Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  “It was complicated.” He broke eye contact, dropping his gaze to where his hands fiddled with the cane. “You were a good kid in a bad situation. Like Tally and Sawyer.”

  “Weren’t you a good kid in a bad situation?”

  He shifted toward her, bracing a hand on the dash and laying his other arm over the back of her seat, invading her space. She didn’t retreat. His intensity spurred her heart rate into an erratic gallop, yet she wasn’t intimidated. Perhaps it was only echoes of the past, but he made her feel safe, even when he was the one she should be scared of.

  “I grew up fast and tough.” His voice contained more than a hint of warning.

  “You were nice to me,” she said softly.

  “Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m nice. I wasn’t then, and I’m sure as hell not now.”

  He ran a callused finger down her cheek, the rasp igniting her nerve endings like a flint. His hand continued south and wrapped itself in her braid, the slight tug on her scalp sending shivers through her body in spite of the sun bearing down on the truck. Her nipples felt tight, and she hoped her tight sports tank masked her sudden, inexplicable arousal.

  He pulled her braid, forcing her toward him. She didn’t fight him. He dropped his face next to hers, his coarse beard hair caressing her cheek, his mouth close to her ear. “If I see something I want, I go after it and get it by any means necessary.”

  “How very Machiavellian.” She tried a laugh, but it came out more like a stuttering sigh. His scent hooked her even closer, and her lips grazed the outer rim of his ear.

  He pulled back, his green-eyed gaze roving her face. She returned the favor, noting the faint brackets around his mouth, the crinkles at his eyes, the thick beard. A full-grown man. Yet was he so different from the boy in the boat?

  “Ovid.” The movement of his lips jammed the cogs of her brain. The word made no sense. Her confusion must have been obvious, because the mouth she stared at tipped up in the corners, deepening the grooves. “The Greek philosopher Ovid, not Machiavelli, actually wrote: The end justifies the means.”

  “Ovid. Of course.” Apparently, Monroe had slept through that philosophy class at Ole Miss. The fact that high-school dropout Cade Fournette was quoting Ovid made her wonder what other mysteries she might uncover if she went digging.

  Just when she was ready to grab a shovel, he released her braid and slipped away. His limp was less pronounced as he took the stairs holding the cane parallel to the ground. Although he’d physically released her, she felt bound to him in some other fundamental way, incapable of tearing her eyes off him until he disappeared behind Sawyer’s front door. Even then, she sat, unable to drive away for a long minute.

  How could the simple brush of Cade’s finger ignite a fire when other men left her cold? As her arousal ebbed, she realized something else. She’d just been manipulated by a master. He hadn’t explained why he left.

  She spent the evening going through the motions of her life, eating when her stomach growled and heading to bed when her eyes felt heavy. A few short hours ago, her life had been tidy and predictable and boring. Cade Fournette had spun her into chaos.

  Chapter Five

  The next day, her mind still wandering in the fog of past and present, Monroe spent her lunch hour eating a sandwich and window-shopping on the Mississippi side of the river, trying not to think about her next client—Cade—and failing miserably.

  Her stomach protested every bite of sandwich and she gave in, tossing it half-finished into one of the fancy metal trash cans the town had installed. The footbridge over the river drew her. The longer she stared into the water the calmer she became.

  During the summer months, Cottonbloom’s river classified more as a stream, fast moving but shallow. During storms the current quickened and surged to the edge of the banks, but flooding was rare. The water-cooled breeze made being outside bearable.

  Checking her watch, she left the serenity of the water to meander back to the office. A midnight-blue cocktail dress displayed by a headless mannequin in Abigail’s Boutique window caught her attention. The skirt was knee-length and flared prettily, but the neckline plunged in a deep vee in front. An arm looped through hers, startling her.

  Regan Lovell stood at her side, at least three inches taller than Monroe in her heels. “You should get it. Classic and sexy. Exactly your style.”

  “I do like it. Where would I wear it, though?”

