* * *
She let go of his wrist and covered her breasts. Friendly teasing had turned into a sensual foot rub that morphed into a full-on make-out session. Her skin prickled, overly sensitive where it rubbed against the cotton of his shirt or the denim of his jeans. Was her fever returning or was it simply desire?
She should push him off, but his weight felt good. No, better than good, he felt incredible. She had to stop herself from wiggling and rocking under him. Her mind and body were both weak from the fever, leaving her vulnerable, physically and emotionally. He was staring as if waiting for a guilty verdict—expectant yet morose.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was raw and cracked.
He cocked his head as if it were a trick question. “Kissing you. Don’t you want me to?”
Her body wanted him bad. Her body didn’t care if he took her again and walked out. But the rest of her cared. Too much. “I mean, what are we doing, Sawyer? If you’re here to get your rocks off with an old flame, then leave. I don’t need a fuck buddy.”
“I swear I didn’t come over here with the intention of … getting my rocks off.” Although his expression stayed serious, humor lilted the words. Anger burned a path through her, incinerating the lingering desire.
She bucked her hips against him. “Get off me.”
He pushed off, and she sat up. The pillow acted as a shield at her chest.
“I don’t know what we’re doing, but I don’t want to go back to the way things have been,” he said.
She squelched the leap of hope at his words. “We both know where this will lead, and it’s not pretty.”
“Maybe the past isn’t as important as the future.”
God, she wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe they could wipe everything clean and start over. But even if the past wasn’t as important, it shaded every future decision. It was how people learned. Past mistakes were not to be repeated.
“I don’t trust you, Sawyer.” She stared at the fringe on the pillow as the truth of her past emerged. “I want you to leave.”
His head dropped and his sigh was heavy. Tension grew tight in the stretched silence. He rose. “You’ve been sick, and I’m sorry I took advantage. I’ll go. But sometime, I want to talk to you about that trust problem.”
She stayed on the couch. He’d shown himself in, he could show himself out.
“The soup’s ready. Enjoy and rest up.” His voice echoed from the entry. The door snicked closed.
She didn’t even have the energy to cry. She flopped back down, pulled the blanket back over her, and slept.
Chapter Fifteen
Regan was fully recovered by the time Tuesday’s budget vote rolled around. Mr. Neely presented his results of the reassessments. Although Ms. Martha was in attendance and squirming in her seat, she didn’t argue. Considering she’d come out the best of any business owner, she had no right to complain. The slight changes to tax income had already been incorporated into the budget, and it was adopted by a seven-to-four margin.
With the budget passed, she could move forward and finalize details of the festival. Most of the vendors were local, but some were from out of town and required a substantial down payment. The festival committee was meeting the next afternoon, and she needed to have her list ready.
Through the relief and the lists scrolling through her head, disappointment lurked. She glanced at the double doors on the side for the umpteenth time. No Sawyer. She exited through the side door and into the cool marble hallway. It was deserted, just like it should be.
A cacophony of voices crested as she turned the corner. The meeting attendees had poured out of the stuffy room to discuss and gossip in the atrium.
Deputy Preston’s six-foot-four, former linebacker body scythed through the crowd. Their gazes met and he made a “come-on” gesture with two fingers. He retreated toward the door without looking over his shoulder to confirm her compliance.
The crowd closed the path he’d made, so she skirted around the edges, giving out smiles and sound bites, but not stopping. The deputy wasn’t waiting at the door, but she could see the red and blue lights of his cruiser casting bright circles.
He was sitting in the driver’s seat with his legs out, talking on his phone. She shifted on her heels and looked to the sky, but the stars hid behind dark clouds tonight.
“She’s right here.” The deputy garnered her full attention. He didn’t look up, only checked his watch and said, “We’ll be there in ten.” He disconnected and slipped the phone into his belt holster.
“What’s going on?” Her stomach tumbled and rolled like a rock kicked down an endless hill.
“Your shop’s been vandalized.”
She grabbed her throat. “Not set on fire?”
“No. Ransacked. We need you to identify anything that’s missing.”
“Of course.” She stumbled to her car in a dream state. While the pavilion fire and the basket cutting had caused damage, neither had been aimed directly at her, but at the festivals in general. Even the man outside of her mother’s had been after her tomatoes.
This seemed personal. Her shop was her livelihood. She drove the route on autopilot, passing by so she could prepare herself before going in. A jagged hole marred the plate-glass window in front. The breeze swung the drawn blinds forward and back. The door stood open and light poured out.
She took a spot in front of a black and tan cruiser. She considered going home and crawling under her covers. Deputy Preston rapped on the driver’s side window, making her squeak. He chucked his head toward her shop and walked off.
She turned the car off and followed, her ankles wobbly in her heels. Her head circled all the possibilities and problems. How big a loss? Would her insurance cover it? How soon would the security system people be able to hook up her house alarm? Who would do this? Was it the man from the garden? Had Sawyer heard?
Broken glass crunched under her heels. She took in a bracing breath and stepped into her studio. Everything was in disarray. Down feathers covered everything in a layer of white, small pieces floating in the air like snow.
“Try not to touch anything,” the deputy said.
