’s. Litanies to God and Jesus went on repeat in her head. She even threw in a few to Mary. Surely a woman would understand her plight. The curve of his butt in the coveralls was not helping. Did he have on anything underneath them? He rose and her gaze followed.
“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 ass
umed 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.
Till I Kissed You Page 5