  “How about the cocktail party the Tarwaters are throwing for the upper slice of Cottonbloom? Pretty sure Andrew would approve of the view.”

  “Andrew and I are not dating.”

  “Not yet.” Regan waggled her eyebrows, but the teasing only made Monroe uncomfortable.

  “Not ever.” After a night tossing and turning and thinking of Cade, Monroe knew deep in her gut she had something to settle with him before she could move on with anyone else. She wasn’t sure how to explain the intense connection, especially since Regan had no idea Monroe’s and Cade’s pasts had intersected.

  “Good Lord, you don’t have to sound so excited the best-looking man in Cottonbloom County wants to impress you.”

  “Impress me how, exactly?”

  “The cocktail party? The fund-raiser?” Regan looked as confused as Monroe felt.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The cocktail party is doubling as a fund-raiser for your girls at risk group. Didn’t Andrew tell you?”

  A throb kicked at her temples. “Why would the Tarwaters do that? I had no idea they even knew about the girls.”

  Regan made an “are-you-serious?” chuff. “They probably didn’t until Andrew informed them. Pretty sure Andrew will expect thanks in the form of many dates. Plus, Mrs. Tarwater gets to act the high-and-mighty do-gooder.”

  “You think Andrew is trying to buy my affections?”

  “More like make you feel obligated to go out with him. The Tarwaters like having people in their debt.”

  How did her life become so complicated over the course of twenty-four hours? She jabbed a finger toward Regan. “I’m not going out with him.”

  Regan held her hands up. “Hey, don’t poke the messenger’s eye out. If you don’t want to go out with him, then don’t. Although I don’t understand what’s wrong with him.”

  “He doesn’t do it for me.”

  A memory of Cade leaning close to her in her SUV, his hand wrapped in her braid, his breath skating across her cheek, flashed in her head. She rubbed her forehead, trying to banish the image. Cade had nothing to do with this. Her antipathy toward Andrew had been present long before yesterday.

  “I should tell him to cancel, right?” she asked.

  Regan slipped an arm through Monroe’s and they stepped in tandem back toward Monroe’s office. “I don’t know. He’s manipulating you in a jerky way. I don’t see why you shouldn’t go along with the fund-raiser. The money is for an excellent cause. You aren’t signing a contract to date him. It’s for the greater good, right? Very Machiavellian.”

  “Ovid.”

  “Excuse me?”

  A laugh welled up, but she stifled it. “Nothing. I don’t know; maybe you’re right. I could use the money, that’s for sure.” While she could teach the girls self-defense, low self-esteem and zero confidence were the root causes of girls getting into abusive relationships. She needed to augment her classes with weekly counseling sessions, which weren’t cheap.

  “Of course I’m right.”

  Silence fell between them as they strolled. Regan cleared her throat. “Listen, since we’re talking about obligations and such, I could use a favor.”

  “Does this favor in any way involve Sawyer Fournette?”

  Regan stutter-stepped. “How—why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because lately you’ve been obsessed with the festival in general and Sawyer Fournette in particular.”

  “Obsessed? That man…” Regan swallowed the rest with a huge sigh. “I have to give credit t
o Sawyer for one thing; people love his block parties. If we win, Heart of Dixie will finance the entire riverside project and we’ll be able to compete with him. It will be gorgeous.”

  “Why do we need to compete with the Louisiana side?”

  Regan stopped, turned them around, and gestured at the view in front of them. A line of trendy shops including Abigail’s Boutique, Regan’s home interior studio, and the Quilting Bee, faced the row of antique stores, used-clothes stores, and Rufus’s restaurant over the river. Each brick front was painted a different color—blue, red, purple even—giving a homespun, kitschy charm to the Louisiana side. The stately redbrick façades and placard signage gave the Mississippi businesses a high-end feel. Both sides had their appeal.

  “Our towns are heading in two different directions. Cottonbloom, Louisiana, is stuck in the past, while Cottonbloom, Mississippi, is ripe to flourish, not die like other small towns. We have to stay progressive, and the riverside project is one way we can stay a step ahead without costing the taxpayers.”

