Till I Kissed You (15 page)

He pointed at her and picked up their inane conversation. “Close your garage door and set your alarm. You can load whatever you need in the morning.”

He stormed out the door, not sure what he was feeling. Halfway to his truck, he risked a glance behind him. The door was still half open and she was exactly where he'd left her. He stopped and pivoted. What was he doing? He'd invaded her house, taken her against a wall, and stormed out like she was the one at fault.

Before he could take another step in any direction, she moved and slammed the door. Lights went out. The noisy creaking of the garage door lowering shook him out of his reverie. He trudged the short distance to his truck and climbed in.

He needed to get moving. After his monumental asshattery, he wouldn't be surprised if she called the police to report him loitering outside of her house. He drove back over the river on autopilot.

The crazy thing was that his body wasn't sated. Screwing each other's brains out had only whetted his appetite. Underneath the embarrassment and regret and hurt feelings, he imagined her naked on his bed. Naked for him to do whatever he pleased. All night long.

They'd never had that in the years they'd dated. It was all stolen moments in the truck or on the boat or the ground. He pulled up to his house. Cade's truck sat by the willow tree. He banged his head against the steering wheel a couple of times to rid himself of thoughts of Regan Lovell. There would be no next time with her.

His phone was on the dash and blinking with five messages. All from Cade. He didn't bother to listen to them. Loosening his tie, he made his way around to the kitchen door on the side of the house. Sure enough, Cade was sprawled at the table as if he owned it, flipping through a boating magazine.

At one time, it had been their family table. Sawyer didn't know why he kept the old thing. Good memories and bad lingered in the wood. His parents, Cade, Tally, and him squeezing around it for family dinners. Laughter, a few fights about eating vegetables, but mostly love. It came with them to the trailer and it was where he did his homework and where they ate the food Cade had caught or trapped, sometimes supplemented by the no-brand macaroni and cheese from the food bank.

As hard as Cade had tried to keep it a secret, Sawyer had found out about the charity in the hardest way possible. A classmate whose mother volunteered at the food bank had confronted him in the halls with malicious laughter. He'd punched the kid's teasing smile off his face. Pride had him holding his head up on the way home that day. No way were the Fournettes accepting charity.

As he got closer to their ramshackle trailer, doubts wormed their way into him. Small things had added up into one big truth. Sawyer had sharpened his eyes, and sure enough found evidence crumpled and buried at the bottom of the trash.

He'd waited up that night to confront Cade, throw the evidence in his face and tell him to never go back to the food bank. But when Cade had stepped through the door, the weariness on his face had stilled Sawyer's tongue. His brother had dropped out of school and seemed to have aged a decade in six months. That night Sawyer had crossed from selfish adolescence into adulthood.

Sawyer went to the frig, grabbed two beers, and handed one over, joining Cade at the old, scarred table. Cade tossed the magazine aside and took a swig. Neither of them spoke until half their beers were gone.

“Please tell me you didn't sleep with her,” Cade said.

Sawyer startled. “How…”

Cade dropped his forehead to the top of the beer and spoke to the table. “Your pants are undone.”

“Look, we both agreed it was a mistake. It won't happen again, I swear.” Sawyer wished his promise held a little more conviction. He tried to summon regret for what he'd done with Regan. Tried and failed. Even as his head acknowledged the monumental mistake, his body remembered the pleasure. In fact, his only regret was that he hadn't had more time. Time to strip her bare and reacquaint himself with every inch of her body.

“It doesn't matter. You've screwed up the whole deal by screwing her.”

Had he comprised the festival? “I don't see how what I did—”

“I thought I could trust you. Told Richard I could trust you.” Cade's green eyes glittered with fury and Sawyer understood why he played the bad cop during negotiations. Cade shoved out of the seat and paced. “Holy hell. You can kiss your partnership good-bye. Of all the asinine, adolescent things you could possibly do—”

“Hold up.” Sawyer held up a hand, everything becoming clear. He wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or plead with God to strike him dead. “I didn't have sex with Terry Lowe. Even though she propositioned me. And that's Richard's fault for recommending the wine, by the way.”

