Leave the Night On

by Laura Trentham

  Her hand relaxed in his. “You’re right. Mother has always veered protective. Maggie never had an urge to explore or push boundaries. She stayed in her room and read for hours and hours. When I came along, the only thing that seemed to work was instilling the fear of God, gators … everything, I suppose.”

  “You don’t seem scared now.” He helped her over a rotting log. The trees closed in around them, blocking the moon and muting the light from the bonfire.

  “Then I’m hiding it better than I think. Accepting Andrew’s proposal was the coward’s way out.”

  “What do you mean?” Fallen pine needles muffled their footsteps, and the darkness lent an intimacy he equated with a Catholic’s confessional.

  “Marrying Andrew was the path of least resistance. My life’s trajectory was sending me hurtling toward that final destination, and I was too weak to jump off.”

  “You’re free now.”

  “Not because of some great leap of bravery on my part. I’ve let life happen to me. Do you know what I mean?” Her sigh was like a shush of wind through the leaves.

  He thought about the college scholarship he’d given up to stay in the safety of the garage with his family. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  The sound of the river grew louder, muffling the shouts and laughter behind them and widening the feeling of solitude. They reached the bank, and he guided her to sit on a mossy spot at the edge of the bank under a river birch. Wispy fog rose from the river, an earthy smell mingling with the smoke from the bonfire.

  “If you could go back, would you go to that design school in Savannah?” he asked.

  When she answered, her voice was soft as if she didn’t want to wake the world around them. “Actually, my big dream was to move to New York and make a name for myself.”

  “You don’t want that anymore?”

  “I won’t lie, I thought about packing a bag and taking off after the Camaro fiasco, but not to follow my dream—to escape my nightmare.” She played with the collar of her shirt, her fingers long and graceful and smooth, so unlike his dinged, work roughened hands. “The other night when Ms. Eckert loved my dress and bought it, I realized what I want.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I want to start my own label, but not in New York, here in Cottonbloom. I’ll start small—a few pieces in Abigail’s and see where it goes. At least I can say I tried.”

  “I predict you won’t be able to keep up with demand.” He had full confidence in her abilities.

  She leaned her head against his shoulder and whispered, “Thanks.”

  Her fingers brushed his, and she didn’t seem bothered by the calluses and nicks. The sweetness of the moment was reflected in a whippoorwill’s song high up in the trees. Night sounds and the river muted the need for conversation.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What’s your dream?

  “I’m living my dream.” He said it so confidently, he almost believed it himself, but his eyebrow twitched, and he pulled his hand away from hers to rub at the offending line of jumpy nerves. Before she could probe deeper, he stood. “Didn’t I promise you fun and games?”

  Chapter Eleven

  His answer was superficial, but Sutton didn’t press him. Fun was good. Fun was what she needed, not the seriousness of her confessions in the dark.

  Yet she didn’t move.

  All black and whites angles in the shadows, he was strength and passion and so far out of her realm of experience that she was afraid.

  But fear was double-edged. Her mother had taught her daughters that chances were not to be taken, because they inevitability led to failure. Yet fear and excitement were kissing cousins. The kind of fear Wyatt incited made her want to follow him anywhere.

  She pushed up from the soft moss, and they picked their way through the underbrush, the light of the fire a beacon through the trees. If he wanted to have fun, then she would keep things light from here on out. “So there’s Ford and Mack … why didn’t your daddy give you and Jackson vehicle names too?”

  “Actually, Barrett-Jackson is a big auction house for cars.

  “Why are you Wyatt and not Barrett, then?”

  “Story is that my mom put her foot down. Apparently, I have her eyes, and she wanted to name me.” Although his voice didn’t reflect any angst, she sensed his mother was a cut that had never healed.

  Her hand found his like a magnet finding its mate, and she knitted their fingers together. Music drifted through the trees. Not the haunting melodies from Delmar Fournette’s mandolin, but country music from the speakers of someone’s truck.

