Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  “Wow. Totally unprofessional, Regan. I’m appalled at the lack of moral fiber in our mayor.” Monroe tutted but couldn’t hold back a grin.

  “Hush up. Did you bring the greasepaint?”

  Monroe laughed, but Regan didn’t crack a smile. “I offered as a joke. I didn’t think you were serious. Anyway, I don’t actually own anything that pertains to hunting.”

  “Well, never mind. We’ll manage.” Regan ducked under a low branch and looked toward the river, even though it wasn’t visible in the gloaming.

  “Do you know what the heck we’re doing out here?” Monroe leaned toward Nash.

  “She was muttering something about rabbits and Sawyer Fournette earlier.”

  “Hold up, Regan. Before Nash and I blindly follow you into Lord knows what, you have to tell us what’s going on.”

  “After I got off the phone with you, I made some calls. After our little argument over his uncle, he put out extra traps.”

  “And his plan with these extra rabbits?”

  “How devious would it be to release a colony of rabbits into Mama’s garden? They eat their fill and are gone by morning. Or, even worse, they burrow down and reproduce.”

  Monroe sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Your leap from extra traps to tomato sabotage isn’t logical. Tell her, Nash.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard stranger things. Aunt Leora used to tell me stories about Mississippi men crossing over and cutting crayfish baskets. And Louisiana men would come over at night and raid gardens and traps. There’s one story about a boat of swamp rats coming face-to-face with a party of ’Sips at the state line.”

  “What happened?” Regan asked.

  “Both parties pretended jaunting around the river at midnight was perfectly normal and went on their merry ways. After that things settled down some.”

  “That was fifty years ago. Those men have mostly passed on. Sawyer isn’t going to do something so juvenile and devious,” Monroe said.

  Nash chuckled. “Juvenile and devious but bordering on brilliant. It’s like murder by icicle.” Monroe sent him a questioning glance. “The evidence melts before anyone can point a finger. Or, in this case, hops off. Seriously, though, do you really need me here to scare off some rabbits?”

  “No, I need you to take Sawyer out if we catch him creeping through here with his marauding bunnies.”

  “Take him out? I’m a professor. Not a hit man.”

  “Maybe not, but I mean, look at you.” Regan waved a hand over his body. “You could beat him up, right?”

  “First of all, Sawyer is in great shape. It would be a toss-up. Second, I’m not beating anyone up. This festival business has driven you around the bend, woman.”

  Regan threw up her hands. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  “Because it’s true,” Monroe and Nash said at the same time, and then looked at each other, startled.

  “One, two, three, jinx.” Monroe popped Nash on the arm. It was rock hard. Regan was right. The man was in phenomenal shape. He wasn’t Nerdy Nash any longer.

  “I knew I should have stayed in Scotland,” he muttered, looking up into the tree branches.

  “How’s Ms. Leora feeling?”

  “Her shake is getting worse, but the doctor says there isn’t anything to do about it. Part of getting older. She still insists on driving.” Nash’s sigh was heavy. His childless aunt Leora had taken him in after his mother had died of breast cancer, so his father could continue his high-risk, high-paying job as an oil platform supervisor in the gulf.

  Dusk was upon them. Lightning bugs rose from the base of the tree to blink around their knees. Cicadas picked up their call, the noise ebbing and crashing like ocean waves. As the stars snuffed out the sun, the air cooled and the breeze picked up.

  “I seriously doubt Sawyer has any plans on heading this far up the river. Anyway, Cade wouldn’t join in his shenanigans,” Monroe said.

  “You guys are probably right.” Regan’s tone turned conciliatory. “I have a cooler with some snacks and drinks. How about we hang out and reminisce? And if Sawyer happens by then we can have a civilized chat. Two city leaders who want the best for their respective towns.”

  Nash picked up the soft-sided cooler and dropped the strap over his shoulder. “All right, I’m in, if only out of curiosity and because I’m tired of hanging out with Aunt Leora and the Quilting Bee ladies. Every single one of them wants to set me up with one of their female relatives. Where do you want to set up camp?”

