“You’re as bad a gossip as the Quilting Bee ladies. It doesn’t have any bearing on Fournette Designs, so let it go. Please.”
“Fine. What time should I expect Ms. Lowe to make an appearance?”
“Not sure. Her rental is at the country club. I’ll call her in the morning. Maybe offer her a ride. Tour her around and act as if nothing happened.”
“Might work.” Cade stepped out and Sawyer followed him around to the front of the house. “Text me in the morning when you’re heading to the shop. Monroe likes to laze in bed and make pancakes together on Saturdays.”
“Dang, are you whipped or what?” Sawyer forced a disdain he didn’t feel into his voice. In truth, lazing in bed with a beautiful woman and making pancakes sounded amazing. A snapshot of a tousled-haired strawberry-blonde beauty in his bed punched his heart and made it skip a beat. He resolutely blanked his mind.
Cade flipped him the bird before sliding behind the wheel of their daddy’s old truck. The engine coughed to life, and Cade revved it a couple of times before heading down the lane.
Sawyer stood there long after the taillights faded. He stood for so long, an owl hooted and the scurry of a prowling possum or raccoon shook the bushes. He was a man no longer, but one of them. The night took on a dreamlike cast, the moon rising over the tree line.
When he had bullied Cade back to Cottonbloom to recover from his climbing accident, he never foresaw the life-altering shifts that would result from his brother’s homecoming. Seeing their daddy’s old truck live on through Cade refilled a well of optimism and hope that had grown dry over the last few years.
At first, seeing Cade behind the steering wheel of their daddy’s old truck had been painful, and he’d lashed out at his brother, maybe because Cade had finished something Sawyer had been unable to bring himself to touch.
But Cade had breathed new life into the truck and into Sawyer by coming home. Working side by side as Cade’s equal at Fournette Designs was invigorating. His staid job as the plant manager of the auto factory had sucked any happiness out of his life, yet he’d been unable to leave Cottonbloom behind like Cade had done so many years ago.
The hunk of rusting metal had turned into more than a monument to their parent’s death. It had come to symbolize everything he’d lost, including his big brother for far too long. And Regan. Too many of his memories of her had been etched into the metal and leather.
But the truck was alive once more. What did that mean for him and Regan?
Chapter Twelve
The next morning, Regan rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed and still in her underwear from the night before. She wasn’t normally a crier. From a young age on the pageant circuit, she’d learned to cover her disappointment and hurt feelings with a smile. Nothing like hearing someone else’s name get called as the winner while hundreds of eyes watched to test your resolve.
But last night she’d fallen apart. As soon as she closed the front door, she’d dissolved into a splotchy puddle of tears. She’d made sure to close the garage door so he wouldn’t come stalking back to catch her in a weak moment. For all she knew, the woman he’d had dinner with was waiting for him somewhere. Or maybe she had been in his truck while he had pressed her against the wall and rocked her world.
Idiot. The word went on repeat. She’d collapsed onto her bed, facedown into a pillow, and let loose. Sometime during the night her dress and shoes had ended up crumpled on the floor, her panties still damp from Sawyer.
She wadded up the underwear and buried it in her laundry basket as if her mother might dig through like she had in high school. Good thing she was on the Pill. Neither one of them had even thought about protection.
The shower brought a semblance of order to her thoughts. Like he’d said, their impulsive wall sex had been a mistake. If that wasn’t exactly what she’d been about to say, she was grateful he’d filled in the blank of her mind with the appropriate word. Because what she’d been thinking had been very, very inappropriate.
God, he’d felt amazing—big and hard and hot and commanding. She didn’t remember that about their frantic couplings in his daddy’s truck. They’d been more concerned about getting caught in those days, which had lent its own special excitement. Last night had been different. Amazing. But a mistake. Definitely a mistake. A one-time, amazing mistake.