If he wasn't sure what was coming, he might enjoy the confused shock on Cade's face. Cade plopped back in his seat, sent a probing look toward Sawyer before killing his beer. Sawyer picked at the sweating label of his.

“Let's back up a minute. So, you didn't sleep with Ms. Lowe?”

“That's right. No hanky-panky with the rather gorgeous Ms. Lowe. Thanks for the warning, by the way. I was expecting a Mr. Lowe.”

“I didn't realize either until Richard called this evening to check on things or I would have given you a heads up. Did you close the deal?”

“Not quite. She's set on discussing a couple of modifications and broached the subject of buying the technology instead of licensing it.”

“That's not going to happen.”

“Told her that, but I think she'd still going to try to push her agenda.”

Cade harrumphed. “Wouldn't respect her if she didn't give it a shot. I hope to God you misread her signals.”

“I didn't. I let her down gently, and she was too buzzed to take offense at the time. She's coming to the shop tomorrow, so we'll need to make sure she isn't embarrassed about it.”

“Maybe we can use it to our advantage. My guess is she won't want to hang out negotiating for too long with a man who rejected her.”

“You are brutal, brother.” Sawyer rose, set his half-empty bottle in the sink, and fake-stretched. “Well, it's late and I'm sure Monroe is waiting anxiously for your return.”

“Don't think you're getting off that easy. If it wasn't the lovely Ms. Lowe, then whose bed have you come from?”

“No one's.” No guilt at all came from admitting the truth.

Cade tried to bore to the facts with his intense stare. It probably would have worked on anyone else, but underneath the smiles, Sawyer was as tough as his brother.

Cade broke the stare and rose, this time more sedately. “Actually, Monroe
is
waiting up for me. But I'll find out.” A fair amount of curiosity tempered the threatening words.

“You're as bad a gossip as the Quilting Bee ladies. It doesn't have any bearing on Fournette Designs, so let it go. Please.”

“Fine. What time should I expect Ms. Lowe to make an appearance?”

“Not sure. Her rental is at the country club. I'll call her in the morning. Maybe offer her a ride. Tour her around and act as if nothing happened.”

“Might work.” Cade stepped out and Sawyer followed him around to the front of the house. “Text me in the morning when you're heading to the shop. Monroe likes to laze in bed and make pancakes together on Saturdays.”

“Dang, are you whipped or what?” Sawyer forced a disdain he didn't feel into his voice. In truth, lazing in bed with a beautiful woman and making pancakes sounded amazing. A snapshot of a tousled-haired strawberry-blonde beauty in his bed punched his heart and made it skip a beat. He resolutely blanked his mind.

Cade flipped him the bird before sliding behind the wheel of their daddy's old truck. The engine coughed to life, and Cade revved it a couple of times before heading down the lane.

Sawyer stood there long after the taillights faded. He stood for so long, an owl hooted and the scurry of a prowling possum or raccoon shook the bushes. He was a man no longer, but one of them. The night took on a dreamlike cast, the moon rising over the tree line.

When he had bullied Cade back to Cottonbloom to recover from his climbing accident, he never foresaw the life-altering shifts that would result from his brother's homecoming. Seeing their daddy's old truck live on through Cade refilled a well of optimism and hope that had grown dry over the last few years.

At first, seeing Cade behind the steering wheel of their daddy's old truck had been painful, and he'd lashed out at his brother, maybe because Cade had finished something Sawyer had been unable to bring himself to touch.

But Cade had breathed new life into the truck and into Sawyer by coming home. Working side by side as Cade's equal at Fournette Designs was invigorating. His staid job as the plant manager of the auto factory had sucked any happiness out of his life, yet he'd been unable to leave Cottonbloom behind like Cade had done so many years ago.

The hunk of rusting metal had turned into more than a monument to their parent's death. It had come to symbolize everything he'd lost, including his big brother for far too long. And Regan. Too many of his memories of her had been etched into the metal and leather.

