Sugar's Twice as Sweet: Sugar, Georgia: Book 1 (10 page)

“Afternoon, ma’am.” The sheriff lifted his hat, then shifted his gaze. “Spenser.”

“Jackson.” Spenser sent him an eat-shit-and-die glare.

This might be Mayberry, but Barney Fife he was not. The man was seriously hot. Tall, ripped, and looked amazing in uniform. She half expected him to pull out a boom box, rip off his pants, and show her his cuffs. Which should have excited her but didn’t, she thought proudly. Her antiman campaign was going swimmingly.

“This your car?” Jackson asked, writing on that little notepad of his.

“Yes, sir.” She reached in her purse and handed him a quarter since she couldn’t see a meter. “Here.”

The sheriff eyed the coin and grinned. “I don’t know whether to arrest you for trying to bribe an officer of the law, or be offended that you think I can be bought off for a quarter.”

“What?” Josephina gasped, shoving the coin in her purse. “It’s for the,” she almost said meter, then remembered there wasn’t one. “I’m paying for my parking spot.”

“Parking illegally is the least of your worries, since driving a stolen car is a felony.”

She was so busy staring at the big red and white
S
HERIFF
P
ARKING
O
NLY,
V
IOLATORS
W
ILL BE
S
HOT
D
EAD
sign, she almost hadn’t heard his last accusation. “Did you say felony?”

“Yes, ma’am. There is an ‘attempt to locate’ on this car as of this morning. Imagine my surprise when it turned up parked in my designated spot,” Jackson drawled, his hand resting on his sidearm.

Josephina held her breath. If she wasn’t so terrified of guns, she would probably have jumped in Ulysses and sped off. Because every single person who happened to be in town was now filling the streets and, it seemed, placing bets on whether the city slicker would go to the pokey or grand theft auto was cause for a public lynching.

 “I’m going to have to ask you to step into my office so we can discuss the matter of this stolen car.” Even when threatening felony the sheriff’s voice was sexy. Low and thick and having absolutely no effect on Josephina whatsoever.

“First off, I didn’t steal the car. It’s mine. And secondly, I’m the one who called it in when it went missing. Yesterday,” she added, making sure to point out just how misinformed his department really was.

“And who do you believe stole your—” he looked disbelievingly from the beat-up old jalopy to her corporate couture, “—car?”

“I assume the same someone who parked it illegally today.”

That made him pause, giving her a chance to fully inspect his standard-issue sidearm, which, like its owner, was in impeccable condition, and looked uncompromising and ready to blow.

“Seems to me, J.D., that there’s been a misunderstanding,” another, equally husky voice said from behind. “This looks like Ms. Letty’s car, and since Joie here is her niece, the one who inherited all of Letty’s property, don’t see how it can be stolen.”

A warm sensation spread through her body and her heart seemed to still in her chest.

Josephina didn’t need to turn to see who it was. Her nipples told her exactly whose breath tickled her ear when he whispered, “No wings today? I’m disappointed.”

Breath nonexistent, she prepared herself for the impact, and turned. There stood Brett, wearing khaki shorts and a polo that had a tractor logo on it, looking cocky and mouth-wateringly irritating. His head, missing a hat today and showing off his wavy hair, tilted in her direction as if he were about to kiss her, and something entirely inappropriate began to pulse below her belly button. As if she didn’t already have enough to deal with.

Why couldn’t it have been some boy next door with a desk job and three cats who made her heart flutter? In true Josephina fashion, it had to be this kind of guy. A famous athlete with more notches on his bedpost than the Bible in Braille and a deadly smile that said, “I’m yours—for tonight, anyway.”

“Afternoon, Joie,” Brett drawled, tipping his head.

“I noticed you left out the good.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“I’m not feeling very nice.” Josephina shifted, unsure what to do with her hands. She’d never been so aware of a man’s body before. Brett, on the other hand, was as cool as always.

“What the hell?” The sheriff watched as Spenser, who had disengaged the parking brake, rolled Ulysses backward, stopping under a large sign that designated him as being in a twenty-five-cent all-day parking spot.

Spenser’s smile widened as she slid a quarter into the meter. “See, no crime here.” She snatched the unfinished report out of Jackson’s fingers, crumpling it up and sticking it into his shirt pocket with a little pat.

“Christ, Spenser,” Jackson bellowed, but his eyes, Josephina noticed, kept dropping to Spenser’s lips. “I should cite you for tampering with a government document.”

“Oh, calm down, J.D. It’s a silly misdemeanor and you know it.”

“Since Joie owns the car and had no knowledge of how it came to be parked there, I suggest that she gets off with a warning,” Brett said smoothly.

“I agree.” Jackson picked up his radio and canceled the ATL on Ulysses, glaring at Spenser when he got to the part where he had to say he’d made a mistake about the parking designation. She gave a few complex hand gestures in response.