  “In that grove of pines behind my parents’ house? That’ll give us the high ground and leave our enemy exposed,” Regan said.

  Nash gestured. “Lead on, Napoléon. Let’s hope this isn’t our Waterloo.”

  “That was an ABBA song, right?” Monroe asked, hoping he couldn’t see her twitching lips in the dark.

  He groaned as if she’d physically injured him. “Nineteenth-century Western European history? Duke of Wellington? Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Monroe gave him a hip bump as they trailed behind Regan, who was making remarkably good time through the grass in her black ballerina flats. “I’m joking, but the look of horror on your face was totally worth it.”

  They set up under the pine trees, the needles thick on the ground. Nash sat on a stump while Regan and Monroe shared the quilt. Regan handed out beers. The night was clear, stars winking in the black sky. The full moon rose to their left, highlighting the grass wavering like water as far as she could see.

  “So I heard you teach at Tallulah Fournette’s gym?” Nash broke the silence.

  Monroe twisted to see him. “I meet with a group of at-risk girls to teach them self-defense.”

  “That’s cool.” He picked at the label of his beer. “She still dating Heath Parsons?”

  “She dumped him, thank the Lord. I never understood what she saw in him, but then again, I can only remember what he was like in school. Tally didn’t have the pleasure.”

  Nash perked up like a hunting dog catching a scent. “Who’s she dating now?”

  “No one that I know of. She’s not exactly forthcoming with information. Why? Are you interested?”

  “What? Me? Of course not.” His too-casual tone had her scooching around to face him.

  “Really?” she asked dryly. Nash had never been a good liar.

  “I remember her as a kid. Wondered how she was doing since I haven’t run into her yet.”

  “She’s either at the gym or she occasionally hangs out at the Rivershack Tavern. I keep trying to get her to come out with me, but she’s never been comfortable over the line.” Monroe rested her chin on her bent knees and tilted her face toward Nash. “Didn’t you live on the river over the line before your mama passed?”

  “Yeah-h-h.” He drew the word out as he grabbed two more bottles. “Don’t remember much about it, though. I’m going to stretch my legs and take a leak.” He stood up, tucked one bottle into the pocket of his cargos, and headed into the trees, quickly swallowed by the darkness.

  Regan held out another bottle, but Monroe shook her head. She hadn’t taken more than a sip or two of the one she held. After seeing what alcohol did to her mother, she never overindulged. She’d spent her life holding full glasses of wine or bottles of beer for appearance’s sake.

  She lay back on the quilt, her head in pine needles. The tang of sap reminded her of the holidays, and a sense of melancholy crept up and surprised her.

  “I used to meet Sawyer on the river.” Regan’s voice reflected a similar feeling. She stretched out on the quilt, putting them shoulder to shoulder.

  “I didn’t know,” Monroe said softly. Regan’s shoulder moved against hers.

  “We had to steal our moments, and with as much as Cade worked, he couldn’t get the truck too often. I remember sitting on the bank, straining to hear his boat.”

  The lump in Monroe’s throat grew with her gathering tears. Monroe had done the same. She’d marked off the days until the next full moon on a cale
ndar, her excitement building until dark. Sometimes she would wait hours until the soft putter of the boat engine prodded her heart into a sprint.

  If anyone would understand, surely Regan would. Maybe she could help put those years into perspective. Maybe it was time to finally tell someone.

  Regan shot up and grabbed Monroe’s knee. “Did you hear that?”

  Monroe propped herself up on her elbows to listen. The low croaks of the bullfrogs rose like a chorus. A large animal-like rustling popped her to sitting. “I heard something, too.”

  No sign of an approaching man or animal. Regan hissed Nash’s name. No answer.

  Regan pointed out into the field. “Head that way. Holler if you spot anything. I’m going to double back around to the garden fence.”

