Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  He wasn’t sure what to do about her. No way was he letting her get away that easy. It was Saturday and all he had on his to-do list was to finish reading a biography of Charlemagne. His to-do list … He smiled.

  Although, he’d been skeptical when she’d suggested re-creating milestone moments he’d missed as an adolescent, the idea had taken root sometime during the night and flourished. It would force him out of his comfort zone, which was a little nerve-wracking, but he’d be spending time with Tally, which he wanted more than anything.

  He didn’t think to get her number, but unless it had only been a convenient excuse to escape the monster in his underwear, she’d be at the gym. She had invited him by after all. A hard workout might relieve the sexual tension that even a solo session after she’d run out his door hadn’t managed to alleviate.

  While he tossed some clothes and toiletries into a gym bag, a hard rapping cut through the sound of birdsong and the tinkling of wind chimes. His aunt opened the door without waiting for an answer and stuck her head in the crack.

  “Nash. Where are you?”

  “Upstairs. Hang on, I’m coming down.” He slung the bag over his shoulder and jogged down the stairs.

  His aunt Leora was his mother’s older sister by a dozen years. The irony of cancer taking his young, vibrant mother and leaving her soured spinster sister wasn’t lost on him. His aunt had tirelessly and lovingly taken care of his mother in her final months, and when she’d died, his aunt had welcomed him with both arms. In fact, she’d insisted on becoming his legal guardian. His father had been relieved to get Nash settled. His job on the oilrig made caring for a young son impossible—unless he quit, and it was obvious he loved the life and the money.

  Aunt Leora smoothed a hand down her flower-print dress, her hose sagging into a pair of low-heeled black pumps. Arthritis had swollen her knuckles and her shake was growing more noticeable, but she still joined her quilting crew to work a needle.

  He tensed, expecting her to bring up his nighttime guest, but instead she asked, “Where’s your truck?”

  “Aw, hell.” He rubbed his chin. His truck was in the Rivershack Tavern’s parking lot.

  “Nash Hawthorne. I raised you better than to use vulgarities.” Her mouth pinched into a circle.

  He barely refrained from bowing his head in childhood penance. “Yes ma’am, you did. Pardon me. I got a lift home last night and left my truck in town.”

  “I’m headed to the Quilting Bee for circle if you’d like a ride.”

  “That’d be great.” He kissed her papery cheek, the scent of talcum strong but not unpleasant. Not everything about his childhood had been terrible. His aunt had provided as many books as he wanted on any subject. She’d never censored him, answered his questions with candor and honesty, and pushed him to dig even deeper for meaning.

  She led the way out of his cottage, holding tight to the handrail. He offered her an arm on the uneven grass, and she took it without comment. As they approached her white Crown Victoria, he side-eyed her, wondering if he could wrest the keys from her hand and drive them. At some point in the near future, they would need to have a frank conversation about her driving privileges.

  She dropped his hand to head to the driver’s side. That day was not today. He slipped into the passenger seat and made sure his seatbelt was secured before she backed the car up in a series of jerks that had him feeling nauseous before she fumbled the stick into drive. They puttered down the street at a blazing twenty miles per hour.

  “My Defender is over the river at the Rivershack Tavern.”

  She harrumphed but thankfully kept her eyes on the road. As they came into the main part of Cottonbloom, she slowed even more, nudging her head toward River Street. “Martha might have to relocate the Quilting Bee or close it entirely.”

  The Quilting Bee had been a Cottonbloom staple for as long as Nash could remember. It sold sewing machines and fabric and quilting supplies, and was a gathering place for women who made quilts for babies and grandbabies, for children in the hospital and children in need.

  “What’s going on?”

  “All of a sudden River Street has become trendy. It’s all four-dollar coffees and ice cream flavors I’ve never heard of. What’s wrong with a cup of black Folgers and plain old vanilla?” She waved where the floor of the new gazebo rose from the blackened ground. “I can’t believe you agreed to help resurrect that thing.”

