Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  She walked past him muttering about poison ivy and snakes and sunstroke but with a smile on her face. He packed the cooler with BLTs, chips, a Baggie full of Oreos, and two grape Nehis. A meal worthy of the most elite elementary-school lunch box.

  She came out of the back wearing a pair of flip-flops with big, plastic daisies between her toes and stopped in a patch of sunlight from the window. He stared. She was sweet and wholesome and sexy as hell.

  “I’m assuming these are Tally’s unless Sawyer’s cross-dressing these days,” she said.

  “Definitely Tally’s. Let’s hit it.” He zipped the cooler closed and led the way outside. “We’re going to take a boat with one of my first engine designs.”

  “What will it do?”

  “Nothing exciting like fly or hover. It’s quieter. Will save on gas.”

  “Sounds perfect.” She slipped her hand in his and the sensation of plugging into something electric coursed through him.

  As they took the pine needle–strewn path together a numbing realization washed over him. Was this a date? An honest-to-God date? He glanced over at her. She was concentrating on where to put her feet. The yellow of the dress made her skin glow and her hair shine.

  It was. He should have taken her to a fancy restaurant on the Mississippi side. Put his signature on the claim he’d staked last night on the dance floor.

  The river peeked through the trees, the soft cadence of running water like an old, familiar song he knew by heart. The river. A sense of inevitability unknotted his stomach. It had all started on the river so many years ago. The circle was complete.

  The flat-bottomed two-person skiff was pulled up the bank. It was perfect for maneuvering through the narrow channels extruding from the main river like capillaries.

  He stowed the cooler and pushed the boat out into the water. He kept one foot in the bow of the boat, one foot on ground, and held out a hand. She stepped over his foot and stood in the middle of the boat.

  To get to the stern, he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and shuffled by her. The scent of sunscreen mixed with the river reminded him of summers before his parents died when he and Sawyer would tie themselves to the bank to drift and pretend to fish for hours, the sun stealing all their energy.

  She darted her tongue over her bottom lip, and he nearly kissed her. Before he could act on the compulsion, he sat down on the sun-warmed metal seat. He didn’t want her to think this was about getting her in bed—although he wanted in her bed in the worst possible way, especially after getting a taste of her last night.

  He wanted more. For as long as he was home.

  A melancholy wove through his sense of possession. Temporary. This was all temporary. The river, home, Monroe. Why did he have to keep reminding himself of that?

  Reluctantly, he transferred his attention from her to getting them going. Turning away from him, she settled onto her seat, crossing her feet at the ankles and knitting her hands together in her lap like she was sitting in a church pew.

  He cranked the boat engine; the whisper-soft technology he’d created meant he didn’t even need to raise his voice to be heard. “You ready?”

  She looked over her shoulder and nodded as the engine worked them slowly backward. He idled in the heart of the river. Where should he take her? A hundred childhood destinations scrolled. Only one held any significance. A slight jerk as he shifted forward had her hands curling around the sides.

  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the river until he came home. The pulse of his blood seemed to match the flow of the current. In all the times he’d climbed a rock face or hang glided or heli-skied, he’d never felt the same connection to nature he had when he was on the river. He’d done all that other stuff for the rush and to conquer his fear, not to appreciate the majesty of the world.

  “It’s so quiet.” She cocked a leg up and shifted to be able to see him, her hair streaming around her neck.

  “It also handles shallow, reedy water better than anything else on the market. Nothing worse than having to get all wet and untangle your motor. Especially in an area thick with gators.”

  “Seems like a pretty specific market.”

  “You’d be surprised. Recreational fishing is a huge industry.” He veered onto a wider stream. The breeze coming off the water was enough to keep the bugs and heat at bay.

  “Do you fish?” She turned around to face him and tucked her fluttering hair behind her ears.

  “When I was a kid Sawyer and I used to take a boat out, but we threw back what we caught because we were both too lazy to fillet them. Mama always lamented our lack of fishing prowess.” He laughed, but it trailed into nothing as he added softly, “We never got the chance to tell her the truth.”

  “I’ll bet she knew exactly what you two were up to.” Her soft smile did funny things to his organs.

  “Maybe. I hope so. After they died, fishing was no longer recreational; it was a necessity.”

  “I used to…” She glanced toward the bank.

  “Used to what?”

  “Lie in bed at night and wonder if you were out looking for food. Worry if you had enough. Don’t laugh, but … I prayed for you every night.”

  He didn’t feel like laughing. It had been a long time since he believed in some higher power. A long time since harsh reality had destroyed the fantasy of a benevolent god who would provide for them.

  Whether her prayers reached heaven or not, the knowledge someone had worried about him, had thought about him, had understood him, lightened a weight that he’d dragged for too many years.

  They stared into each other’s eyes, the few feet separating them too far. The river narrowed, the trees on either bank reaching for one another and forming a tunnel of green-filtered sunlight and shadows. He slowed them, the boat puttering against the swifter current and keeping them still. The beauty surrounding them was his church, the flow of the water his hymn, the peace his prayer.

  Words were beyond him.