  “You know how to two-step?” Wyatt asked.

  “No, but I learned how to waltz and foxtrot during cotillion, a lot of good that does me.”

  Wyatt tugged her into a faster walk. “I’ll teach you.

  “No way. Not in front of everyone. I’ll look like an idiot.” She pulled at his arm, but inertia was on his side.

  “That’s your fear talking. Come on and take a chance on me.”

  Even though he was talking about something as simple as a dance, the moment felt like a tipping point. Fearful or brave? Which did she choose?

  She quit fighting and let him lead her into the circle of light. A handful of couples danced, but a majority of the partiers hung around the edges talking and watching. Before her feet could mount a rebellion and retreat, Wyatt spun her around and put a firm hand on her upper back, holding her other hand in a typical dance hold.

  “The two-step is simple. Four steps, two quick, two slow. I step forward on my left, and you step back on your right. Okay?”

  She made an affirmative sounding hum and tried to assimilate what he was saying, but heat streaked across her back where his hand branded her. All the eyes fixed on them didn’t help her concentration.

  He counted them off, and she made it two steps before screwing up. She bit the inside of her cheek. “I can’t do it.”

  “You’re acting like this is worse than a firing squad. What are you thinking about?”

  “Amoebas.”

  He gave a slight shake of his head before bursting out in chesty laughter that sent vibrations through his hold to her. “Dare I ask why?”

  “I feel like we’re being examined like reproducing amoebas through a microscope.”

  “If I recall my high school biology, amoebas are asexual. I’m not. Forget about everyone else and look at me.”

  She focused on his face. The flickering fire set gold sparking in his gray eyes, and since he’d invited her to, she let her gaze linger on all his features, but especially his mouth. His lips were mouthing “quick-quick-slow-slow,” and she dabbed her bottom lip with her tongue, remembering what they’d felt like against hers.

  “You’re dancing.” His sweet, sexy lips turned up in a smile.

  She glanced down and stumbled once, but he righted her easily and got her back in rhythm. She returned her gaze to his mouth. The two-step was fun, but his body was too far away. Could she request a slow dance? A song where he’d be forced to pull her close, her temple against his cheek, her lips against his throat, his long, hard body flush with hers.

  The song switched to something slow and sultry, and Sutton almost broke out into the Hallelujah Chorus. Wyatt didn’t miss a beat. He skimmed his hand down to her lower back and pressed her against him. She slid both her hands around his shoulders and let her lips brush his skin.

  Heaven. She was in heaven in his arms. Melodrama had never been her thing, and passion had always been an abstract concept. Until now. Until him.

  Yet, it wasn’t real.

  She could almost pretend his arms tightened around her out of possessiveness or need, but she knew better. How could she mourn the loss of something that didn’t exist? Something that had never been in her grasp and never would be?

  But what if she asked him to make it real? For only a night if that’s all he wanted. She could be that girl, couldn’t she? The kind that could appreciate the physical without getting her
emotions wrapped up in a simple act. Granted, it would be a new part for her, but she longed to be someone new, someone different.

  The music ended mid song and groans went up around the crowd. She and Wyatt peeled apart, her lips coasting across his cheek and glancing across the corner of his mouth. She couldn’t look him in the eye, afraid of the truths he might discover.

  She’d never be that girl. She hadn’t had the proper training. How would she move on if he lived up to even half her fantasies? The future would consist of her sister and a multitude of stray cats for company.

  A man called his name, yet he didn’t take his hands from her body.

  “Someone needs you,” she croaked through her dry, narrowed throat. I need you, she wanted to say but didn’t.

  “Stay here. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” His voice sounded as raw as she felt inside.

  She stepped back into the shadows and chafed her arms, cool without the heat of his body and her desires to warm her.

  “You and Wyatt, huh?” A feminine voice had her spinning around. The woman sitting on the tailgate of a truck was attractive in a way that matched the sexy, throaty quality of her voice. This woman had never attended a cotillion. Church either, if Sutton had to guess.

