Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  “You could go to the cops.” Even though he didn’t trust the law to treat him fairly, surely it would protect someone like her.

  “I can’t. Then everyone would know.”

  He wanted to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but he understood how hollow the words would sound. He’d heard enough platitudes like that to last a lifetime. “I won’t tell. And you won’t tell anyone about me, either?”

  She took his hand and squeezed. “I would never.”

  He’d never met a teen girl who could keep a secret, but he could only nod. They walked side by side through the grassy field, entering her yard through a narrow door in the back of her fence. Her house was enormous by his standards. The chlorine of the pool pungent but not unpleasant. He’d never played in water so blue and clean. The murky river was his swimming pool.

  He wrapped a hand around her skinny upper arm, all bone and tendons and tender flesh. Heat flashed through his body at the thought of her trying to fight off a grown man. “Can you get in the house? Where’s your room?”

  “Mama keeps a key under the flowerpot around front.” Monroe pointed to an open window on the second floor, the drapes swaying with the wind. “That’s my room. I think I can squeeze past my bureau.”

  He stifled a curse. A miracle she hadn’t broken her neck. “Go around the front. Run straight to your room and give me a thumbs-up. Remember what I told you?”

  “Jam the back of a chair under the door handle whenever Mama brings a man home.”

  “Right. I know you’re tired, but you go to school today, you hear?”

  “I will.” She took a step away, then whirled back and threw herself into his chest, startling him. His arms came around her automatically to return the hug. She felt as delicate as a baby bird. “Can you come back upriver sometime?”

  He should say no for a multitude of reasons. No one would approve of their association for one thing. For another, getting caught would be catastrophic to his family. “Next full moon. Meet me under the cottonwood tree.”

  “Thank you, Cade.” Her voice was muffled against his shirt.

  “Go on, then.” He let her go and nudged her toward the house. She ran, looking over her shoulder several times. He waited until she came to her window and gave him the signal. After she’d closed her window and drapes, he stood there, nurturing his rage.

  He was going to be late for work and lose out on precious wages. Not to mention the fact, he hadn’t actually gotten any poaching done. He circled to the front of the house and settled under an oak tree across the street, trying to stay hidden. Any of the snobby ’Sips along the street could call the police and accuse him of loitering.

  An hour later, a man in a well-fitting suit came out the front door of Monroe’s house. Cade muttered a curse. He should have guessed Monroe’s “Sam” was in fact Sam Landry, a prominent insurance salesman with advertisements all over both sides of the river. He was good-looking in a smarmy Sears catalog model kind of way. Now Cade knew Sam’s toothy white smile and perfect hair hid a special kind of depravity.

  Cade was on him before he had a chance to unlock the blue BMW in the driveway.

  “What the—?” The man’s voice was more outraged than fearful.

  Cade looked up and down the street. Deserted. He slid a knife out of his boot, the handle worn to fit his hand. With an arm across Sam’s chest, he set the tip at the crotch of the other man and pushed him against the car door.

  “You messed with the wrong girl, Mr. Landry.”

  The man’s mouth went slack, his eyes bloodshot, his pores still exuding the scent of liquor.

  “Monroe is a friend of mine. You hurt her, and I’ll take it personal. Real personal. You want to go to jail for molesting a child?”

  “I didn’t touch that girl.” Sam shoved at Cade’s arm, only managing to move it a couple of inches.

  While Cade was only seventeen, he’d physically gained a man’s muscles and had conditioned himself to harness his fear. He couldn’t afford to back down from anyone. “Only ’cause she ran off.”

  The man stopped fighting him, his voice oozing charm and good humor. “You got it all wrong, boy. She’s trying to get me in trouble. Doesn’t want me to marry her mama. Plus, she’s got a little crush on me. Bad combination. You know how these young girls can be. Silly and impressionable.”

  Monroe hadn’t seemed either to him. “I’m more inclined to believe her than you, mister. Especially considering I can still smell liquor on you.”

  The man’s face tightened and his body jerked against Cade’s arm. “I know you. You’re a Louisiana swamp rat. You think the police will believe you over me?” This man was used to being in charge, used to being heard, while Cade did his business in the shadows.