  “It’s beautiful.” Her voice was reverent. “I know where we’re going.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You told me about this stretch of the river once. Do you remember?”

  He didn’t, but they’d talked about nothing and everything their nights together.

  “After you left, I waited for you. Every full moon.” A thread of heartache weaved her words.

  “Why?” His voice croaked like a bullfrog.

  “You were the only one who knew everything. Who understood. I was … so alone. So lonely.”

  No one would have guessed a rich Mississippi girl with a big house and a pool and a multitude of friends was as lonely and alone as a poor Louisiana boy trying to survive.

  Her slight laugh was full of self-deprecation. “Anyway, you never came back.”

  Her words pierced him like an accusation. His own truths poured out as they had that night under the cottonwood tree. “I didn’t want to leave. I had to.”

  She tilted her head and waited.

  Telling Tally had weakened the dam and the words flowed easier. Monroe listened, the expression on her face never changing.

  “Did you want to get caught?” she asked after he fell silent.

  “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  “You needed help, Cade. You were exhausted and desperate and hopeless. It got worse every time I saw you.”

  He blinked and kicked the engine into a higher gear. His heart matched their acceleration upriver. She stayed facing him, her hair whipping around her face. Was she right?

  It didn’t take long before the shadow of the cottonwood tree emerged around a bend. He’d never been this far upriver in the daytime. Old prejudices born from the men who’d split the town kept the ’Sips on their side and the swamp rats on theirs.

  He ran the skiff aground close to where he’d hidden it the first time they’d met. In the bright sunlight and with birds trilling, the dark magic he’d found there at night was muted.

  H
e hopped into the shallows and secured the boat. She stood, rocking from side to side, her hands out for balance. The bank was steep, the path they’d used so many years ago carved away. Without warning her, he set his shoulder into her stomach and lifted her up.

  She squealed his name, equal amounts of surprise and laughter in her voice. It had always been that way with them, the easy veering from serious to light. One minute they’d be talking about another one of her mother’s binges, and the next she would have him laughing about a trick someone had played on a substitute teacher.

  He climbed the bank, using his free hand to grab at exposed roots for leverage. She grabbed the waistband of his shorts and laughed harder.

  He crested the top but didn’t put her down. He stared at the tree, surprised at how much bigger it appeared. The leaves rustled in the wind racing over the field of cotton that stretched as far as he could see on the opposite bank. White bolls dotted the landscape.

  “Are you going to put me down?” She pushed up from his back.

  “In a minute.” He slipped his hand under her skirt, the skin of her thigh like silk against his rough palm, the nerve endings firing along his scar. She went limp, her arms coming around his waist from behind. He removed his hand and gave her bottom a smack.

  Her outraged, “Hey!” had him chuckling, and he bent to put her down. Her face was flushed from either arousal or hanging upside down or both.

  “I wanted to throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of the party last night.”

  “I kind of wish you had.” Her eyebrows waggled. “Maybe next time?”

  The implication tempered the happiness in her smile. Would there be a next time? He caressed her cheek and whispered, “Maybe.” Attempting a normal tone, he continued. “I’ll unload the boat.”

  He tossed an old quilt into her waiting arms. She disappeared, and he manhandled the cooler up the bank. She had set up camp in their spot, leaning against the trunk.

  He dropped the cooler nearby and joined her, not against the tree but lying on his back and staring into the branches. It was both familiar yet almost unrecognizable in the light of day after so many years. Like the connection he shared with Monroe.

  “What would have happened if you’d stayed, do you think?” She played in his hair, the sweetness of the feeling indescribable.

  “I’d have ended up in jail for sure.”

  “No. With us.”

  He shifted so he could see her face framed against the sun-dappled leaves. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you ever … think about me as more than a little girl back then?”

  He blew out a long, slow breath as if preparing for someone to rip off a bandage. “Not at first. Not for years even. I kept coming back for the same reason as you needed me, I suppose. Someone to talk to. Someone to lean on.”

  “If not at first? Then eventually?”

  He smiled at her hopeful lilt. “I swear one full moon I showed up and you had changed.”

  “Like a werewolf?”

  A laugh burst from his chest. “Something like that. You went from all skinny edges to curves. I couldn’t help but notice, but I would never have touched you. You were too young, going to college, making a life for yourself. I had nothing to offer. The only place I was headed was trouble.” He brushed her hair back. “But I thought about it. Thought about you.”

  “I thought about you, too.” She moved next to him, laying her head on his chest, and he closed his eyes. “I used to pretend my pillow was you and practice kissing it. Mostly, though, I would just hug it and pretend you were hugging me back.”

  The intensely vulnerable feeling that shot through him was something he’d never experienced. He’d done crazy things before—some downright dangerous—but he’d never been stymied by fear. He was a risk taker by nature.

  “You’re a much better kisser than my pillow.”

  “Am I?”

  She hummed an affirmative and lifted over him. Her breasts pressed into his chest and she slid her smooth leg between his. Her hair fell forward and tickled his cheeks.

  Kissing Monroe under the cottonwood tree had been an unattainable fantasy a decade earlier. The fact that it was happening, and in the light of day no less, was mind-blowing.