  “Isn’t the festival costing the taxpayers?”

  “A minimal amount for a huge gain. Even if we don’t win, every business downtown will reap the benefits if things go well. And that’s where I need your help.”

  Monroe couldn’t deny the rally-the-troops enthusiasm in Regan’s voice. “What do you need?”

  “Talk up the festival to your patients. Sound enthusiastic. I need some word-of-mouth advertising. And if something should come up, I can count on you in a pinch, right?”

  The vagueness in Regan’s voice had Monroe staring at her best friend trying to get a read on her intentions. Throughout their childhood, Regan had always been the ambitious one; Monroe, her accomplice. Worry shadowed Regan’s brown eyes, and she twirled a piece of strawberry blond hair that had escaped her updo in an old gesture of anxiety.

  Monroe touched Regan’s forearm, stopping the motion. “You can count on me.”

  Her assurance garnered a small smile, and for the rest of the walk they talked about which shows they were binge watching and books they were reading.

  They were less than a block from Monroe’s office when Cade climbed out of the driver’s side of Tally’s black sedan on the other side of the street and jaywalked toward them. Dressed in athletic shorts and a blue T-shirt, he had a duffel bag looped over his shoulder. He’d left the cane at home but wore the knee brace. His limp gave him a John Wayne–like gait, and his beard only added to the rough-and-ready sexy vibe pinging like a radar signal.

  Monroe’s twist of emotions for a man she knew yet didn’t was profoundly confusing.

  “Lord help me, is that who I think it is?” Regan asked.

  “Cade Fournette is back in town recovering from an injury. And—” Monroe checked her watch “—he’s my next client.”

  “Geez, he’s gotten bigger and even rougher looking if that’s possible. He always scared me a little,” Regan added the last part on a whisper.

  Cade’s path intersected theirs a few feet from the door to the PT offices.

  “Afternoon, ladies.” Steel girded his voice.

  “Cade, you remember Regan Lovell, don’t you?”

  “I could never forget the girl who broke my brother’s heart.”

  “His heart? He’s the one—” Regan puffed with a deep breath before deflating. “It’s not important now. You’re on board with the fund-raiser, right?” She pointed a finger toward Monroe.

  “For the greater good.” Monroe pumped a fist.

  “That’s the spirit.” Regan’s sweet tone bordered on fake. “Welcome back to town, Cade. I’m sure with Monroe’s help you’ll be feeling better in no time. She’s the best PT in Mississippi.” Regan strode back toward the river and her interior design studio.

  “What kind of fund-raiser do you two have planned?” Cade asked as Monroe led them into the offices.

  “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Tarwater. Andrew too, I guess. They’re hosting a cocktail party slash fund-raiser for my girls at risk program.” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, I’ll get Tally an invite since she was instrumental in getting the whole thing off the ground.”

  He didn’t acknowledge the offer. An awkwardness descended. Her attempts at small talk stalled. She affected a professional attitude even though inside she was confused. She demonstrated each exercise before making him perform a set. One exercise followed another. Twenty minutes in, the uncomfortable vibe had eased.

  Sweat crawled from his forehead into his beard, and his shirt was damp. “Dang it, woman. Are you sure this is helping and not slowly, tortuously killing me?”

  Her laugh died when he raised his shirt to wipe his face dry. His stomach was well-defined with a tempting trail of dark hair. A silvery scar tracked from his ribs around his side, stopping an inch above the waistband of his shorts.

  Her hand was out before she considered her actions. With a light touch she traced the scar, faded but still raised. A mark he’d never lose. “Was this from one of your epic adventures?”

  “No.” He covered her hand with his, but instead of brushing her away, he trapped her hand against his warm skin. “It happened a long time ago.”

  He dropped his hand and his shirt. Although his warm, smooth skin beckoned further exploration, she pulled her hand to her chest in a fist. “How old were you?”

  “Sixteen. Mom and Dad had died a few months earlier, and I was out looking for food. Heard something out in the dark. I went running like it was Bigfoot and tangled with a barbwire fence. It made me pay.” Although he tried to sound jokey, she could imagine his fear.