But the truck was alive once more. What did that mean for him and Regan?

 

Chapter Twelve

The next morning, Regan rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed and still in her underwear from the night before. She wasn't normally a crier. From a young age on the pageant circuit, she'd learned to cover her disappointment and hurt feelings with a smile. Nothing like hearing someone else's name get called as the winner while hundreds of eyes watched to test your resolve.

But last night she'd fallen apart. As soon as she closed the front door, she'd dissolved into a splotchy puddle of tears. She'd made sure to close the garage door so he wouldn't come stalking back to catch her in a weak moment. For all she knew, the woman he'd had dinner with was waiting for him somewhere. Or maybe she had been in his truck while he had pressed her against the wall and rocked her world.

Idiot. The word went on repeat. She'd collapsed onto her bed, facedown into a pillow, and let loose. Sometime during the night her dress and shoes had ended up crumpled on the floor, her panties still damp from Sawyer.

She wadded up the underwear and buried it in her laundry basket as if her mother might dig through like she had in high school. Good thing she was on the Pill. Neither one of them had even thought about protection.

The shower brought a semblance of order to her thoughts. Like he'd said, their impulsive wall sex had been a mistake. If that wasn't exactly what she'd been about to say, she was grateful he'd filled in the blank of her mind with the appropriate word. Because what she'd been thinking had been very, very inappropriate.

God, he'd felt amazing—big and hard and hot and commanding. She didn't remember that about their frantic couplings in his daddy's truck. They'd been more concerned about getting caught in those days, which had lent its own special excitement. Last night had been different. Amazing. But a mistake. Definitely a mistake. A one-time, amazing mistake.

Her routine eased her back into a normalcy Sawyer had blown to smithereens. She pulled on dark wash jeans, ballet flats, and a cotton blouse. Today she was meeting one of Cottonbloom's “ladies who lunch” at her house to work on furniture placement and new wall art. Even though it would be tiring hard work, she still had to look professional. The block party would occupy the rest of her afternoon and evening. A dry run for the festival.

She loaded the covered pickup with an assortment of items from her garage and headed out. The morning passed quickly in spite of how often her thoughts drifted to Sawyer. Finally, after moving things back and forth and back again, her client was happy, and she'd sold several pieces. Even though this type of work could be tedious and it took her away from the office, once clients saw her vision on their walls or in their houses, a sale was inevitable.

Maybe she wasn't changing the world, but she was making it a better place. Her mother had told her time and again her job was to decorate the world. Of course, her mother had meant it in terms of becoming an arm accessory for an ambitious man. Her mother was old-school subservient to her father. If she and her mother hadn't shared the same hair color, Regan might wonder if she was adopted.

Back at her studio before noon, she checked her phone and scrolled through a multitude of calls and texts to return about the block party that evening, but nothing from Sawyer. Loneliness took up residence in her stomach, hollowing it and making her head feel swimmy.

What was her problem? She had a full life. No man—that was true—but after going through the annihilation with Sawyer, she hadn't craved drawing a big fat bull's-eye on her heart ever again. Anyway, the sex hadn't been tender and sweet, it had been tinged with anger and frustration. That kind of sex probably didn't necessitate a follow-up call.

She mentally shook herself and got back to checking things off her lists. The string quartet had been confirmed as had the ice cream shop and the Cottonbloom Bakery. In addition to ice cream and an assortment of baked goods, the high school was manning their lemonade cart and popcorn stand. They would raise money for their programs while feeding the masses.

At least, she hoped to attract masses. She'd hung fliers all over town, even by the university, although summer school meant things were quiet on campus. Adolescent fear of no one showing up to her party had her pacing while she handled the last-minute details.

The bells over her door tinkled, and Nash Hawthorne stepped into the studio. The director of public works was updating her on the progress of the setup. She made a face at Nash and held up a finger while interjecting a few “uh-huhs.” Nash wandered around.

Everything seemed to be moving along with minor hiccups, and she thanked the director before disconnecting. “What's up, Nash? Looking for some new pillows?”