Till I Kissed You Read Free Page B

He’d been angry, and in his anger had done some immature, debatably insane things to needle her. She’d retaliated with glee. Recent events, however, had tempered his fury into something else.
    His drive down streets lined with stately oaks and big two-story brick or Colonial-style houses had him tightening his hands on the wheel. It wasn’t the money. He could afford any one of the houses. Fournette Designs paid even better than his position as manager at the auto factory. His discomfort ran deeper.
    He was an interloper in Cottonbloom, Mississippi. The disdain from people like Regan’s parents had left an indelible mark on him. One he’d tried to erase, but had only ever managed to cover up. Something would happen—a look, a word—and old insecurities would bleed through his confidence. Dating Regan in high school had been reaching for the stars, amazing until he’d been incinerated.
    He crossed paths with a rough-looking silver truck heading in the opposite direction and pumped his brakes. What the heck was his uncle Delmar doing in Cottonbloom, Mississippi, this time of night? The silver truck’s one working taillight faded in the distance, and Sawyer put the oddity to the side. His uncle’s nighttime activities were none of his business. Never had been. Anyway, Sawyer hardly wanted to explain why he was out and about.
    Feeling a little like a stalker or an ex-boyfriend, which technically he was, he turned onto her street, killed his headlights, and sank down in his seat, even though his big black truck was unmistakable.
    The old truck she used to haul furniture and her red VW Bug were in the driveway of her house, the garage doors shut. A couple of lights were on in the front of her house, and movement shadowed behind too-thin curtains. Everything was quiet. He blew out a breath and kept driving, flipping on his lights at the end of her street.
    She was safe. For now.

 
    Chapter Three
    The next night, Regan lounged on her couch eating popcorn and nursing a headache. Whether it was remnants of a hangover or from all the calls and texts and emails about the city budget or the second mildly threatening letter that had been waiting in her mailbox, she couldn’t pinpoint. All she wanted was a quiet night of mindless TV.
    Her phone vibrated. She rolled her eyes and glanced at the screen, ready to let it go to voice mail. She was officially off the clock. It was her mother. Dare she not answer? Her parents lived four houses down the street and could step onto their front porch and see her car in the driveway. While her interior design shop downtown was in a great location and quaint, it was short on storage and her garage was full of knickknacks and tables and lamps instead of her car.
    Sighing, she pasted on a smile—because her mother could tell even over the phone—and answered. “Hello, Mother.”
    â€œThank God, you’re there. Someone is behind the garden.” The strident panic in her mother’s voice had Regan bolting up and spilling popcorn everywhere.
    â€œGeez. Are the police on the way?” She was out the door and running down the sidewalk in two seconds flat.
    â€œI haven’t called them. Thought it might be that Fournette boy again.” Even over two years of dating, her mother had never referred to Sawyer by name. He’d always been “that Fournette boy” or, when she was really trying to make a painful point, “that Louisiana rat.”
    Unfortunately, her mother was probably right. She was almost positive she’d recognized the tailgate of Sawyer’s truck last night. Who drove down someone’s street with their headlights off unless they were planning something nefarious?
    â€œI’m going straight around back. Where’s Daddy?”
    â€œAt the American Legion playing cards.”
    â€œCall the police.” She disconnected, slid her phone into the back of her shorts, and jogged on her toes