Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  “Look, you need the money. Go into this assuming Mrs. Tarwater is doing it out of the goodness of her heart.”

  “Ri-i-ight.” Monroe drew the word out.

  A beat of silence passed before they burst out laughing.

  “It’s not like you’ve been stringing Andrew along or something. The opposite in fact. You have nothing to feel guilty about. Take the money and put it to good use.”

  Regan was right. Monroe hadn’t promised anything to Andrew. Even a lick across the ice cream couldn’t counteract the sourness in the pit of her stomach. She’d considered dipping into her own savings, but that money was there for her mother.

  Monroe was putting back money each month to pay for a highly recommended, ridiculously expensive residential program for alcoholics. The trick was getting her mother to admit she needed the help. So far, she had waved off any notion her “occasional overindulgences” were a sign of something more serious.

  Regan didn’t know how bad things were with her mother. No one did. And after what Sam had insinuated, Monroe’s worry had escalated. Although nothing indicated her mother was bingeing again, she was a master of hiding it.

  The sound of Delmar’s tools and the occasional trilling birdsong filled the space with white noise. She raised the binoculars and focused on the men working across the river. Cade had put his paint roller down and was squirting water from a bottle into his mouth. His dark beard trailed down his neck, his red T-shirt a flag of color against the yellow bricks.

  He glanced in her direction. His gaze bounced over her but snapped back, and he angled toward her. An invisible connection tugged her forward until she was sitting on the edge of the aged wooden bench. The draw to him was becoming stronger with every passing day. His hands went to the hem of his T-shirt. He wouldn’t. Not in the middle of town.

  He did.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” she muttered, and blew a shuddery breath out.

  She should quit staring at him through the binoculars. It was pathetic and stalkerish. Worse still, he could see her being pathetic and stalkerish. She pressed the binoculars tighter to her eyes and ignored the ice cream dripping on her hand.

  His chest was phenomenal. Not jacked into ridiculous lines, but thick and muscled. Solid. Dark hair to match his beard shaded his pecs. His gaze bored into her with a challenge she wanted desperately to accept. Good grief, could he see not only at night but at crazy distances also?

  “What do you see?” Regan squinted and reached for the binoculars. A brief tug-of-war ensued before Monroe gave them up. Regan looped the strap around her neck, took a swig of her iced coffee, and raised them. She jerked forward a few inches. “Mercy me. I can see why you’ve been panting after the man. Cade Fournette is hotter than a Mississippi brush fire.”

  “I have not been panting. That makes it sound real romantic, Regan. Geez.” Licking her ice cream turned into a sensuous action. Was his skin salty from sweat? Even though sweet butter dominated her taste buds, her imagination was vivid.

  Regan lowered the binoculars as she swiveled slowly to face her. “Romantic? So is this more than a lust fest?”

  Monroe chuffed to cover her misstep and licked at her cone. “It’s … something.” She took the binoculars back as Regan hummed. With the strap still around Regan’s neck, Monroe yanked her close until they were nearly cheek to cheek.

  If anything, she had underestimated the beauty of the man. The white stripe of his underwear showed at the top of his slouchy elastic-waisted athletic shorts. She trailed her binocular-enhanced gaze up the line of hair along tight abs to his shoulders, broad and muscled.

  His body shifted, changed stance, his singular focus transferring to his uncle working on the gazebo. Cade grabbed Sawyer’s arm and pointed.

  “They’ve noticed Delmar,” Monroe whispered even though no one was around to hear. She slumped back on the bench, her body weak with aftereffects of the tension that had held her taut.

  Regan grabbed up the binoculars. Monroe didn’t need them to see Sawyer throw down his roller and stalk toward her and Regan.

  “They’re coming over.” Regan whipped the binocular strap over her head and set the binoculars on the bench behind her.

  Sawyer was over the bridge and in front of them in a few long strides. The air around him thickened like a storm cloud ready to unleash. He whistled and Delmar poked his head from behind one of the supports.

  “What the hell, Uncle Delmar?” Sawyer threw his hands up.

  “What’s up, Sawyer? I like the yellow you picked.” Delmar came over, hiking his tool belt up with one hand and waving his hammer toward the wall.

