How many years had it been? Too many. This man didn’t seem a stranger. Her soul recognized him, yet … the books surrounding them seemed to press closer. She and Nash were nothing alike. It would take her a week and a half bottle of ibuprofen to read even one of the books on his shelf.
A long-buried memory resurfaced. Nash on his bike, waiting in her front yard, soon after her parents were killed. Somehow, she’d known he would come in spite of his own grief. Whatever they’d said was lost, but she remembered his hug. Their final hug. Although at the time, she hadn’t realized what the death of his mother and her parents would mean. If she had, she would have hung on harder, tighter. She wouldn’t have let him go. Nash represented the last remnant of her childhood happiness.
Even with the years and distance and heartache that had separated them, she hadn’t forgotten.
Chapter Four
Nash opened his eyes when he felt her retreat. Her tender hands in his hair and on his face had made him want to do foolish things. Like pull her close and kiss her. Insanity.
Her gaze glanced off his, her green eyes misty. She chewed on her bottom lip and busied herself with the first aid kit. Her braid fell over her shoulder, the tail brushing the tip of her breast. Her body language now was starkly opposite of the confident, take-no-shit woman in the bar. Which was the real Tallulah? Or was she too complicated to be classified so easily?
“Do you remember when I asked you to run away with me?” He wasn’t sure what prompted him to ask, knowing the memories it would dredge up would be painful.
She stilled for a moment before wetting a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide. “I remember.” At the first touch of the cotton ball, he flinched. She brushed his hair back while dabbing the scratches, keeping her gaze averted. “After you moved across the river, I thought about packing a bag and coming to see if the offer was still open.” No hint of laughter or tease lightened the seriousness of her face or voice.
“I would have gone with you. Things here were hard.” An understatement. The loneliness had been suffocating. While he hadn’t exactly been the most normal kid in Cottonbloom, Louisiana elementary school, he’d had Tally as his best friend and that had made everything bearable. He obtained official freak status in the Cottonbloom, Mississippi elementary school. Heath and his friends had made him an outcast, which drove him further into his books.
“Oh, Nash.” Her gaze finally scooted up to meet his. “Things got hard for me too.”
He waited, hoping she’d elaborate, but she only said, “Do you want a Band-Aid or not?”
“I’ll pass.”
She turned her attention to reassembling the first aid kit. “I’m sorry you got mixed up in my problems. I’m sure dealing with my jealous, possibly insane ex was not on your radar. Bet you wish you had stayed home tonight.”
Considering the events had brought her back to his place for the night, he wouldn’t take any of it back. Even the almost paralyzing shot of fear he’d experienced when he realized it was Heath Parsons dragging her away.
Suddenly, he’d been twelve again and in the middle-school locker room before gym, forced to change clothes in front of everyone. His boney chest and knobby knees stuck out in a sea of boys cresting their first wave of testosterone.
Most kids ignored him, which was fine, but Heath, who’d started shaving by sixth grade, took delight in shoving him into lockers or giving him wedgies or stealing his street clothes. In front of teachers, he kept his bullying confined to whispered taunts or the occasional trip.
It wasn’t that Heath physically intimidated him any longer, but the younger, wimpier, insecure Nash who lived somewhere in his psyche had been scared. He hated the feeling. Tally didn’t need to know any of that.
“I’m glad I was there for you,” he said simply.
She sighed, nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen with the first aid kit. When she returned, she stood in the center of the room, rocking on her feet as if ready to deliver an oration. “So…” She drew the word out. “You want me to take the couch for the night?”
Tally wasn’t an Amazon, but she wasn’t petite either and would have to crumple herself to fit on the short couch. “I have a bed upstairs in the loft.” She stiffened, her feet ceasing their nervous shuffling, but before she could make excuses, he stood up. “It’s a king. Plenty big for both of us. You can build a pillow fort down the middle if you’re worried you might accidently touch me and get cooties.”
He’d kept his voice light. Once he’d found his groove in academics, the pain of being bullied had diminished. In his world, he was valued for exactly what had made him a target for teasing as a child.
“You know, if it makes you feel better, Heath flunked out of Ole Miss and never finished college.” She cocked her head, somehow seeing behind his joke to the little kid who’d cried himself to sleep more times than he could count.
“I would have to be pretty petty to admit that it does.” He half-grinned, his lip throbbing with the pull. “Apparently, I’m extremely petty.”
She laughed, and as he watched her face light up he wondered when and what had changed her into a serious, closed-off woman. Was it because of men like Heath or had it happened long before?
Although he’d only moved over the river—a few miles as the crow flies—it was like he’d been transported to another world after his mother had died. The only news came from the local paper and from eavesdropping on his aunt’s quilting circle.
“Are you ready to go to bed?” Although it was earlier than he normally went to sleep, with a headache pounding his temple, lying in a dark room on cool sheets sounded fabulous.
“I guess. Are you sure your aunt isn’t going to have a stroke when she sees my car out front? Should I move it down the street?”
“I am approaching thirty years old. I love and respect my aunt, but if me having a female friend over gets stuck in her craw, then … frankly, she can choke on it.”