Her gaze darted around the room, taking an inventory from memory. It appeared as if her display of pillows had taken the brunt. She walked a circle around the room. Everyone was quiet. She poked her head into her office.
A woman in plain clothes and wearing gloves sifted through the swatches on the back table. STOP THE FESTIVAL OR ELSE was written across the wall in red spray paint. The irony was not lost on her even though the message contained a threat her stunt with red spray paint on Sawyer’s wall back in June didn’t.
Her bolted-down safe appeared untouched. Not that there was much to steal inside. Saturday morning was her deposit day. The cabinet drawers hung open, files scattered on the floor. And her whiskey bottle was gone. It had been three-quarters full.
“Can you open the safe? Verify the contents?” Deputy Preston’s voice came over her shoulder.
Regan squatted down and opened the safe. Everything was how she remembered it, but she pulled out her petty cash box and counted the money.
“Everything’s here. And, it appears most of the damage was superficial. The pillows made a big mess, but they’re honestly the cheapest things in the shop. Where’s the chair he used to break the window?”
“Why do you assume it was a man?” Suspicion colored his tone.
Regan shot a side-eye toward the deputy. “I assume the chair that went through the window was the oak armchair in the display. It’s solid. Not that a woman couldn’t lift it, but did you forget about the man I reported out at my mother’s? Seems a little too coincidental, don’t you think?”
The deputy hummed, not giving away anything. “We found the chair on the sidewalk and moved it out of the way. Beyond the damage, is anything missing?”
Reporting a mostly full bottle of Jack as the only missing item would no doubt be a story for the ages. “The important st
uff is still here.”
The deputy herded her toward the door. “We’re going to be awhile finishing up. No need for you to stay. You can contact your insurance tomorrow and begin cleaning up.”
She had a niggling feeling the deputy wanted her gone and whirled on him. She was on the sidewalk while he had his hands braced on the doorjambs, blocking her reentry. “I had nothing to do with this. You were in the budget meeting tonight same as me.”
“True.” A sharp nod accompanied the single word.
“So…”
“We’re not sure when this happened. I’m not accusing you of anything, Miss Lovell, but I need to stay impartial and keep non-police personnel to a minimum while conducting the investigation.”
He might not be accusing her, but he certainly wasn’t clearing her either. “I expect a call in the morning with anything you discover.”
“I’ll file my report and Sheriff Thomason will follow up with you in the morning.” He stepped back and closed the door. Before she made it a dozen feet, he cracked the door back open. “Miss Lovell, why don’t you stay at your mama and daddy’s tonight?”
She glared over her shoulder and didn’t answer. Dealing with her mother was the last thing she needed tonight. The woman was a drama magnet and gossip queen. By the time the sun was up, she’d have told everyone a serial killer was roaming Cottonbloom, and Regan was his target. The excitement would trump the worry. Then she’d have to hear yet again about how inappropriate her role as Cottonbloom mayor was.
Stubbornness, pure and simple, had kept her from calling the security company already. Giving Sawyer the satisfaction of possibly being right had stuck in her craw. She should have listened to him. Hindsight was an evil bitch.
She drove by her house, but nothing moved. Her parents’ house was dark. It was ten. They were in bed watching TV or maybe even asleep by now. She drove around the block, pulled into her driveway, and sat in the car with the doors locked.
The longer she sat, the stuffier the air inside became and the more paranoid she grew. It was how she felt after a scary movie, as if everything held sinister portents. Only this time it was real life.
She fumbled her phone out of her purse and dialed Monroe. It went to voice mail. She and Cade were probably getting busy. She scrolled through her contact list. Mostly clients or government officials. No one she trusted to protect her from boogeymen.
She could call Sawyer. Her conscience ticked off the many reasons why she shouldn’t. But the deep-down truth was he was the only one she trusted—even though she didn’t trust him. The conflict made no sense whatsoever.
The finger that tapped his name trembled. It rang once. What was she doing opening this door? Worse danger than the boogeyman waited behind it. It rang twice. She should hang up.
“Regan. What’s wrong?” His voice was sharp.
“Why does anything have to be wrong?” She tried a laugh, but it trailed off as she stared at a bush near the corner of her house. It moved, but not with the wind. She tightened her hand on the steering wheel. She should head to her parents’. Deal with the fallout in the morning.
“Because you’re calling me at ten on a weeknight. Did the budget not pass?”
“No, it passed,” she said absently, the movement growing more violent. A bird flew out of the top of the bush followed a heartbeat later by her neighbor’s black cat. “Holy hell!” The words were out before her brain registered the harmless events. Well, maybe not harmless for the bird.
“Where are you? Tell me right now what’s going on?”
If she wasn’t mistaken, panic that neared the level of her own crackled over the phone. “I’m at home in the driveway in my car. I’m fine. It was just a cat.” She sank down in the bucket seat, feeling lightheaded in the aftermath of the pulse of adrenaline.
“Don’t you fucking move.” The line went dead with a double beep.
Probably she should feel pathetic and weak for sitting there. She didn’t. Relief loosened her hands, and she gathered her purse to her chest and waited. Eight minutes passed. She tensed at the sweep of headlights on her street, but the sight of his truck settled warmth in her chest.
