Till I Kissed You Read Free Page A

bottle.
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    Sawyer wanted to stuff the words back in his mouth. The woman could rile him up like no one else. He hated the way she could make him feel guilty and self-righteous and turned on all at the same time. But, the look on her face … Surely, those hadn’t been tears in her eyes. And, had her chin quivered? If he didn’t know any better, he’d think he hurt her feelings. A stabby pain poked around his chest as if his heart was trying to kick his butt.
    He didn’t mind her thinking he came to the council meeting to goad her. Let her assume he was behind Ms. Martha’s demands. Because the truth was much more damning. She was special, and he’d come tonight because he was worried about her.
    Damn but she was hot as sin when she was mad. That shot of red in her blonde hair was no lie. The heels she traipsed around in made her legs look killer, and her polished, professional clothes made him feel like a straw-chewing swamp rat.
    When she’d cornered him in the dim hall, the same dizzying, off-balance stomach lurch he’d felt the first time he’d ever seen her had him leaning against the wall for support. He’d nearly done something imbecilic like lean in and take her lips. Maybe spin her around and press her against the wall. Thank goodness he’d tamped down the urge. She would have kneed him between the legs and laughed.
    After staring at the blank space she’d left for too long, he got himself moving in the direction of his truck. He hesitated on the turn out of the parking lot. Left would take him back across the river and to his farmhouse. Right would take him into the heart of Cottonbloom, Mississippi’s, nicest neighborhoods.
    He turned right and muttered, “Tally’s right. I am losing my mind.”
    Foolish thoughts reverberated in the silence, and he flipped on the radio. Ever since the pavilion fire in June, he’d been concerned someone was out to sabotage the festivals. Adding in the suspicious letter Monroe had mentioned Regan received and the crayfish basket vandalism in July, and his concern had exploded into outright worry.
    He’d lost sleep going over every scenario. The most likely explanation centered around Regan’s plans for Cottonbloom, Mississippi’s, revitalization. He couldn’t imagine any of his people sabotaging crayfish baskets. The parish economy followed the harvest. A good harvest meant increased dollars and more jobs. A bad harvest meant seasonal layoffs or worse. The food banks running out of donations and good people moving to bigger cities for work and never returning.
    The reassessments and increased taxes had ratcheted tensions upward on the Mississippi side of the river. He commiserated with business owners like Ms. Martha. It was a challenge to stay competitive, and losing the Quilting Bee would be gut-wrenching. It had been there since Sawyer could remember.
    On the other hand, Regan was doing good work. She had turned downtown Cottonbloom, Mississippi, into something special and was poised to make it amazing. Already they were attracting out-of-towners and pulling in money. Her festival was just another piece of the puzzle for her, but she had seriously derailed his modest efforts to bolster the economy on his side of the river.
    He needed that grant money for his plans. Financing the restoration of Cottonbloom Park and the baseball fields was impossible with the current parish budget. He couldn’t justify taking money away from social and road projects for the park. While flipping through a Heart of Dixie magazine in the break room at the auto factory, he’d spotted the call for entries.
    Maybe Regan hadn’t realized he’d already entered, but she hadn’t backed out once the magazine insisted they hold competing festivals, highlighting the already divided, sometimes acrimonious nature of their towns. Apparently, calling dibs didn’t work as an adult.