  While Delmar and Sawyer volleyed back and forth and with Regan nearly bouncing on the bench and clapping her hands at how well her plan to gig Sawyer was working, Monroe turned her attention to Cade.

  He wiped over his face and down his neck with his shirt, leaving a damp stain on the red cotton, and tucked it into his shorts, the waistband pulling down another inch. He wore a common store brand. She was surprised they weren’t Calvin Klein’s.

  “Low blow getting Uncle Delmar to build your little gazebo.” His low, husky voice rippled through her like pebbles tossed into a placid lake.

  “I’m just sitting here enjoying some ice cream. But hey, it’s a job and Delmar is making money.”

  Her unattended ice cream dripped on her hand again, and she licked it off, her gaze rising to look at Cade beneath her lashes. His pecs flexed as he took a step closer. She stared at the line of dark hair bisecting his abs and crossed her legs.

  “That looks good,” he whispered, somehow imbuing the simple words with a wealth of sexual innuendo. Or maybe that was her hopeful brain’s translation.

  “Want some?” She held out the cone. Was it weird to offer someone a lick of your ice cream? The beats of silence and stillness made her decide it was very weird, but before she had time to retract the offer he leaned over and propped his hand on the back of the bench. Very slowly, he wrapped his other hand around hers and brought the cone to his mouth.

  He took one strong swipe right across the top and then licked up the sides with systematic precision, finishing with a swirl. She clenched her legs together, her entire insides performing a jig.

  She imagined him between her legs performing a similar alchemy. The hand under his began to tremble and her entire body flushed. With her free hand, she patted at the sudden sheen of sweat on her forehead. As his final shot, he cleaned a line of sticky ice cream that had dripped on her index finger with a long, slow pass of his tongue.

  The clang of metal on metal penetrated her daze. Delmar was packing up his tools. “Sorry, Ms. Mayor, hate to see my nephew’s shorts in a wad. Guess you’ll have to find another handyman.” He checked his watch, hummed, and muttered more to himself than to them, “Might have time to get a little fishing in.”

  Delmar headed back to his truck, whistling. Sawyer stalked over, and Cade straightened, letting go of Monroe’s hand. Regan faced off with the brothers as if she wanted to wipe all Fournettes off the face of the earth by poking them in the eyes with her stilettos. Monroe rose but kept to the neutral zone.

  “My shorts are not in a wad.” Sawyer’s voice was defensive. “But hiring my uncle was dirty.”

  Regan put on a falsely sweet smile that had won her numerous pageant crowns. “We agreed these festivals are for the good of our towns and have nothing to do with whatever ancient history we might share.”

  “But you…” Sawyer ruffled his hair, looking discombobulated. “You hired Delmar to pick at me.”

  “I needed someone good with their hands and your uncle needed a job. Now neither of us has what we need, thanks to you.” Without looking in her direction, Regan said, “Let’s go, Monroe.”

  Old loyalties were difficult to put aside, especially when their motto throughout high school and college had been “chicks before you-know-whats.” Regan performed an about-face, which must have been difficult in her heels on the weedy grass. Monroe trail
ed behind her, throwing a glance over her shoulder at Cade.

  With his arms crossed over his bare chest, he looked intimidating, his biceps ridiculously jacked, yet something in his face spoke of amusement. He raised his chin in her direction, and she could have sworn he winked.

  Her insides fluttered, and she turned around before she tripped and humiliated herself. Regan was speed-walking. As soon as they turned the corner, out of sight from the common area, she leaned against the brick wall and rotated first one ankle and then the other.

  “I can’t believe Sawyer thought I hired Delmar just to get a rise out of him.”

  “Hello?” Monroe tossed the rest of her cone in the trash and joined Regan against the wall, the rough bricks biting through her clothes. “You can lie to me, but don’t lie to yourself. You poke at Sawyer like a toddler pokes at an anthill. You can’t be surprised when he bites back.”

  Regan huffed and kept her gaze directed down.

  Monroe chewed on the inside of her mouth and watched her friend kick pebbles with the pointy end of her black heel. “I know he hurt you, Regan, but it was a long time ago.”