  “It’ll be a nice addition. Tally mentioned something about her uncle’s bluegrass band. They could play in the gazebo and families could bring picnics for the lawn. Enjoy music and the river. Maybe even sell beer.”

  “Beer?” His aunt said it as if he’d suggested a public orgy. “That sounds like a Louisiana thing.”

  “It could be a Cottonbloom thing. Not everything has to be divided. This town integrated black and white with hardly a peep of protest, yet can’t seem to get beyond an arbitrary state line. You realize I was born on the side ‘that must not be named.’”

  His allusion to Harry Potter fell on uninitiated ears. “You came back from England talking a different language.”

  “Scotland.”

  “It’s all the same, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Exactly the same.” The irony of his aunt not understanding the centuries-old rift between two countries separated by a land border made him look out the passenger window to hide a smile. In his aunt’s view, the world revolved around Cottonbloom.

  “I don’t have anything against Louisiana. In fact, Effie lives on this side, and we get along fine. But, we don’t need Delmar Fournette bringing his band over to play, and that’s that.”

  The Crown Victoria’s pillowlike suspension absorbed the bumps in the Rivershack Tavern’s washed-out graveled lot. His aunt broke hard, tossing him forward and making his seatbelt catch. “I can’t believe you came to this place last night. And, brought that girl home.”

  He was honestly surprised she hadn’t mentioned his overnight guest before now. He could tolerate a high level of his aunt’s snobbishness, but not when she acted like Tally was tainted. “Tallulah Fournette is a remarkable woman and my friend. I won’t have you being rude or throwing dirty looks in her direction, Aunt Leora. Is that understood?”

  Her hands squeaked over the faux-leather steering wheel as she clenched and unclenched them. Their roles were in a constant state of flux. Now, he played the role of disciplining parent warning a child to play nice. The cords of her neck were taut, a prominent blue vein in her temple highlighting the delicacy of her skin.

  “Will she be sleeping over often?”

  Damn, he hoped so. He squashed the thought. Last night had been about protection not seduction, no matter his physical evidence to the contrary. “I have no idea.”

  “The neighbors…” She fluffed her bottle-red hair.

  “It’s not the eighteen hundreds. I’m nearly thirty and although I study monks, I’ve no desire to live like one.” Residual anger over Tally’s story about being turned away by his aunt had him turning in the seat. “Did Tally come to the house looking for me when we were about twelve?”

  “Heavens, I don’t remember.” Instead of looking him in the eye, she was focused on his seatbelt buckle.

  “You told her I didn’t want to be friends with her any longer.”

  “Nash, that was years ago. I’m sure whatever I said was done with your well-being in mind.” There was no use in arguing. His aunt believed that’s exactly what she’d done. Protected him from the bad influence of the Fournettes.”Your father trusted me to raise you right.”

  “Speaking of dear old dad, I got another email. That makes the second one in two weeks. Any clue what’s going on?” He pulled at his bottom lip. Months would typically pass between the brief emails confirming Nash was still alive and vice versa.

  “Does he know you’re back in Cottonbloom?”

  “He does now.”

  “Maybe he’s planning to come up here on leave to see you.”

 
; “Didn’t say anything about it. If fact, he didn’t say much of anything beyond giving me a weather forecast.” Even when his mother was alive, his father had flitted in and out of their lives. When he was at the house, he’d seemed almost a guest. The oilrig was his home, and the men who worked on it were his family. Nash had long ago given up hope of connecting with his father in any meaningful way.

  “Time will tell, I suppose.” His aunt’s voice was distant.

  He got out, unlocked the Defender doors, and tossed his duffle in the backseat. His aunt’s car hadn’t moved. He rapped on her window, and she rolled it down.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Fine.” Yet still she sat with her hands tight on the wheel. “The Fournettes…”

  “What about them?”

  “I used to think they couldn’t be trusted.” The furrows along her forehead deepened.

