Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel (6 page)

A day ago—hell, two hours ago—she would have been correct on all counts, but now right or wrong, logical or not, he wanted one thing even more: her.

Chapter Four

Between the summer heat and his muscular body pressed against her, Monroe felt like she was on the surface of the sun. His beard had tickled the side of her face, and she’d nuzzled into him before her mind could rein her body in. He smelled amazing, all spicy, yummy man. She probably stunk from a long day’s work and sweat.

She pushed off him, adjusted her spandex top, and swiped the back of her hand over her forehead. Climbing behind the wheel, she cranked the engine, the AC still set for max after her quick trip from the office to the gym.

Sawyer Fournette’s house was less than ten minutes away. He could have bought a bigger, nicer house on the Mississippi side of Cottonbloom. Instead, he’d opted to buy an older traditional farmhouse with a wraparound porch. It was secluded, sitting squarely in the middle of at least fifty acres. He kept the land around the house cleared but was letting the remainder revert to wilderness.

Tightening her hands on the steering wheel, she kept her gaze fixed on the road but was uncommonly aware of the man only a few feet away. Cade remained silent, and she gave up trying to think of something not silly to say. She slowed once they hit the bumpy ruts on Sawyer’s unpaved driveway, but he seemed more pensive than in pain, his index finger tapping the top of the cane.

“Tally said you have two black belts and teach self-defense.” His voice was low but carried over the AC noise.

She treated his statement as a question. “I offer a class free of charge for high-school girls. Tally lets me use her gym at no cost. Most of them don’t have the money to join.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“I don’t want those girls to be afraid. Not just of strangers, but the boys—men—in their lives. Mississippi and Louisiana have some of the highest crime rates against women in the country. Mostly from boyfriends and husbands.”

A few beats of silence passed, and she glanced over to find him staring at her. “Do you do it because of what happened that night?” he asked.

She whipped her head back around to stare at Sawyer’s house in the near distance. Memories rushed back along with the doubts she carried like chains. Her heart expanded in her chest. Cade was the one person who might be able to dissect truth from imagination. Yet a decade was a long time. She was different, and so was he.

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“Why wouldn’t I remember?”

She pulled to a stop. A red-and-gray truck was parked under a willow tree in the front, its limbs offering partial camouflage. Grass grew tall around its deflated tires. Rust pocked the tailgate, obscuring the
DODGE
lettering, and a bird had built a nest where the cab met the bed. The abandoned truck made for a melancholy picture.

“I was young, and you were—seemed—so much older, wiser.”

“I don’t know about wiser.”

“You didn’t say good-bye.” She hadn’t meant for the words to come out at all, much less with such vehemence.

“Excuse me?” The coldness in his voice rivaled the AC.

She considered backtracking, laughing off the strange accusation, but as soon as she met his eyes her path was set. She’d learned at a young age how to keep her own counsel, how to protect herself. While she was friendly and polite to everyone, she didn’t trust anyone. It made true friendships hard and relationships impossible.

But with Cade she’d never censored herself. It was the way it had always been with him. Old habits she’d never shaken. “You left Cottonbloom without telling me. Without saying good-bye. I want to know why.”

“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 to 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.