  “Yeah. Me and Wyatt.” Sutton didn’t move, not sure what she was dealing with.

  The people she’d met, men and women alike, had been curious about her and Wyatt, but they’d also seemed surprised. If she and Wyatt hadn’t met over a thong in his garage, she wouldn’t have stood a chance with him, no matter what he’d said.

  “I’m Candace.” She held out a hand.

  Sutton stepped closer and took the polite offering. Candace’s rough hand seemed older than her body and face. “Sutton. Nice to meet you.”

  “You’re a ’Sip, aren’t you?” No malice sharpened the woman’s words, and a smile flashed before she took a swig of beer.

  “What gave me away? The Sunday school clothes?” Sutton gave a little laugh.

  “Never seen you out here, is all. And you have a way about you. Come on and sit a spell. The boys will have Wyatt looking under all their hoods before long.”

  Sutton slid onto the truck gate, the fabric of her skirt catching on a patch of rust. “Have you known Wyatt a long time?”

  “Since we were kids.” Candace leaned back, her gaze narrowing on Sutton. “Can I give you some advice?”

  Sutton sensed whatever wisdom Candace was getting ready to lay at her feet would chase away any lingering hope.

  Candace didn’t wait for an answer. “Wyatt is a great guy. Amazing in fact, but for the sake of all that’s holy, do not let yourself fall in love with the man.”

  Sutton wanted to look away from the woman, but couldn’t.

  “I see the way you look at him,” Candace said.

  “I’m not in love with him.” She would swear it with one hand on a stack of Bibles and one on her heart.

  She wasn’t capable of anything as complicated as love. Yes, her insides tumbled like an out of kilter washing machine around him. And, okay, she thought about him way too much. Basically during all her waking and sleeping hours. But none of that had anything to do with love.

  Silence fell and the woman continued to hold Sutton’s gaze long after it became uncomfortable.

  “Were you in love with him?” Sutton asked.

  “Of course, I was.” Candace’s ready agreement knocked the breath out of Sutton, and as a result her next words came out more aggressively than she intended.

  “Are you still?”

  Candace’s smile made Sutton feel childish. The woman flashed a thin gold band on her left hand and shifted to look toward the crowd of men. “I’ve been happily married going on seven years. Had a child, lost a child. Lived a lifetime while Wyatt’s been treading water, moving from one woman to the next.”

  “We’re having fun. That’s all this is.” Sutton’s voice was less than convincing, and the snort of laughter insinuated Candace obviously wasn’t anywhere near convinced.

  “Wyatt loves his project cars more than his women. All those Abbott boys do. It’s either in their blood or their raising or both.” She touched the back of Sutton’s hand with callused fingertips, and Sutton sensed nothing but kindness. “Have your fun but have a care with your heart.”

  Candace hopped off the tailgate and strolled off without a backward glance. Where darkness overtook the firelight, she put her arms around a wiry man not much taller than herself, and they disappeared into the night.

  Sutton stayed planted on the tailgate. Everything Candace had said rang true. Hadn’t Wyatt insinuated that she was basically his project? Once she was deemed drivable again, he would lose interest, his attachment temporary. Yet he kept a decade-old advertisement for a car in his wallet like he was pining for an unrequited lover. The pieces didn’t fit.

  A rough-looking man with a full, dark beard and barrel-like physique encased in overalls shook her out of her reverie. “Are you coming home with me?”

  Shock left her speechless and scooting down the tailgate.

  “In your dreams, you dirty old coot.” Wyatt came around the other side of the truck, his voice teasing. “She’s coming home with me.”

  “You’d better get her out of my truck then, because I’m ready to head.”

  She hopped down and smoothed down her skirt. The man raised the tailgate and winked at her, emanating good cheer.