  “Probably not.” Cade held the man’s gaze and let the tension build in the silence. “How about I dish out swamp rat justice then? I’ll cut your shriveled little balls off and feed them to a wild hog. You’ll be singing soprano in the church choir the rest of your days.”

  “You wouldn’t touch me.”

  Cade bared his teeth in the mimicry of a smile. He pushed the tip of his knife through the wool fabric of the man’s suit pants, twisting and sliding the blade until a gaping foot-long hole revealed a pair of pink-and-blue-striped boxers.

  Cade amped up his redneck accent. “I’d enjoy guttin’ you and throwin’ you to the gators.”

  Sam’s throat worked, but no sound emerged. A man walking a high-stepping white poodle with a ridiculous pink bow came into view two houses down. Cade needed to wrap this up before the ’Sip called the law.

  “Let me tell you how this is going to go down. You’re going to break it off with Monroe’s mama. You’re going to move out of this house. And if I ever see you hanging around, you and I are going to take a little trip out to the swamps. Got me?”

  Sam jerked his head, his mouth twisted. Cade removed his arm, slid the knife back into his boot, and walked away in one smooth motion. In the light of day, he couldn’t traipse over other people’s property back to his boat. It would be a hot, hour-long walk back to where he’d left his truck. At best, he’d miss half his shift and half his pay. At worst, he’d get fired and come home empty-handed.

  Looking over his shoulder at the grand white house, he smiled. Either way, it had been worth it.

  Chapter Two

  JUNE, PRESENT DAY …

  Standing at a high counter, Monroe Kirby made notes in her last client’s chart and rotated her ankles. It had been a long day. Ms. June, the office scheduler, bustled over, her nursing clogs squeaking. “I have a walk-in patient. Can one of you take him?”

  Monroe propped herself on her elbows and massaged the back of her neck. “It’s nearly five, and I have to meet my girls at the gym. Can you take him, Bart?”

  Bartholomew Jones rubbed a hand over his cropped Afro and smiled one of his 120-watt smiles. “I would, Monroe, but it’s Dana’s birthday. If I’m late, I’ll be one of your clients tomorrow. With a wrung neck.”

  Monroe returned his smile in spite of the inconvenience. No matter how stressful or busy they were, Bartholomew brightened everyone’s day and made working as a physical therapist at Cottonbloom Therapeutics fun. It was his gift, and she’d never regretted coming back home to join his practice. She was tired, but any client deserved to be put through their paces with a smile on her face and encouragement in her voice.

  “I’ll shoot Tally a text and let her get the girls started. Hopefully this guy is cooperative. Records?”

  “Doesn’t have any.”

  “Paperwork?”

  “He’s filling it out in room two. Although he didn’t look happy about it. Mr. Fournette brought him in, and they were arguing like two polecats in a sack.”

  “Was it a work-related injury?”

  Sawyer Fournette managed an auto-parts manufacturing plant over the state line in Louisiana. If the injury had happened on the job site, there were government-mandated regulations to follow.

&nbs
p; “Didn’t mention it, and I can’t imagine the kind of language they were using is appropriate for the workplace.” Ms. June’s ruddy cheeks shaded darker. “If I had to hazard a guess I’d say they were related. Does Mr. Fournette have a brother or cousin?”

  Monroe’s heart ramped to sprint-like levels even though she hadn’t taken a step. Her mouth dried and every nerve ending seemed sensitized. She walked past Bartholomew and Ms. June without another word.

  Had her stomach dived to the floor in nerves or anticipation? She hadn’t felt like this since her first week practicing. Could it be that Cade Fournette had stepped foot back into Cottonbloom?

  The last time she’d seen him had been during her freshman year of college. Ten years ago. She’d gone to a secondhand clothing store on the Louisiana side of the river to look for a party costume. The theme was white-trash wedding—not her choice.

  Her social circle assumed the store would be bursting with overalls and daisy dukes. Giggling and teasing, they’d flipped through racks of flannel shirts and indestructible work pants. She’d separated from the group, embarrassed at their behavior, although she couldn’t pinpoint why.