Her routine eased her back into a normalcy Sawyer had blown to smithereens. She pulled on dark wash jeans, ballet flats, and a cotton blouse. Today she was meeting one of Cottonbloom’s “ladies who lunch” at her house to work on furniture placement and new wall art. Even though it would be tiring hard work, she still had to look professional. The block party would occupy the rest of her afternoon and evening. A dry run for the festival.
She loaded the covered pickup with an assortment of items from her garage and headed out. The morning passed quickly in spite of how often her thoughts drifted to Sawyer. Finally, after moving things back and forth and back again, her client was happy, and she’d sold several pieces. Even though this type of work could be tedious and it took her away from the office, once clients saw her vision on their walls or in their houses, a sale was inevitable.
Maybe she wasn’t changing the world, but she was making it a better place. Her mother had told her time and again her job was to decorate the world. Of course, her mother had meant it in terms of becoming an arm accessory for an ambitious man. Her mother was old-school subservient to her father. If she and her mother hadn’t shared the same hair color, Regan might wonder if she was adopted.
Back at her studio before noon, she checked her phone and scrolled through a multitude of calls and texts to return about the block party that evening, but nothing from Sawyer. Loneliness took up residence in her stomach, hollowing it and making her head feel swimmy.
What was her problem? She had a full life. No man—that was true—but after going through the annihilation with Sawyer, she hadn’t craved drawing a big fat bull’s-eye on her heart ever again. Anyway, the sex hadn’t been tender and sweet, it had been tinged with anger and frustration. That kind of sex probably didn’t necessitate a follow-up call.
She mentally shook herself and got back to checking things off her lists. The string quartet had been confirmed as had the ice cream shop and the Cottonbloom Bakery. In addition to ice cream and an assortment of baked goods, the high school was manning their lemonade cart and popcorn stand. They would raise money for their programs while feeding the masses.
At least, she hoped to attract masses. She’d hung fliers all over town, even by the university, although summer school meant things were quiet on campus. Adolescent fear of no one showing up to her party had her pacing while she handled the last-minute details.
The bells over her door tinkled, and Nash Hawthorne stepped into the studio. The director of public works was updating her on the progress of the setup. She made a face at Nash and held up a finger while interjecting a few “uh-huhs.” Nash wandered around.
Everything seemed to be moving along with minor hiccups, and she thanked the director before disconnecting. “What’s up, Nash? Looking for some new pillows?”
He tossed the fringed, flowered throw pillow aside and looked anywhere but at her. “Not exactly.”
“What’s wrong?”
He winced and cast a glance over the top of his glasses. “Thought you deserved fair warning.”
“Of what?” Her lips had gone numb as if she’d pressed them against ice for too long.
“Sawyer put together an impromptu block party on the other side for tonight.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“He did.” Nash was solemn. She believed him. It wasn’t his nature to stir up trouble or drama.
Even though she and Sawyer had both sort of agreed the sex has been a mistake, they’d also pinky-promised. Betrayal burned away the loneliness. This is why she would never trust a man again. Ever.
“How’d you find out?”
Nash sent her another look, this time with more amusem
ent. “Tally, of course.”
Nash had succumbed to the dark side along with Monroe, becoming involved with a Fournette of Cottonbloom, Louisiana. Regan had been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think it’s a dig at you.” He added.
She snorted.
“It has something to do with a deal they’re trying to close. Cade decided she needed to be treated to Louisiana hospitality.”
“She?”
“Some muckety-muck from a big boat company on the East Coast.”
Had Sawyer been wining and dining this boat woman the night before? It sure hadn’t looked strictly business. She hadn’t missed the woman’s foot grazing up Sawyer’s leg. Focus. She had to focus on the problem at hand, which did not include who Sawyer might or might not be doing—besides herself.
“Does Tally know you’re here warning the enemy?” Regan wasn’t sure how far she could trust Nash and Monroe anymore.
“As a matter of fact, yes. She feels a little bad.”
Regan studied him, surprised. He returned her probing gaze. Tally disliked her. Intensely, if years of cutting glares were any indication. Even before she and Sawyer broke up, Tally had regarded Regan with the same distrust Regan’s mother aimed toward Sawyer. And afterward, she might as well have been caught torturing puppies, given the level of virulence Tally had held toward her.