  The crowd was breaking up and the fire dying. Wyatt exchanged good-byes and handshakes or shoulder slaps as they weaved through the crowd to his car. Once cocooned inside, he cranked the engine and turned to her.

  “What’d you think? Did it live up to your expectations?”

  “It was fun. A lot tamer than I expected though.”

  He laughed and got them headed through the ruts back to the main road. “Told you so. Any craziness is confined to the occasional fight or to one of the young, stupid boys showing off to impress a woman.”

  He steered the car through the section that had spun their wheels without an issue. She bit the inside of her lip and stared at his hand maneuvering the gearshift. The backlight of the instrument panel lit a long scratch on the back that she’d felt earlier. The urge to kiss it and make it all better had her leaning toward the door, Candace’s advice reverberating around her head.

  “What now?” he asked. The car bumped through the last potholes and onto the smooth pavement of the parish road.

  “I’d better head home. I have to work at the boutique tomorrow.”

  “We should do something tomorrow night.” His voice took on a rumble that reminded her of his car.

  “We should?” A flare shot off in her chest.

  “Good night to be seen and keep those rumors afloat.”

  She brightened her voice to keep the disappointment from showing. Fun, fun, fun. That’s what she was having. “Okay, where should we go?”

  “What’s your usual hangout?”

  “My couch with a movie and junk food.”

  His laugh cracked in the small space as if she’d made a joke. Sadly, she’d been dead serious.

  “Do you play pool?” he asked.

  “Tried a couple of times in college, but I was terrible.”

  “I’ll teach you. It’s easy once you understand it’s all about the angles.”

  He pulled up beside her car, still parked on River Street close to the boutique. Leaving the car idling, he opened his door and came around the front to open hers and offer a hand out of the low bucket seat.

  She slipped her hand in his. Standing put them close together. He had her blocked between his body and the car. He tilted his face toward hers. Their lips were inches apart, their breath mingling. He was going to kiss her. Fireworks detonated in her stomach, this time of the colorful Roman candle variety.

  He patted her shoulder, took a step back and cleared his throat. “Alrighty then, I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow night.”

  Incapable of coherent words, she nodded and
forced her feet to move. Only when she was driving away did his car turn toward the bridge that would carry him over the river.

  Why was she doing this again? Revenge. It had all started from some petty need to hurt Andrew and Bree. And to save face in the town with her father’s reelection. Selfish reasons. The situation was spinning out of her control. While it wasn’t love, she couldn’t deny a knotted, tangle of feelings existed for him. Was karma turning to take a bite?

  Chapter Twelve

  Dusk was falling by the time he picked her up for their “date.” She’d picked out a tight black scoop-necked T-shirt in a thin silky-textured fabric from the boutique and paired it with tight ankle-length jeans and red heels. So far out of the realm of her demure skirts and dresses, the outfit felt like a costume.

  The costume of a badass biker chick. She decided to embrace the look.

  Wyatt’s eyes had widened and skimmed down her body. His stuttering, “You look good … great … I mean, amazing,” had her throwing her shoulders back and working the heels with confidence.

  Until she nearly twisted her ankle on a crack in the pavement.

  In the car, she studied his profile, completely beyond her abilities to interpret. He rolled his window halfway down, and she gave up, closing her eyes. The evening air swirled around the cabin, whipping through her hair when they hit the parish road. The smell was distinctly Cottonbloom, river and salt, earthy and elemental.

  The Hornet’s engine downshifted, and gravel crunched under the wheels. She opened her eyes and tension trickled down her spine. It was early yet but the lot of the Rivershack Tavern was more than half full. This time she hauled herself out before he could round the bumper to help her.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  He shrugged. “New place, new people. Only natural.”

  She hummed in agreement even though that’s not what was making her nervous. It was him. The way he smelled fresh like dryer sheets. A scent she’d never thought was sexy but somehow on him, it was unbearably so. And the way he held her elbow as she navigated the gravel lot in her heels. And the way his faded jeans molded his thighs.