  That’s when she saw him. Standing not a dozen feet away with two shirts draped over his arm and staring right back at her. Internally everything kicked into a higher gear, yet she was frozen with her hand still on the shoulder of a shabby corduroy jacket.

  She hadn’t seen him for months and never in the daylight. Not since the end of her senior year of high school. He’d been distant that night, wishing her luck in college and brushing a kiss across her cheek. The first time he’d ever done such a thing, and when the darkness swallowed him she’d sensed a door closing. Sure enough, he hadn’t come back to their tree even though she’d waited every full moon.

  Something had happened to him over the recent months. A new hardness around his eyes made him look even older than twenty-three. A spark of something flew across the short distance. He nodded once. An uncontrollable urge to wrap her arms around his waist and lay her cheek against his chest came over her. She’d missed him.

  She’d taken a step in his direction, but he’d set the shirts down and walked away. The door at the back of the store jangled and made her flinch. In the seconds that followed, she wondered if she’d imagined the brief electric connection or if she’d even imagined him. Then, her best friend, Regan Lovell, had snaked an arm around Monroe’s waist and pulled her back into the giggling fold of girls.

  He had moved to Mobile, Alabama, by the time she’d come home for Christmas break a few weeks later, and if he’d set foot on either side of Cottonbloom since, she hadn’t heard. And as attuned as she was to news of him, she would have heard.

  Anxiety bubbled under her nerves. Was it even him? Some instinct—maybe closer to hope—told her it was. What had happened to him? How badly was he hurt? She rubbed her lips together, peeled them into a fake smile, and opened the door.

  The man who sat in the chair seemed too big for the small exam room. Not overweight or even bulky, he had an energy that seemed to press outward, seeking an escape. Her gaze skated down his body, her mind trying to take in and process everything at once. The air around them seemed to vibrate.

  He registered as a stranger, yet her gut twisted with a strange familiarity. Big, callused hands twirled a scarred wooden cane between his knees; rubber-soled lace-up boots were on his wide-set feet. His thick black hair was in need of a cut, and at least two weeks’ growth of dark beard was flecked with wiry steel. His shoulders were broader and his chest thicker than she recalled. His eyes transfixed her. Dark green and intense and holding all her secrets.

  “Good Lord. Kirby. Monroe Kirby. All grown-up.” His deep voice had acquired a rough edge as if the years had chipped at it. His gaze was as busy as hers, and she adjusted the lapel of her white coat.

  “You remember me.” God, she sounded like a starstruck teenager. She followed his exploits as best she could. The last splash he’d made was in a business magazine highlighting successful entrepreneurs, but the article had focused on his thrill-seeking adventures as much as his engine design company.

  “Hard to forget a damsel in distress on a hot September night.” His eyes narrowed as if trying to dissect her.

  Did he remember every moment they’d spent together over the years as she did? Probably not. His life was bigger and more exciting than anything she could imagine in Cottonbloom. Now that it was obvious he wasn’t seriously injured, perhaps she should mimic the tease in his voice. Pretend his return wasn’t rocking her world.

  “Well now, Mr. Fournette, what brings you back to Cottonbloom?” Instead of a friendly tease, a defensive edge snuck into her voice. The loneliness of waiting under the cottonwood tree for him night after night made an unexpected appearance.

  “Insanity,” he said dryly, and looked toward the window where drooping pink crepe myrtle flowers blocked the view of the parking lot.

  “I didn’t think you’d ever come back home.” A tangled web of emotions crept into her voice.

  The intensity of his green gaze transferred to her. “Sawyer showed up in my hospital room on the warpath. Apparently, a well-meaning bystander fished out an old emergency card and had him thinking I was dying. While I was still hopped up on painkillers I let him convince me to take a vacation. In Cottonbloom.”

  With the initial shock fading, she noticed other things about him. Under his beard his face appeared gaunt, and dark circles ringed his eyes.

  “You’re looking worse for wear.”

  “I’m feeling it.”