“Tally hates me.”
“She doesn’t.”
“She used to.”
Nash broke their study of each other as he walked around the pillow display, trailing his finger along the different fabrics. “You were always nice to me in school. You and Monroe weren’t like some of the others. I don’t know if I ever thanked you for not treating me like a freak.”
Monroe had been the one to convince Regan to take the Louisiana boy under their wings. At the time, Monroe’s motives had been murky. Now Regan understood; Nash had been a stand-in for Cade. If Monroe couldn’t help Cade, then she’d done her best to protect a different Louisiana boy. And because Regan had Monroe’s back, she had Nash’s back too.
Anyway, with her wavy hair, smattering of freckles, and wild notions, she’d often felt like an outcast among Cottonbloom’s homogenous, perfectly coiffed society girls. Even Monroe couldn’t betray her genes. She could have been the poster child for Southern womanhood, a blonde haired, blue-eyed beauty.
But, Regan had learned to cover it all with a learned, practiced smile and a blustering bravado. The only times she’d been truly herself were around Monroe and Sawyer.
She joined Nash at the bin of pillows. Both of them kept their gazes on the tumble of patterns. “Thanks for letting me copy your calculus homework.” She hip-bumped him. “Freak.”
He barked a laugh. “Is there something I can do?”
“I don’t suppose you want to put those fighting skills to use and go beat up Sawyer for me?”
“That I can’t do.”
“Figured.” She gave a half-shrug and pasted on a smile. “Too late to do anything about it anyway. I’ll do my thing, and Sawyer will do his. I guess we’ll have an idea who has the upper hand for the competition.”
Nash was halfway out the door. “I’ll bet turnout on both sides will be great.”
She chucked her chin in his direction and forced a smile. As soon as he was out of sight, she closed the shop early and pulled the shades.
The tentative moments of harmony between her and Sawyer had been derailed by last night’s encounter and blown to bits by the underhanded way he was trying to ruin her first block party. A wave of heat coursed through her body. Soon enough, she would be too busy to think, but for a moment, she wallowed in her hurt feelings and cursed Sawyer.
* * *
Sawyer rubbed his temples. This spur-of-the-moment party was a monumentally poor idea, but Cade had offered it up before Sawyer had a chance to do more than open his mouth to protest. Terry Lowe seemed flattered and excited they were putting together a party for her. The negotiations had gone well, and Cade wanted to send the scanned, signed contracts to Richard that night.
Cade slapped him on the back, emphasizing the throb in his head. “Why so glum? This is another opportunity to stick it to Regan Lovell.”
Sawyer guffawed. The irony of Cade’s choice of words was lost on everyone but Sawyer. Thank God. Dreams of sticking it to Regan—over and over—had made for a restless night, leaving him slow-witted and groggy all day.
“Why a block party? Why not take her to Rufus’s if she’s after local flavor.”
“Look, people like Ms. Lowe expect to be entertained. They want to be impressed. We might not have the finest restaurants or the attractions of a big city, but what we have in spades is charm. What we can offer is a unique experience. Champagne parties at art museums are the norm for women like her. But, a down-home, bluegrass, slice of gooey Southern hospitality? She’ll be talking about this for the next year.”
Sawyer tilted his head back and stared at the white-pocked ceiling tiles. “Are you saying we’re going to have to trot out the local flavor every time some Yankee comes down looking to make a deal?”
“Nah. Only the big dogs. You saw the number of zeroes on that deal, right? Let’s celebrate.” Cade walked out of the break room.
No matter how many zeroes on the deal, Sawyer couldn’t celebrate. He had pinky-promised Regan not to interfere with her first attempt at a block party. He’d seen her cute little fliers advertising the string quartet and the ice cream social. It sounded sophisticated and sweet, just like Regan.
Cade’s head popped around the doorjamb. “You got the beer truck lined up, right?”