  “Used to think?” He curled his hands over the window frame and ducked his head low to see her better.

  “Maybe I was wrong to judge them all just because—” She cut herself by looking away and clearing her throat. “I need to be getting on to the Quilting Bee. The ladies will be waiting.”

  She rolled up the window, forcing him to let go and step back, and executed a wide turn in the deserted lot. He coughed in the resulting plume of dust and climbed behind the wheel before he had to pull out his inhaler. The AC blew cool air into the already hot cab. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

  The odd conversation had teetered on an almost-apology. While her shake had gotten worse and she occasionally forgot things, she was still sharp. He had no doubts that she remembered with perfect clarity Tally’s visit and her subsequent brush-off. He also had no doubts that she had done it not out of spite, but to protect him. But protect him from what? The Fournettes were good people.

  He pulled up to Tally’s gym still chewing on the past. With his hand on the door, he hesitated. Was he pushing things? Considering she’d almost killed herself on the way out of his cottage, the look on her face somewhere between embarrassment and horror, she might go out of her way to avoid him.

  Maybe he should leave it be, but he couldn’t forget the feeling of being curled around her, breathing her in, her soft body pressed into his. Even with the evidence of his mortifying exhibition, the draw to her was more than physical.

  Her fingers toying with his imparted a sense of comfort and closeness he hadn’t felt in years. While their shared history was years ago, it had been an important part of his life, and he wanted to recapture it for a myriad of reasons.

  He took a breath, the humidity making his lungs work for the oxygen, and stepped inside. An overhead bell tinkled. It should have been easier to breath in the cool air, but nerves kicked his breathing rate up a notch.

  A tall, muscular man with tattoos along both biceps occupied a stool at the front desk, staring at the computer and clicking the mouse. He closed the window, but not before Nash saw an online chessboard. A couple of beefy men lifted with the free weights in one corner. No sign of Tally.

  Damn. Not only disappointment but worry quickened his blood flow. What if her ex had been waiting in her parking lot or in her apartment? “Is Tallulah around?”

  The man raised his eyebrows, and although he didn’t smile, Nash sensed his amusement. “Yo, Tally!”

  Tally came around a corner holding a rag and cleaning spray. She stopped short, shifted on her feet, and glanced over her shoulder as if she were thinking about making another run for it. Her braid swung to hang to the side of a breast. Her pants were tight spandex to right below her knees, her tank equally as snug, highlighting the lean curves of her body. Everything about her was beautifully unharmed.

  His shoulders relaxed, and he found a smile. “Thought I’d take you up on your offer last night. I need to expend some energy.”

  She set the spray bottle and rag down on the front desk. “If the weather’s nice, Saturdays can be slow, but if you’re looking to spar, Reed can accommodate you.”

  This time a smile did cross Reed’s face. Nash was in good shape, and he was an experienced boxer, but the big, muscled man behind the desk would pulverize him. Nash fiddled with the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder. “Another time maybe.”

  She chucked her head toward the ring in the back and walked away, obviously expecting him to follow. “I don’t blame you. Reed’s a former professional fighter. If you want to spar me, I’d be game.”

  He couldn’t think of anything worse than hitting Tally. “I’m more of a boxer than a martial arts guy. I’d prefer to punch a bag and jump rope if it’s all the same with you.”

  The hint of a smile crossed her face. “Worried you might get beat up by a girl?”

  “That’s a given.”

  “Fine.” She took a step away, but he caught her arm.

  “Any trouble this morning?”

  “Only if you count my brothers as trouble.” She patted his hand, and he let her go. “I’m fine. Heath was probably drunk last night. It was a one-time thing.”

  He wanted to believe her, but the sideways dart of her gaze transmitted her worry and her reticence to volunteer anything else. He’d hoped after last night, she would trust him with at least this problem.

  “Is Cade back for good?”