  She was gone before Monroe could mount an objection. The river beckoned like an old friend, and she took a step out of the trees toward what she couldn’t see or hear but knew was there. The river represented a safe place, but in the darkness her fears populated the field between her and the water.

  She stopped next to a wild, thorny rosebush. Its scent was cloying and at odds with the sense of urgency snaking through the night air, making her lungs work harder. Noises sounded in every direction, but when she turned to look nothing was there. Between Cade being home and her recent confrontation with Sam Landry, memories had frayed her nerves a little more every night in her dreams.

  A twig snapped. Monroe swung around, not sure which direction the noise came from. A dark figure stood even with the tree line. She ran.

  The water oak where she met Regan emerged as a hulking shadow in the darkness. Her heart pounded, the noise of her harsh breathing filling her ears. Her senses betrayed her, turning inward. She couldn’t determine whether the figure chased after her or not.

  Slowing as she came under the branches of the huge oak, she looked over her shoulder, seeing nothing. Taking one deep breath after another, she leaned against the trunk and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

  Why had she run? Now that she was away, logical thought resurfaced. Sam Landry didn’t know she was out here. No doubt, it had been Nash and now he thought she was crazy. The adrenaline faded, leaving her knees trembling and weak. She was no braver than she’d been at thirteen.

  A hand circled her upper arm. Her leg shot out, and she used the man’s weight against him—for there was no doubt the big hand was that of a man—flipping him to the ground. Instead of her breaking his hold, the hand tightened around her arm and she tumbled down with him.

  “I cry uncle.” Cade. His black ball cap was cocked back on his head and greasepaint darkened the skin above his beard.

  “Oh, God, don’t tell me Regan was right?”

  “Right about what?” There was a fake innocence in the question.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Why did you run away from me back there? Did you not hear me calling out?”

  She hadn’t, her panic too encompassing. “No … I didn’t recognize you. I hate being scared.” The admission gouged into a place she hadn’t shared for years. Ever since he’d left.

  “Sometimes being scared is a defensive mechanism that can save your life and running is the smartest thing you can do.” A matter-of-fact truth born from experience was in his voice.

  His absolution washed through her like a river baptism. “You don’t think I’m weak?”

  “Weak? Damn, woman, I’ve got at least eighty pounds on you. How did you drop me?”

  It wasn’t the answer to the question she’d been asking, yet she relaxed, not needing to fake the tease in her voice. “It’s called leverage. Did you miss that science class?” The implication of what she’d said sent an embarrassed fire to her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have—”

  His bark of laughter sent a squawking bird into the night. “It’s okay. And yes, I do understand the concept. It’s just that you’re tiny.” He curled his hands around her hips, his fingers splayed on the outer curve of her butt.

  His hands were hotter than the noonday sun. Suddenly she was aware of how big and hard he was underneath her. “Who’s on top, big guy?”

  “You are.” His voice had deepened and roughened in texture. “I happen to love having a woman on top.”

  The conversation had taken on sexual shades. The tree branches left them in heavy darkness, blocking most of the moonlight. Something about Cade Fournette smothered the fear that had grown like weeds since her childhood. Weeds she couldn’t seem to eradicate on her own.

  She bent at the elbows, dropping her face over his, her lips within an inch of making contact. His breath mingled with hers. The same courage she’d found with him once already welled up inside of her, urging her on.

  He didn’t wait for her move this time. He jerked on her hips and popped her forward. Her lips mashed into his, rocketing the kiss into the stratosphere.

  She moaned and moved against him with a frantic neediness. She threaded her hands through his hair, her body falling fully into his. One arm wrapped around her back, and the other hand tangled in her hair, trapping her close.

  His beard was both prickly and arousing, adding another element of tactile pleasure to the experience. Their tongues tangled, the act a battle of wills she was determined to win. He was as committed to success, and before she could launch a protest he rolled them and reversed their positions.

  The weight of his body pushed her into the soft ground. She took a huge breath. The scent of sweet grass mixed with the nearby river and Cade’s clean, masculine smell.