  “I don’t have your records. What happened?”

  “Short version? Toppled off a cliff.”

  “A cliff? Were you shoved off by a scorned woman?”

  His lips twitched. “Hardly. Decided I wanted to climb El Capitan. Tried it. Didn’t go as planned.”

  She blinked a few times. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter she hadn’t seen him in a decade. The sarcasm in her voice masked a very real and inappropriate concern. “You woke up one morning and thought, ‘Hmmm, I think I’ll climb the most dangerous rock face in the world’? How long did you train?”

  “I’ve climbed for years around the Pacific Northwest. And, actually, there are much more difficult climbs in France and Spain, but I couldn’t afford to take time off work.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Her voice rose and echoed in the linoleum-and-steel-covered exam room.

  “I didn’t know you cared.” His smile was bemused.

  “I don’t.” Reflex shot the words out. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t care. Tally is a good friend of mine and…” She couldn’t think of another lame reason she was lecturing Cade Fournette for doing something that was none of her business. She wasn’t his sister or his girlfriend. Fate had thrown them together, and while he’d become her lifeline, she’d only been a little kid to him. That’s all. “I wouldn’t want you to die or anything,” she finished weakly.

  “That’s awfully nice of you to say.” He relaxed back in the simple waiting-room-style chair, his feet sliding farther apart in a typically male stance, one elbow propped on the armrest, his index finger tracing his smiling bottom lip.

  In that instant, she was primally, uncomfortably aware of him as a man. A man who looked like he knew what to do with a woman in bed … or out of it for that matter. She’d entertained fantasies, of course, but they’d been confined to hugs and kisses. Innocent. He was knight in shining armor material. Not down and dirty lover material. But she was a grown woman now, not a naïve girl.

  She dropped her gaze from his mouth to her clipboard. The words made as much sense as Mandarin Chinese. “I assume you’re staying with Sawyer?”

  “For now.”

  “Does Tally know you’re home?” She raised her gaze again but focused on his hands.

  “Course she does.”

  Monroe wanted to march over to the gym and give Tally a good shake. Of course, it’s not like Monroe had ever confide
d in her. Monroe had never confided in anyone except Cade. Tally had no idea what Cade had done for her, and her interest might seem weird and borderline stalkerish without the facts.

  Focus. She needed to focus. A professional wouldn’t think about how his beard made him look rough and rumpled and sexy, like an action star trying to go incognito. A professional wouldn’t notice how big his hands were or the fact that they were nicked and callused and as rough-looking as the rest of him.

  She glanced down at her paperwork again. “Did you break your leg?”

  “Thank God, no. Overextended my knee and strained some apparently useful tendons. The orthopedist said it would heal on its own, but physical therapy would speed the process.” His voice didn’t reflect any of the angst and confusion running rampant through her. And why should it? Her strong reaction was only spurred by the remnants of a childhood crush. Reality would stamp it out.

  “When did this happen?” Her voice was solid, brisk even. Better.

  “Couple of weeks ago.”

  “Am I to assume you haven’t seen a PT yet?”

  “Figured I could rehab it on my own.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?” She cut her eyes to him under her lashes. It wasn’t unusual for people—especially men—to disregard their doctor’s instructions for physical therapy.

  “Not so good. I pushed too hard and made things worse.” His lips quirked but fell into a frown. “Anyway, my leg’s not the main problem. It’s my hand.” He held up his left hand, palm up.

  “Ohmygoodness.” Monroe set the paperwork aside and took his hand in both of hers. A four-inch-long gash ran from the meaty part of his thumb toward the base of his pinky finger. It had been a jagged, deep cut, the resulting scar thick and raised and angry. She ran her thumbs along either side, and he flinched. “Does it hurt?”

  “Constant pins and needles, tightness, lack of grip strength.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “A safety bolt came out and I grabbed at whatever I could. Caught the sharp edge of a rock. Sliced my hand, but it wasn’t clean. Got infected.” He turned the full force of his green eyes on her, and she rocketed back in time. The tease left his voice, leaving desperation and a hint of pain. “Can you help me?”