  It was like a first kiss, his first kiss. Soft and sweet and colored with a wealth of sensuality. She set the rhythm, the give-and-take, the devastating invasion and retreat.

  He recognized Monroe as both a stranger and a part of himself. A part he’d tried to forget yet was integral to who he was. How had they come so far, so fast? Her kisses picked apart any defense he might mount, and he surrendered.

  Chapter Twenty

  A rumble welled from his chest and throat, vibrating her body. Or maybe those trembles were entirely of her making. Being in control was a heady feeling. She delved her hands into his hair and skimmed her tongue along his lower lip, slowly, sensually, enjoying the soft pliancy of his mouth under hers.

  But her control was fleeting. He cupped the back of her head and pressed a hand along her back, rolling them until he was on top and bending her to fit his will. Passion replaced the slow exploration. Aggressive and demanding, his kiss devastated her senses.

  She lost all concept of time or space. Nothing mattered except their kiss. He continued to grapple her closer with rough hands as his tongue toyed with hers. His stubble rubbed at her chin and cheeks.

  He pulled away, his lips feathering along her jaw. She tilted her head back, and his mouth trailed down her neck. Breaking away, he propped himself up on his elbows. His eyes were cutting and intense. So different from their childhood meetings when the darkness had tamped down his fierceness.

  She played with the hair at his nape. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything feels perfect.” He didn’t sound happy about it.

  He rolled off her and reached for the cooler. Her body missed the weight of his. Her dress was bunched around her upper thighs, her body on fire.

  He handed her an ice-cold can. The shift from rolling around on the ground together as if they couldn’t get close enough to calmly eating lunch was disconcerting. Why did it seem he was completely unaffected by their epic make-out session while she was left reeling and trying to establish some kind of mental balance? She pushed up to sitting and pressed the can against her neck to cool herself down in more ways than one.

  “I haven’t had a Nehi in forever.” She popped the top and took several swallows. “Dear Lord, call nine-one-one if I go into a diabetic coma.”

  “This’ll help offset the sugar.”

  She lifted the top piece of bread off the sandwich. “BLTs. My favorite.”

  “Stole the tomatoes from Regan’s mama.”

  Monroe froze with her mouth around the corner. He laughed, his head back, his throat working. “Your face. You’d think I’d confessed to stealing the Crown Jewels or something. Rest easy; I got them at the grocery. They’re probably from California.”

  She took a bite, and sure enough, the tomato wasn’t sweet enough to be Mississippi grown. “You’re the boy who cried wolf, considering you were out trying to plant rabbits in her garden.”

  He shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich, his lips still upturned. “I honestly didn’t know what Sawyer was up to until he handed me the first rabbit out of the trap.”

  She finished her sandwich, skipped the chips, but couldn’t deny the lure of an Oreo. “How do you eat yours?”

  “With my mouth,” he said dryly.

  “But do you twist it apart and lick the cream?” She demonstrated her preferred method. Halfway through the second lick, she slowed. The intensity of his gaze was focused on her show-and-tell, his Oreo hovering halfway to his mouth. She touched her tongue to her top lip, leaving some sweetness behind. Who knew eating a cookie could be so sensual? Maybe she could provoke him to finish what they’d started before lunch.

  His phone buzzed.

  The curse he muttered was tinged with regret and not rancor
. He checked the screen and answered. “What’s up?”

  A male voice garbled words like Charlie Brown’s teacher on the other end. Cade checked his watch. “I wasn’t expecting it until tomorrow. I’ll explain everything when I get back up at the house.”

  His gaze clashed with hers, his lips quirking. “Messing around out on the river. See you in a bit.”

  He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “We’re going to have to head back. My new project arrived and Sawyer is hopping mad.”

  She adjusted her skirt and licked the residual cream off her top lip. “Why is he mad?”

  “Probably because I’m a bossy cur who’s taking over his garage.”

  “Have the two of you been fighting a lot?”

  “We’ve been stepping on each other’s toes some.” He repacked the cooler while she shook out the quilt.

  They walked side by side to the bank. While she waited for him to load the boat, she turned and looked at their tree. The safety and security it had represented had been false. It was a tree like any other along the river. Cade climbed back up the bank, and she transferred her attention to him.

  It was Cade. It always had been. The safety and security she’d craved was in him, not a part of the tree. Her smile beat back the tears she didn’t want to explain. He picked her up again as if she weighed nothing and slip-slid down the bank to deposit her on the seat.

  She expected him to gun the engine and fly them back downriver. Instead, they puttered with the slight current, going in and out of shadows and bright sunshine.

  Kicking off the flip-flops, she turned sideways and let her feet drag in the water. The water was never clear, but in the summer the dry conditions and teeming plant life provided a greenish-brown cast to it. Tall reeds encroached into the water, narrowing the navigable section to the very middle.

  The small dock at the back of Sawyer’s house came into view. She pulled her feet out and slipped her flip-flops back on. Arms crossed, Sawyer stood at the top of the rise like a parent ready to discipline them for stealing the boat.