“You’re welcome.” Brett said, leaning against the fender.

“Go away,” Josephina said by way of thanks, ignoring how a warm zing slid down her body.

“That’s no way to greet a neighbor.”

She looked up into his eyes. “Afternoon. Now go away.”

At that he flat-out grinned. “You smell good. Like…” He took one stride forward, landing him right at her red-tipped toes, and leaned in, crowding her. To most people it would look as if he was just whispering in her ear or getting a better whiff, but the way his lips brushed her throat—purposely grazing her sweet spot—he was trying to get to her.

And it was working.

He buried his head even further into her neck, and she could feel him smile when he concluded, “Apple pie and,” another gentle inhalation, “something spicy.”

She meant to shove him back and ignore his stupid line. But then he said apple pie, and apple wasn’t a line. It was observant and sweet. “The spicy part is ginger.”

“God, that smells incredible.”

She felt herself flush. “I was trying things out for my breakfast menu. Cracked oat pancakes with a ginger-apple glaze. I found some whiskey in Letty’s cabinets.”

Brett chuckled. “Sugar, if it was in Letty’s cabinets it was most likely moonshine.”

“Moonshine?” That explained why her skillet had burst into flames.

“During Prohibition, Fairchild House supplied most of these parts with moonshine. Letty found an old bath in the basement, which was converted into a still, and to the best of my knowledge made a batch or two every year. Passed them out at Christmas.”

Josephina couldn’t help but smile at the idea of Letty making moonshine.

“Sounds to me like you need a test subject for those menu items of yours,” he drawled, his body still pressed against hers, his hand now on her hip. Was his accent getting thicker? “Maybe tomorrow, you can cook me up some for breakfast. In bed.”

The thought of him wearing just his tattoo and her sheets made her take a step back, two to be safe, because if she didn’t get some space between them she might take him up on his offer. The sound of his voice made her want to do irresponsible and deliciously dirty things. Things that would shock poor Mr. Ryan right into denying her that loan, because viable business owners did not act on impulse. Nor did they do rash things, such as licking the entire length of a man’s tattoo in the middle of town.

“You look tense, sugar.” She looked more than tense. She was flushed and her eyes had turned turquoise. If he didn’t know any better he’d say she was as busy picturing him naked as he was her. “And by the looks of it, I have the perfect remedy.”

She flushed again, then glared. She’d been caught checking him out and it ticked her off. Something he was quickly becoming a fan of.

Brett grinned at her outfit. Her hair was slicked up into some kind of complicated style. She wore a cream blouse with buttons and a collar, a gray skirt that hit the knee, and a pair of heels that, aside from her cute toes peeking out, looked stern and uptight.

She was composed, distant, and so pressed he knew he should just walk away. Instead he found himself forming a serious weakness for those shoes, and their owner.

Even more interesting was that Tinker Bell was friends with Lavender Spenser.

Spenser was the kind of woman every guy in town wanted, but fear of being maimed kept most at a distance. The ones brave enough to try claimed she was magic with her hands, loved to get dirty, and had great aim, which made her a revered mechanic and a painful person to screw with.

“I’m not interested in your backwoods”—her gaze dropped to his fly and back up—“remedies.” She sounded convincing, but her blush told him otherwise.

Unable to keep his hands off her, he tugged a stray lock of hair between his fingers, surprised it was curly and that it had managed to break free.

Her hand flew to her head in a panicked fashion, tucking it behind her ear. “It’s the humidity,” she explained by way of apology. “No matter how hard I try, it always ends up a mess of curls.”

“I like messy.” She stopped fidgeting at his admission, three other tufts curling out, and he wondered what else was untamed under all of that coiffing and uptown restraint. “And you like me. I can tell. We should go out.”

“No, I do not.” But instead of moving farther away, she shifted her body closer to his. “And no, we should not.”

“That’s a whole lot of nos and nots for someone so sure of herself.”

Pretending he hadn’t even spoken, Josephina clicked those heels right past him and around the back of the car.

“Nice to meet you, Sheriff.” She stuck out her hand and the bastard took it, his left hand clasping hers and, Brett noticed, giving it a gentle squeeze while his eyes gave her a slow once-over. “I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.”

“Jackson, ma’am. And under the ah—” he flashed a look at Spenser, who was glaring back, “—circumstances, it should be the city that’s apologizing. First for the delayed response on your call and then for the parking situation.”

“Mistakes happen.”

“Not on my watch.”

Jesus, Brett thought, watching J.D. puff out his fucking chest. Tinker Bell’s magic even worked on Sugar’s most self-proclaimed bachelor. He’d been through with women for so long he was practically a virgin.