  Regan had buried the details of what had happened between her and Sawyer. Considering Monroe had kept the reality of her mother’s problems and her association with Cade to herself all these years, she’d never pressed Regan for the gory details, but the shell-shocked look on Regan’s face when she’d walked into their dorm room had spoken volumes.

  Regan had grown up with everything. She had been Miss Cottonbloom and the head cheerleader. She was popular and confident and sought after, if not a little spoiled. But from the moment her path crossed with Sawyer Fournette’s during the annual Cottonbloom–Cottonbloom football game she’d only had eyes for him.

  Monroe slipped an arm around the usually stoic Regan and squeezed her around the waist. “He was your first real boyfriend, and maybe he’s sometimes a turkey whose tail feathers you want to pluck out one by one, but he loves his uncle and he loves his town.”

  Regan tensed. “I love my town, too. This festival is not some evil plan to get back at Sawyer for something that happened a decade ago.” Her voice had taken on a more mayoral tone. “If the magazine hadn’t insisted on Labor Day, I would have been happy to hold my festival a different weekend.”

  “So beating Sawyer wouldn’t make you happy?”

  “No. Winning the competition so I can move ahead with the improvements would make me happy.” Regan rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I’m putting through a motion to raise property taxes.”

  “Is that necessary? Can’t you wait to see whether you win the grant?”

  “The money’s not for the common area project. Roots are destroying the sidewalks. They need to be torn out, the roots pared down, and repaved. It’s expensive, but if we don’t fix it soon someone is going to break an ankle.”

  One of the charming aspects of downtown Cottonbloom was the stately trees that grew along River Street and up the spoke of the main perpendicular street Monroe and Regan were on now. The trees offered respite from the sun in the summer and provided color in the fall.

  “Will the motion pass?”

  “Don’t know. Word’s out about my plan, and I’ve already gotten a threat.”

  Monroe grabbed her arm. “What kind of threat? From who?”

  “Anonymous letter.”

  “Did you take it to the police?”

  Regan shot her a side-eye. “It’s not the first time and won’t be the last. It’s harmless. Pretty juvenile actually. Someone cut out magazine letters and glued them on a page. My point is that Cottonbloom is my top priority. Not Sawyer Fournette.”

  The call of songbirds overhead filled the lull.

  “Do you think I should apologize for hiring Delmar?” Tentativeness replaced Regan’s mayoral stoicism.

  The fact that Regan was even contemplating an apology was a miracle. “It would be a nice olive branch. Granted the band thing was pretty underhanded, but you have the chance to bury the hatchet. And I don’t mean in his back. Make sure Sawyer, and everyone else, knows this is about making Cottonbloom better and not a personal vendetta.”

  “All right. I’ll do it. Later, though. I have a feeling he wouldn’t be very receptive at the moment. Anyway, I have to find someone else to finish the gazebo. Preferably for next to nothing. Any ideas?”

  “Nash Hawthorne is back. If he doesn’t know how already, the man can teach himself to do anything. He is a certifiable genius.”

  Regan tapped a finger against her lips, the polish picked away. “Think he’d do it?”

  “Ran into him at the grocery and he said he wasn’t teaching until fall. He’s working on some research paper.”

  Regan pushed off the wall. Energy replaced her moment of vulnerability, but she seemed injected with a “fake it until you make it” vigor. “I’ll text you later.”

  “All right,” Monroe said to Regan’s back, worrying over her in more ways than one.

  Another peek at Cade wouldn’t hurt. She poked her head around the corner and startled two ladies. All three of them let out gasps.

  “Goodness me, you scared me, Monroe.” Ms. Leora’s voice wavered. A tremor had affected her hands and voice in recent years, making simple tasks more difficult for her. Her health was one thing that had drawn her nephew Nash home. Although she seemed as sweet as a can of pie filling, the woman cut an intimidating swath through Cottonbloom, Mississippi, society.

  The lady with her, Ms. Effie, was Louisiana born and Ms. Leora’s opposite. Ms. Effie’s twinkling eyes, red hair, and penchant for Jane Fonda–era leg warmers and white high-tops were in direct contrast to Ms. Leora’s sensible shoes and the Sunday dresses she wore every day of the week.