Heaven help him. “I did.”
“We’re going to steal every man and woman over the age of twenty-one to our side.” Cade fist-pumped and disappeared.
Whatever self-respect he had left after walking out on her the night before drained into the concrete under his boots. Cade was right. They would steal a good portion of Regan’s crowd. Beer would be a strong draw on a hot August night. He felt like a worm. No, he felt like the dirt worms pooped out.
There hadn’t been much to do except make a few calls. Everyone knew the drill. The beer truck was new, and Wayne Berry had some concerns about public intoxication and drunk driving, but once Sawyer had mentioned the portion of sales that would be allocated to the police department, the sheriff had decided the force could handle it.
Sawyer got to the riverfront as his uncle and the rest of the bluegrass band were tuning their instruments.
Terry Lowe was standing with Monroe and Cade, a beer in hand and a smile on her face. “Why Sawyer, this is just the cutest. And it looks like both sides of the river will be hopping.”
Sawyer had avoided even looking across the bridge, but now he did. Regan had decorated the pavilion in red and blue bunting and set up chairs along the grass. The faint strains of a cello carried on the slight breeze.
“They’ll be ice cream over the bridge. Not something to miss,” Sawyer said slowly.
The toe of Cade’s boot made contact with his ankle. Cade’s green gaze lasered into him. “We have beer.”
“True.” Sawyer transferred his attention to Terry, giving her a wide smile. “The church ladies usually sell pecan pies, but they didn’t have enough notice. I heard that Cottonbloom Bakery will be selling pie and cake by the slice over the river, and the high school is selling lemonade.”
“We have beer.” Cade repeated forcefully.
Sawyer returned Cade’s frown with a grin, backing up and holding his arms out. “If you folks will excuse me, as Cottonbloom Parish commissioner, I have duties to attend to.”
He mingled with the crowd, pointing out the corn hole games Regan had set up for the kids to families and the lemonade stand to people he knew were teetotalers. By the time his uncle Del fired up the bluegrass music, there was a steady stream of people crossing the bridge in both directions. As more single, legal-aged adults made their way to the Louisiana
side, the families and older folks found their way to the Mississippi side.
After an hour and with the band taking a break, Cade found Sawyer standing at the edge of the river drinking beer from a plastic cup.
“I know what you’re doing.”
Sawyer startled, but stayed silent.
“You’ve been talking people into crossing over. Are you actually feeling guilty?”
He was. Extremely guilty. Not only had he not called or texted her today—even though he’d picked his phone up a dozen times with the intention—he’d demolished the tentative partnership they’d formed.
At least Cade hadn’t guessed Regan still had a hold on him. He couldn’t deny it any longer. What-ifs and might-have-beens had reared in his conscience more and more often since the beginning of summer.
The urge to dredge up the past was strong. He wanted to explain himself, clean the slate. Maybe they were distanced enough that she would finally listen. Would his behavior last night compounded with today’s fiasco make any future impossible?
A future. Was that what he wanted? A future with her? The more he was around her, a hard truth wrapped itself around his heart. He missed her. He had been missing her the past decade. The resentment and hatred that had filled the space had seeped away over the summer, leaving an ache he was just now identifying.
“What we did was pretty low,” Sawyer said finally. “She’s been planning this for weeks.”
“She deserves it for trying to steal your Labor Day thunder. And for everything else.”
“The magazine insisted we hold them the same weekend. She wants to help her side as much as I want to help mine. Can’t fault her for that.” Sawyer killed his beer and rubbed his nape. “Our breakup wasn’t entirely her fault, you know.”
“Sure seemed like it at the time.” Cade crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze on the river. “Her mama talked her into breaking up with you.”
“True. And I was pissed.” The pain of hearing her tell him they should take a break from each other, see what else was out there before committing themselves forever still had power over him. He crumpled the cup in his fist. “That night a bunch of guys from my frat took me out. I drank too much. Way too much. Blacked out.”
Till I Kissed You Page 12