  “Did you go to the hospital?” The cut must have been deep to leave a scar after all these years.

  “Naw. Uncle Delmar stitched me up.” He rubbed a thumb over the scar on his palm. “I swear he did a better job of it than that ER doc did on my hand.”

  She refused to bite on the subject change. “Obviously, you went back out again or we wouldn’t have met.”

  “Had no choice.” He rolled his shoulders. “What’s next?”

  While he’d shared some of his troubles with her on those full-moon nights, now that she was an adult she wondered how much he’d kept to himself. Questions she’d been too young to formulate burned, one above all others. Had anyone taken care of him while he was taking care of everyone else?

  “Do you rock climb El Capitan–like faces on a regular basis?” She’d done some research on the Internet and watching the videos of elite rock climbers gave her vertigo. And if he was attempting to summit El Capitan he was elite—or crazy.

  “Go big or go home, right?”

  “In the South that generally refers to hair, not climbing sheer faces of rock.”

  His smile was a brief flash of white in his beard. “I’ve heli-skied and hang glided and rock climbed for years. The thing on El Capitan was a freak accident.”

  “I’m not getting you better so you can go back and kill yourself, am I?”

  “Will you quit as my PT if I say yes?” All laughter was gone from his face, the sudden seriousness tilting her off-balance. “All that stuff has become kind of a compulsion, I suppose. Not sure I can stop.”

  “Why do you really do it? Are you trying to prove something to yourself or this town? All that stuff doesn’t matter. You were born here and you’ll always be welcomed back to Cottonbloom.”

  “I don’t think either side of this town would welcome me home with open arms even if I were the president.”

  “Certainly not if you ran as a Democrat.”

  A beat of silence passed before he burst into laughter. Belly laughs that filled the room and made her join him for the joy of watching him.

  Finally, his laughter subsided, but not his smile. “In a way, Cottonbloom is refreshing. No apologies or hiding its jacked-up social hierarchy and bigotries. They are clearly marked and on display.” The slight disdain in his voice galvanized her pride.

  “We have our faults, but this is a good town.” She poked him in the shoulder. “Both si
des of the river. And while the rest of the country has drifted further apart with wealth inequality, Cottonbloom has actually closed the gap.”

  “You sound like you like it here.”

  His green eyes probed. His experience with the town had been tainted with grief and responsibility.

  “I wouldn’t have come back here after college if I didn’t.” She dropped her gaze to the speckled linoleum floor. The truth was more complicated and nothing she wished to discuss.

  “How’s your mama?” he asked as if reading her mind. His soft voice attempted to strip away the years, but she’d spent most of her life covering for her mother.

  “She’s fine.” It wasn’t a lie. At the moment, she was sober and even holding down a job. “Come on; we have a few more stretches to get to before we run out of time.”

  They finished up in relative silence except for the heavy breathing involved. As he gathered his things, he said, “For the record, I don’t do all that thrill-seeking stuff to prove something to this place.”

  “It’s for the adrenaline rush, then? I’ve heard it can be addictive.” She made a note in his file.

  He stepped in front of her, and she looked up, clutching the file to her chest. His warmth drew her closer, her body swaying. His light touch on her arm froze her. Goose bumps rose. She waited, sensing that any prodding from her would silence him. His long, slow breath made her understand how difficult this was for him.

  Like that night so long ago, she slipped her hand into his. Even though she’d touched him throughout their session, positioning his body and stretching his limbs, the contact of their hands was more intimate, more important, casting back to long-ago promises.

  “Part of why I took risks was the exhilaration of experiencing freedom. But I think a bigger part was trying to eradicate fear.”

  “I remember.” Every word of their conversations had been carved into memories.

  He tensed. “What do you remember?”

  “What you were most afraid of.”

  He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, broke eye contact, and gave a shake of his head. She wanted to cup his cheek and force him to look at her. Instead, she squeezed his hand.