  She led the way to the nearest body bag. “Looks that way. He and Monroe are practically living together, and he’s moving the R&D part of his business down from Seattle. He’s even talked Sawyer into joining his venture—renamed Fournette Brothers Designs. They’ve both been working long hours getting things set up.”

  “Something with engines, right?” He tucked his glasses away, pulled out a pair of protective gloves, and slipped them on.

  “He designs new engine technology, patents it, and then licenses the patents to the highest bidder. He doesn’t throw his money around, but he’s done well.”

  “Does he know what’s going on with Heath?”

  “No. Sawyer doesn’t know either, and neither one of them are going to find out.” Her mouth tightened and her tone could freeze water. “I can handle Heath on my own. Don’t turn into an old gossip like your aunt now that you’re back in Cottonbloom.”

  Her braid made a dark arc in the air on her turn. He cursed under his breath as she stalked away. The way she’d answered confirmed his fears. The woman was too independent and proud for her own good. He hit the bag until his arms burned, expending a portion of his aggression. Next was the rope, and he stripped his T-shirt off.

  Jumping rope was a challenge with his asthma, but he’d learned how to regulate his breathing until he found a rhythm that was almost meditative. He wasn’t sure how long he jumped, but by the time he stopped, sweat was trailing down his torso.

  His chest heaved but he forced his lungs to fill and empty completely as slowly as he could. In the mirror, he could see her somewhere behind him wiping over the same weight bench a dozen times. Was she looking in his direction? Without his glasses, he couldn’t be sure.

  Perhaps her swift exit that morning hadn’t been entirely in horror. Perhaps he hadn’t been the only one who’d been fighting an inconvenient attraction. He grabbed a towel and approached her, rubbing it over his chest.

  The closer he got, the more in focus she became. Her gaze was definitely on his body, not his face. He could translate the ornate script of Norman monks and decipher the spindly, small letters in ancient books, but reading women, especially this one, seemed like it would take a lifetime of study.

  Spending his formative years as a comic-book nerd and with musty books as his most recent companions, he would never qualify as “suave.” He discarded any cheesy opening line, and went with the truth. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night. About re-creating my youth.”

  “Yeah?” She continued to wipe and not meet his eyes.

  “I’m game if you are.”

  She straightened, her gaze finally rising to meet his. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m se
rious about everything. What would you like to do first? Wade the river? Paint the water tower?” He lowered his voice, hoping he sounded flirty. “Maybe you’d prefer skinny-dipping?”

  She chuffed, but a flush pinked her cheeks. “Wading the river isn’t risky. Didn’t they have rivers in Scotland? What’s so special about ours?”

  “That’s like asking what’s special about the sunset over the pines. Or the smell after a storm rolls through. Our river belongs to us, right?”

  Staring into his eyes, she took a step toward him. The bench caught her knees and her hand shot out for balance. It landed over one of his pecs. The muscle jumped.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, but her hand stayed where it was. He stood as still as possible, not wanting to spook her. Her green eyes swallowed him, made his stomach churn. Or maybe the gut-wrenching reaction was because of her hand.

  She spread her fingers, rasping over his nipple. He hadn’t considered that part of his body particularly sensitive—until now. Even the movement of his chest hair under her palm sent sparks through his body. He was dangerously close to embarrassing himself again. Obviously, he needed ironclad underwear or a codpiece like knights wore in the Middle Ages.

  His breathing fractured. It could have been from the aftermath of his hard workout, but he had a feeling it had something to do with her light touch on his bare chest. He might require hospitalization if she touched him more intimately.

  She sucked in a quick breath and jerked her hand away, tucking her fist under her chin as if she’d been burned. “You had a piece of dirt or lint or something.”

  The bands around his chest eased now she wasn’t touching him and inciting lurid fantasies about her hand in his shorts and oxygen masks. A shot of something—satisfaction, happiness—coursed through him. If he wouldn’t look like an idiot, he’d go find the first person he could and ask for a high-five. The confusing currents weren’t one-sided.