“How about I make it up to you. Monday night everyone meets at the Saddle Rack. The Falcons are playing and there’s dancing. First round’s on me?”

 Jackson was turning on the southern charm and—flirting? Brett wanted to flatten him. Joie, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable with the attention. Actually, downright shocked.
Interesting.

“I’m afraid I have plans this Monday. Maybe some other time.”

“Some other time then,” Jackson said, and Brett almost felt sorry for the guy.

Almost.

Three years ago, Jackson’s wife had run off with some rodeo rider, leaving behind three ugly cats and a big-ass mortgage for a house he never wanted. Brett was happy that his friend was finally ready to get out there and meet women.

As long as it wasn’t Joie.

Joie looked at her watch. “Shoot, I’m supposed to meet Mr. um, Rooster in just a few minutes. He’s giving me an estimate on how long it should take to fix my plumbing.”

“Sugar, twenty minutes with me and I guarantee your plumbing will work just fine,” Brett drawled, pulling her attention back to where it ought to be—him.

“Does that ever actually work for you?” Her brows lowered as though she thought he was an idiot. “Your sexy little smile, a flick of the hat, and a lame line in that ridiculous hick impersonation? And what? Women just drop naked at your feet?”

Hick?

People loved his accent. Especially women. He could make them weak with a single flattening of the vowel. They begged for him to whisper sweetheart and darlin’ in their ear. Although he called her sugar. He’d never used that name before, but with her it fit. He knew under all that tamed order and careful control was a girl who believed in magic and wore fairy wings and was sweet as hell.

“You think my smile is sexy?”

“Didn’t you hear a word I said? Never mind.” Before he could respond, she yanked open the car door. With a quick wave to Jackson and a “see you later” to Spenser she hopped in and tore off, exhaust in her wake and her horn playing some kind of mariachi song the whole way.

“I like her,” Spenser said, sliding up beside him.

“Why’s that?” Brett asked wondering what the hell had gone wrong and why he was smiling like a lovesick loser.

“She doesn’t take any of your shit.”

Yeah, that was another thing he was forming a serious weakness for.

J
osephina lay motionless with her sheets pulled to her chin. Staring at the wild boar’s head that hung above her childhood bed, she listened to the mama opossum and her clan of six shuffle back and forth through the heating duct.

Jimmy Dean, the boar Aunt Letty had helped Josephina track, shoot, and mount on the wall, made her feel safe. It was from Josephina’s hog-ranching phase—a phase that had irritated her mother no end. The opossums, on the other hand, stressed her out, since she was certain her new roommates were stashing food for the winter just above the vent in her bedroom.

Not that she’d still be here come winter, she thought glumly, mentally adding to her budget the cost of the air quality specialist needed to handle the mildew Rooster had discovered behind the sheetrock in one of the bathrooms, which had gone nuclear. But she was afraid that in the summer heat the feast wouldn’t make it to winter either.

Neither nostalgia nor a rude upstairs neighbor had been why she’d woken up. She grabbed her phone off the nightstand, checked the time, and groaned.

She’d spent the past five days cleaning house, tearing down wallpaper, and pulling weeds, with still no sign of those roses. Her arms were sore, her nose was peeling, and she didn’t have a single nail that wasn’t chipped. She’d fall into bed exhausted and wake up feeling as if she might just be able to take on the world. Or at least ignore her parents’ relentless calls.

It had been some of the best sleep she’d had in over a decade. Until something rustled downstairs and interrupted a pretty hot dream starring a bubble bath and Mr. PGA himself, and that
something
needed to die. Slow death by golf club sounded good.

A pounding vibrated the floor, followed by a growl. Josephina froze, praying it was her overactive imagination. Her mother was always accusing her of making something out of nothing. Maybe it was just Boo having some kind of bad dream and she’d heard it wrong—

Another growl sounded from downstairs. Definitely not Boo. And it definitely riled her. She gripped the nine-iron that had become her bed companion.

Oh, my God!
Brett had warned her about wild animals. Josephina thought he was just messing with the city girl…but what if—?

This time the growl was followed by a high-pitched squeal.

Fumbling for the phone, she pounded the one button, smothering a hysterical laugh when it began ringing.

Brett answered, his voice low and sleep-roughened. “I was wondering when you’d call.”

“Bear!” she panted into the phone.

“It’s not Bart or Bear or Benny, it’s Brett, and you know it.” He lowered his voice, turning the charm to full. “But if you wanted me to come over, all you had to do was ask, Tinker Bell.”

“A bear—” she cupped her hand over the phone so she could whisper, “—is in my house and I think it is going to kill me.”

“Ah, sugar, I was just playing with you. There aren’t
many
bears in this area.”

“Many or not. One is in my house. Right now. Probably plotting how he is going to track and shoot me.” She glanced at the boar’s head and shivered.