“Nash Hawthorne, you old dog.” Her tone was teasing and reminded him of the hours they spent under the willow tree talking and laughing about everything and nothing.
He grabbed her hand like they were still kids and pulled her toward the stairs. Besides the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the loft was his favorite part of the cottage. It faced the backyard, and skylights opened panoramic views of the stars on clear nights. Even better were rainy nights when the rivulets of water down the glass turned hypnotic and soothing.
The bedroom wasn’t a disaster, but a couple of drawers stood open, dirty clothes were piled in one corner, books were stacked haphazardly on the nightstand, and his bed was half-made. He shoved the drawers closed and kicked a dirty shirt under the bed. “Sorry for the mess. Wasn’t planning on bringing anyone home tonight.”
“Glad to hear it,” she muttered, but he couldn’t decipher her tone. In a louder voice, she asked, “I don’t suppose I could hop in the shower? I hate going to bed smelling like bar smoke.”
“Go for it.” He gathered her a towel, a washcloth, and one of his old T-shirts in case she wanted something clean to wear to bed. “There’s an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, I think. If you need something else, give a shout.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, the running water providing white noise. After shedding his socks and shoes, he paced a couple of minutes before scooching back on the pillow and picking up a book. He pulled a spare pair of glasses out of the drawer of his nightstand.
The water turned off, and he couldn’t remember anything that he’d read. He stared at the bathroom door. Finally, she emerged and he popped off the bed. Her long dark hair was out of its braid, still damp and hanging midway down her back. Her face was scrubbed clean of the smudgy eye makeup, her cheeks were pink, and she wore his T-shirt, a red one with a huge Superman emblem over the front. She was every comic-book nerd’s dream girl.
“Thanks for the shirt.” She shrugged, and it listed to one side, revealing the curve of a shoulder. No bra strap was visible.
&n
bsp; “No problem. I’m going to clean up now.” He thumbed toward the bathroom and backed into the door, his heels taking a painful knock.
He took a quick shower, debating whether to masturbate before joining her in bed. Perhaps it was general horniness, but he had a feeling it was all due to Tally in that shirt and imagining her not in that shirt. How freaked out would she be if she noticed that he was desperately, embarrassingly attracted to her?
In the end, he flipped the tap to cold until things were under control. He pulled on a clean pair of boxer briefs, even though he normally slept in the nude. Hoping the lights were off and her back was turned, he shuffled out of the bathroom. No such luck.
She was propped up on a pillow on the far side of the bed, the sheet tucked under her arms. Her eyes were wide and wandered his body, negating the effects of the cold shower. His blood flowed south, and as quickly as he could he tuned the lamp off and slid under the sheet, hoping he wasn’t pitching a tent.
He laced his hands behind his head and let out a slow breath. The night was clear, and the stars were visible through the skylights. They seemed closer and brighter tonight. The confrontation with Heath had nothing to do with the remnants of adrenaline pumping through his body. The pulsing energy was because Tallulah Fournette was in his bed. It didn’t seem to matter that nothing was going to happen.
The silence stretched a long time, so long, he assumed she was asleep. His body calmed, even though his mind was still active. When she shifted toward him, he turned his head. On her side with her knees drawn up and her hands tucked under her cheek, she stared at him.
“I came here once when we were twelve or so. It was November, right after Thanksgiving. Rode my bike all the way in the cold. Could barely feel my fingers.” Her voice had a tentative quality that made her sound younger and less secure.
“I didn’t know. Where was I?”
“Here I think, but your aunt answered the door. Mother taught me how to be polite, how to introduce myself. But I’ll never forget the way she looked at me.”
The same protective impulse that sent him across the parking lot bowed him up now. He turned on his side and propped his cheek in his hand, ignoring the burn of his scratches. “How so?”
“Like I was something below the scum off a pond. Like poverty was something she could catch by me breathing on her. She told me to skedaddle and to not come back. Said you were happy and didn’t want to be my friend anymore.” Her voice broke on the last two words.
His lungs emptied and strained for air, not in the way of an asthma attack, but the way of reflected pain. Anger at his aunt’s high-handedness burned low and slow. He didn’t know if Tally needed or even wanted comfort, and without letting himself consider it, he trailed his callused fingers over her soft skin and into her hair.
“I never told her that. You know that, right? I missed you more than I can even express. You were my only friend, and I lost you in a blink.” His hand formed a fist in the silky strands as if physically holding on to her now could rewrite their history.
A moment passed. Neither of them moved. The shadows were too deep to see her eyes, but the Fournettes had the gift of night-sight, every single one of them, Tally included. Whatever she saw in his face sent her rolling toward him. She hugged him tight, her face in his neck.
He kept one hand in her hair and returned her hug with the other, breathing her in. His shampoo and soap smelled different on her, more feminine and sensual. Her hands brushed over his back. Her breasts were soft against his bare chest. He shivered, but not from cold. He let her go and lay on his back before she could take note of his rock-hard erection. That not-so-little problem occurred in about two seconds flat. Instead of Superman, maybe he needed to adopt The Flash’s emblem.