She slipped out of her car. The truck jerked to a stop, half on the curb, and he was out and running around the front. He grabbed her upper arms and skimmed his gaze down her body and back up, relaxing when he met her eyes.
“You scared me,” he whispered. “What happened?”
Her gaze performed a similar trek. The same pajama pants he’d worn the night she’d accused him of tomato mischief hung low on his hips. A plain white T-shirt covered his torso. He hadn’t even stopped for shoes, his bare feet covered in dewy grass.
She clutched her purse tighter when she really wanted to throw herself in his arms. He’d come because she’d needed him. No explanation necessary. A lump of emotion that beat the same rhythm as her heart clogged her throat.
“My shop was broken into tonight.”
“Robbery?”
“Vandalism. And a warning spray-painted in red across a wall in my office. Stop the festival or else.”
“Let’s get inside.” He put an arm around her shoulders, and she relished the weight and security.
She unlocked the door and pushed it open. He glanced toward the still-defunct control panel and back at her, but didn’t comment. As he made his way into the house, he flipped lights on, checking her bedroom and even upstairs. But now that she was inside and with him, she wasn’t worried. No one had been there.
She went to the frig and pulled out two beers, uncapping both and handing one over when he returned. “Everything looks fine. Now, tell me everything.”
She did and realized how little information the deputy had imparted. “Honest to God, I think he suspects me.”
Sawyer’s lips twitched around the rim of the bottle before he took several swallows. The strong column of his throat worked, and she laid her cold bottle against her cheek. He set his bottle on the counter and her gaze transferred to his lips.
The feeling of them on hers and teasing her breasts made her fan herself with a hand. Why did he have to attract her like a gnat to a bug zapper?
“Now that I’m inside, everything will be okay,” she said.
“You were just sitting in your car waiting for someone to walk you to the door?” He leaned back against the counter and crossed his feet at the ankles. “Your mama is four houses down.”
“You know what Mother’s like.”
“Yep, I know.” While her voice had contained a fair amount of exasperation and amusement, his had been all bitter.
Regan broke his gaze and tore at the label on her bottle. The wave of guilt was as strong as it was unexpected. Her mother’s vitriol and prejudice against Sawyer had poisoned their relationship. Regan had been desperate for guidance in those harsh days after their breakup. Her mother had provided comfort but also a way forward that included cutting Sawyer out of her life. At the time, it had seemed the wisest path.
“I called Monroe, but when she didn’t answer…” How could she put her feelings into words without opening herself to him? The events of the night had left her feeling raw and exposed. She forced a smile even as she kept her gaze focused over his shoulder. “You and Monroe are the only ones who wouldn’t think I was a whack job for being scared.”
“You own a gun?”
“No.” Her smile dropped.
“I’m staying on your couch.”
“You don’t have to. Really.” Her protests were weak. She wanted him to stay.
He smiled, not in a smirking knowing way, but in a sweet, rock-solid way that had her choking out thanks.
She retreated to her bedroom and riffled through her pajama drawer. Her choices included a silk teddy set with the tags still on. Too sexy. A holey, soft T-shirt. Too pathetic. A cute yet comfortable tank with matching striped shorts. Just right.
She went through her nightly routine, hyperaware he was in her house. She grabbed a new toothbrush, an extra blan
ket, and a pillow from her bed.
He was lounging on the couch, his knees spread wide and his hands over his head, SportsCenter at a minimum volume. He appeared comfortable and at ease.
“I brought you some stuff.” She set everything on the nearest cushion and shifted on her feet, her gaze directed at the TV even though she wasn’t paying attention. Every nerve ending seemed to strain toward Sawyer. “If you want to use one of the upstairs rooms—”
“I’m fine on the couch.” He reached for the toothbrush. “Anyway, I don’t want to be too far away. Just in case.”
“Look, I really do appreciate you coming over. You’ve been great about everything, considering…” Her words were weak and unsure.
“Considering what?”
“Considering our past. We haven’t exactly been friends the last few years. And the festival competition didn’t help matters.”
He tapped the toothbrush against his palm. “Things have been weird, but I’ve never stopped worrying about you, Regan. Even when I didn’t want to.” The last came out as a whisper.
Their eyes met. The resentment and dislike that had grown over the years had changed sometime in the past few weeks. Or maybe the complicated range of emotions on his face and rushing through her had always been there. Dislike was easy. Whatever was sprouting between them was not.
She retreated step by step until her back hit the doorjamb to her room. Feeling like a coward, she said, “Good night,” and closed her door—the physical barrier a poor substitute for the emotional one that was being bulldozed down a little each day.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to remember why they’d ended things for good. The picture of a sleepy, tousled-haired Sawyer in bed with the naked big-boobed brunette with smudged mascara was branded onto her brain.
Tears burned her eyes, as if it had happened yesterday and not a decade ago. Could the present make up for the past? Could she forgive him? Could she forgive herself? She had set the awful events into motion. She fell asleep with “if onlys” scrolling through her head. Restlessness plagued her as she relived alternate futures in her dreams.
Till I Kissed You Page 15