  What they had in common was the Quilting Bee. Ms. Leora was the unofficial leader of a quilting circle. They were the old guard, the protectors of all things genteel and ladylike. Although their power was fading, those ladies held sway over the town, and Monroe always wondered what sort of gossip and seditious talk the old ladies got up to while stitching quilts for the needy.

  “How’re you ladies doing?” Monroe asked.

  “I talked Leora into trying an iced coffee. So the world might be ending in a few minutes if you want to hang around.” Ms. Effie’s voice was full of teasing laughter.

  “Coffee should be hot and tea iced. You’re as bad as Nash, wanting to drink hot tea.” The harrumphing quality of Ms. Leora’s voice was tempered by a small hovering smile. She looked over Monroe’s shoulder. “Did I see Delmar Fournette loitering in our streets?”

  “He headed out for a spot of fishing, I believe.”

  “Sounds about right,” Ms. Leora said tartly. “I hope Regan plans to finish the gazebo soon. It’s an eyesore at the moment.”

  “She’s looking for someone to finish it up.” No need to mention Ms. Leora’s nephew Nash was on the very short list of contenders. The Quilting Bee ladies were a vocal group and, to Monroe’s surprise, hadn’t thrown their support behind or against the festival. “What do you ladies think about the tomato festival Regan’s planning?”

  “It’s exciting. To think we might get in Heart of Dixie. That’s a big-time magazine right there. In all the doctors’ offices.” Ms. Effie’s enthusiasm was infectious. To everyone but Ms. Leora.

  “Cottonbloom is fine the way it is. I don’t relish the crowds and noise and wild abandonment that the festival will bring.”

  “Wild abandonment? Cottonbloom isn’t hosting an orgy.” Ms. Effie laughed and elbowed Ms. Leora’s arm. “Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy. It’ll be fun.”

  “Good gracious, Effie. Such coarse talk.” Ms. Leora rolled her eyes but linked her arm through Ms. Effie’s. “Well, come on; let’s get this over with. Afternoon, Monroe.”

  Monroe murmured polite farewells as the ladies headed toward the coffee shop, their heads close. She stayed planted against the bricks like moss until the ladies were out of sight. Then, like the pathetic stalker she was, she peeked back ar
ound the corner, but Cade was gone, the wall half-painted and sad-looking.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cade pulled up to Tally’s gym and followed a clump of high-school-aged girls through the front door. They veered toward the ladies’ changing room like a school of fish. He propped his hip on the front desk and caught his sister’s twinkling eyes.

  “When Monroe told me you had agreed to be her real-life practice dummy, I didn’t believe her.” Tally looked ready to dissolve into laughter. A rare sight these days, Cade realized with a flutter of unease.

  “How about we substitute ‘volunteer’ for ‘dummy.’”

  Her laughter bubbled out and the sound was so contagious, Cade smiled in spite of the reservations about his sudden altruism. The girls swarmed out of the changing room together, chattering. Kayla wasn’t part of their number.

  “I almost called and canceled,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Monroe swept through the door full of apologies for being late. “Had to work in too many clients this afternoon. Seems like half of Cottonbloom has had some joint or other replaced this week. So sorry. I’m ready, though. Are you excited, Cade?”

  Seeing the way her smile lit up her face was the reason he hadn’t canceled. No way was he admitting that to Tally. “Extremely excited.”

  Monroe dropped her duffel behind the counter and bounded up to the girls waiting on the mat, clapping her hands and doling out hugs. Add the way her short shorts and tight workout tank hugged her curves while emphasizing her strength to the list of reasons why he hadn’t canceled. And the way her ponytail brushed across her shoulder blades, wispy pieces of hair framing her face.

  But it was mostly her smile. It seemed to produce its own gravitational pull. He slipped around the desk.

  Tally punched his arm on the way by. “You sly dog. I knew you were going to mark your territory sooner or later.”

  “Shut it, Tally. You want to help me get the pads on?”

  Tally strapped pads on his arms and legs and over his chest. Feeling a couple of miles beyond ridiculous, he walked up to the cluster of girls and tried his best to sound jovial and non-threatening. “I hope y’all are going to go easy on me.”