She settled shoulder to shoulder with him, the sheet drawn up to her chin. “Why does your aunt hate me? Is it because I’m a swamp rat?”
The disparaging way she’d said the nickname given to anyone born on the Louisiana side of the river surprised him. As kids they’d been proud to be swamp rats. “Considering my mom—her sister—married one and I am one and a good number of the ladies she quilts with are swamp rats, I don’t think it’s that.”
“Then it’s me in particular she hates. What did I do to her?”
Nash didn’t know that to say, because his aunt had always shown a marked dislike for Tally. In fact, a mention of any of the Fournettes would be sure to draw a lemony expression to her face. Her disapproving glances when he’d high-tailed it upriver as often as possible hadn’t bothered him as a child, but knowing she’d driven the final wedge between him and Tally was unsettling.
“Does it matter anymore? We’re grown and don’t need anyone’s approval to be friends.”
She chuffed a laugh. “I suppose not. Your aunt can still make me feel like I’m about ten though, and like she caught me doing something really bad.”
“Like drinking unsweetened, hot tea?”
Silence reigned for a measure of beats before her laughter peeled. “That is sacrilege, Nash Hawthorne.”
“Scotland turned me pagan. Although, I never got used to eating kippers and black pudding for breakfast. Give me grits any day of the week.”
“I hate grits.” Tally made a gagging sound. As minor as it was, he’d learned something new about her. How much didn’t he know and how much had changed? Before he could formulate a list of questions, she asked, “So what did you do for fun after your aunt moved you up here?”
“I read. A lot. More than was healthy probably. Got even more into comic books. None of the kids on the street wanted to play with me, so I took to wandering down to the river.”
“That’s a long way from here.”
“It was my only form of rebellion. One Saturday, I went too far down river before turning back, and it was dark before I hit the road to town. Chief Thomason picked me up. I got grounded for two months. Not that it really mattered, since I had nowhere to go but school anyway. That was the extent of my excitement. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What kind of trouble were you up to?”
“I’m not sure I want to tell you.”
“Geez, now you have to tell me or I’ll make up crazy stories.”
“Like what?” Laughter lilted her voice.
“Let’s see … you ran off and joined a troupe of travelling clowns for the summer. You attempted to learn their trade, but never made it beyond making a balloon weiner dog. You came home depressed that your lifelong dream of clownhood had been dashed.”
Her laughter vibrated the mattress. “You are ridiculous.”
“Anything you actually did will never live up to my imagination, so spill it.” He waited. The moment took on an importance beyond whatever stories she had to tell. A thirst to know everything about her plagued him.
As she fiddled with the edge of the sheet, her laughter trailed off. “Pretty typical teenage stuff, I suppose. I stopped trying to be the good girl and started hanging out with a rougher crowd. The ones who cut classes on a regular basis to drink and smoke pot. Cade was strict, but he worked odd shifts. It was easy to sneak out. I’d finally found something I was good at.”
Along with residual amusement, bitterness edged her words. He imagined her climbing out of her back window and into the hostas that grew around her house. “I always imagined you as homecoming queen or something. A tiara and everything.”
She barked a laugh. “Football games and homecoming were not my thing.”
“What about prom? Did you go?’
“I got asked.”
“But?”
“We didn’t have the money for a dress and hair and stuff, so another girl and I drank some beers we’d filched from her dad and watched old movies. What about you? You go to prom?”
He huffed. “Let’s see I was a sixteen-year-old senior who puberty bypassed. I was a foot shorter than most girls, my voice was still cracky, and my face could have been the before shot for an acne commercial. E
ven with all that, I somehow got up the courage to ask the head cheerleader to go with me.”
Her gasp was half surprise, half laughter and she propped her head on a hand to face him. “What did she say?”
“‘No.’ Actually, I think it was closer to ‘Hell no.’ After she finished laughing, of course.”
“That must have been mortifying.”
“Little bit.” Vast understatement. He’d pretended to be sick the next three days. He forced a nonchalant tone. “No regrets, right?”
“That I can’t say.”
“What do you regret?”
“Doing stuff that would have made things even harder for Cade if I’d been caught, but doing them anyway.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I never turned down a dare. I drank liquor, smoked pot, skipped school. I once climbed the water tower over on this side to paint graffiti.”
“I remember that. They thought some delinquent boys did it.”
“Nope. It was me.” Regret or not, he could hear a sliver of pride in her voice.
“What else?”
“Stole a car.”
“How old were you?” He popped back up on his elbow, facing her.
“Fifteen. One of the quilting ladies left her keys in her giant Buick. I drove it about half a block down River Street one Saturday afternoon. I thought I heard sirens, parked it at the curb, and took off running. I was so scared I nearly wet myself.”
“I never heard anything about it.”
Her giggles turned into laughter. “That’s what was so funny. It was Ms. Candace. She stared at the empty spot for a while, then bee-bopped down half a block and drove off. I’m pretty sure she thought she’d just forgotten where she parked it.”
He laughed too, but it faded into a sense of melancholy. Her long dark hair cascaded around her shoulders to pool on the bed. He itched to touch it again. “I feel like I missed out on rites of passage or something.”
Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel Page 4