  He took the advantage and kissed her with a savageness that made every nerve ending tingle. She normally didn’t let a man on top of her, didn’t like the position of weakness, the need to have an escape always on her mind. Nothing with Cade was normal. Everything felt new and the spine-tingling excitement didn’t scare her; it only made her want more.

  She arched against him and wiggled her hips against the undeniable erection he rocked against her. She hooked her leg over his, trying to pull him fully over her, but he was too strong and in control. She loved it.

  One kiss melded into another, the heat between them explosive, ready to burn them to ashes. She tugged his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans and traced the puckered scar along his side. Any worries as to afterward splintered in the storm of their passion.

  She broke their kiss long enough to whisper, “Cade. Please.”

  He dropped his lips to her neck, the hair of his beard sending shivers through her body, adding to her desperation.

  He lifted his head, the breeze caressing where his lips had been. The darkness kept his expression a mystery. She suspected his long inspection meant his Fournette superhuman night sight was in full effect. What did he see? Memories that still resonated and connected them in a way she didn’t understand? Or a simple need only he seemed to be able to satisfy?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her eyes eviscerated him. Cut to his core. The one he feared was as black as an apple left to rot on winter’s ground. The reckless passion that had exploded between them took him by surprise—again.

  She’d gone wild on him, her kisses aggressive, her hands desperate. He’d wanted to take her, let her moans join all the wild animals’ calls in the night, but when he looked in her eyes more than raw need shot into him. Whether he was seeing her truth or his he wasn’t certain.

  What he was certain about was that adding sex into their oddly twined histories would tangle them further, yet he wasn’t sure he could deny either of them the pleasure. When he took her, it wouldn’t be on the hard ground in the dark.

  He brushed his lips over hers. A kiss filled with longing and regret and understanding. Then, he rolled off her to lie on his back. The full moon peeked through the dancing leaves. The night sounds filled the silence between them.

  He wasn’t sure how long they lay shoulder to shoulder. She broke the silence, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry if I’m pushing you to do something you don’t want to do.”<
br />
  The apology sounded rehearsed and stiff and utterly ridiculous. Had he not been kissing her back, grinding his painfully hard erection against her? He propped himself up on an elbow. A shaft of moonlight wavered over part of her face, leaving one eye bright and the other shadowed. That was Monroe—light and dark. Sweet and tough. Controlled and wild.

  “I promise you’re not taking advantage of me, Miss Kirby.” He picked pine needles and leaves out of her hair. “As much as I love hanging out by the river in the light of the full moon with you, I’d rather continue this somewhere bug-free and not so itchy.”

  Her lips curled into a tremulous smile, giving her the look of an innocent. But she wasn’t innocent anymore. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a woman. A fascinating puzzle of a woman he knew yet didn’t.

  She took his injured hand and pressed her lips along his scar. Tingles ran up his forearm. The gesture tossed a grenade into his chest, the detonation rearranging his insides.

  “Monroe!” Regan’s voice wavered across the distance.

  “I should head back.” Her lips moved against his palm.

  He hoped he wasn’t projecting his own regret into her voice. She stood and brushed at her tight black leggings, only managing to move the clinging debris around.

  He rose, too, pain pulsing in his knee. The run to catch her had strained his healing tendons. “I’m headed back to the river.”

  Regan called again, this time with more urgency. Monroe cupped her hands around her mouth. “I’m fine! I’m coming!”

  She looked toward a grove of trees at the edge of Cottonbloom, Mississippi’s richest neighborhood and back at him. “Wait. Was Regan actually right? Were you looking to sabotage her mother’s tomatoes?”

  “I was along for the ride,” he said as vaguely as possible. He’d dropped the two rabbits he’d been tasked with as soon as he’d spooked her, his priorities shifting.

  Regan called again and Cade could imagine a foot stomp to go along with it. Monroe backed away from him. “Regan was planning to offer Sawyer an olive branch.”