“Bears can’t shoot.” He chuckled, still managing to sound cocky and laid-back even though it was obvious she’d awakened him. Odd, since it was a Friday and she assumed he’d be out with a woman—or women, plural. Unless he was with a woman, or women, right now and he hadn’t been asleep. In bed, but not asleep.

“Never mind. Forget I called.”

“Don’t hang up.”

She didn’t, because she was scared. Bear or not, something was rummaging through the kitchen; she could hear the pantry doors slamming shut.

“Oh, God, it growled again.”

“It’s probably just your dog.”

A huge crash echoed throughout the house, followed by another ear-piercing squeal. The covers went securely over her head, wrapping her in a big, black abyss of denial. A place she was familiar with.

“Holy shit,” Brett said. She could hear clothes rustling and the distinctive jangle of keys. “Where are you at?”

“In my bed. With
Boo
.”

Brett moaned, but this one was low and raspy and definitely not out of anger. And she shivered from head to polished tips, definitely not out of fear. “Stay right there, I’m on my way. I mean it, don’t move. If I drag my ass over there and it turns out to be some coon, I at least want to see you in bed.”

“Okay,” she breathed, and hung up, horrified when, picturing Brett in her bed, she heard herself purr. Rolling over to pull Boo close, she realized he was gone.

“Boo?” she whispered. Only silence in return.

 “Boo-kins, come to Mama.” Nothing. Just like what she was doing. Her house was under attack and she was hiding under the covers, waiting for some oversexed prince in his white pickup to come and rescue her.

Taking a deep breath, she counted to ten, flung back the covers, and clutched her trusty golf club—who knew they could be so versatile?

She tiptoed her way to the top of the stairs. Shoulders squared, she was embracing her new, independent self, ready to maim her a bear, when she saw the shadowy outline of not one, but four figures. They didn’t look like bears, which was good, but they did look dangerous, huddled in a circle, most likely deciding who got to gobble up Boo.

Child, when facing down an insistent boar, toss back those shoulders, stick out that chest, and run straight at the bastard, screaming like you’re going to rip his testicles off
. Aunt Letty’s voice flittered through her head. Letty had plenty of experience running off bastards, and her advice seemed to fit the situation.

Taking a deep breath and holding it, Josephina gripped the club, extending it forward in the traditional fencing counterattack position, let out a ball-ripping battle cry, and took off down the stairs. She’d just hit the landing when one of them spun around to stare her down and growled.

The lights flicked on and Josephina came to a halt, blinking to get her eyes to adjust. Problem was they were adjusted. And those weren’t bears. Or even raccoons. It was a mob of women who looked as if they predated the Civil War. Wearing apple-stained cheeks, reading glasses, and silvery spun hair, each one was clutching a gun so big Josephina felt as if she was in some John Wayne film. And this time they weren’t here to offer up a covered dish.

Dottie, the only one not packing heat, came out of the kitchen, binoculars swinging. She held a bag of pretzels under her arm, and began digging through her clutch purse, most likely to find her weapon of choice.

“Drop it, Missy,” Hattie said, wagging her gun.

Josephina had seen guns before, but never looked down the barrel of one.

Holy crap! She was being robbed. By a bunch of armed grannies. And Boo, traitor that he was, yawned and pranced over to nuzzle Jelly-Lou, who was dressed in her Sunday best with a pile of poker chips and a loaded pistol.

Etta Jayne cocked a rifle and pushed her way to the front. But Hattie, dressed in saffron polyester and a terrycloth visor, jabbed her with an elbow, not giving an inch.

“Move it, Hattie.”

“Not on your life, Etta Jayne. I drew first.”

“I’m a better shot and you know it.” Etta Jayne snapped, swinging her rifle and starting a tussle.

Then, three things happened at once. The front door blew in, a shot exploded, and Josephina saw a shower of glimmering dust as shards of chandelier fell to the floor.

“Move an inch and I’ll shoot it off,” Grandma Hattie snapped, pointing her Winchester with perfect accuracy and making Brett squirm.

“Put that thing down before you actually shoot someone. Or something.” He dropped his hands, not willing to chance that she’d shoot even after he’d made his identity known.

Rounding the bust of Kenny Rogers and stepping over an empty bottle of whiskey, his gaze landed on the salon—deck of cards, poker chips, cigar butts—and then on the dog, whose front canines were sunk into his ankle.

It was a quarter to one. In the morning. And although the house, now clean of dust bunnies and smelling vaguely of Lysol and cigars, was silent, it also happened to be littered with shattered glass, cheesy pretzels, and a mob of armed church ladies.

“Bible study my ass,” he mumbled.

 “Watch your mouth, young man. I know where Letty kept her soap.”

“Do you happen to know where she kept the broom?” Brett asked, glass crunching under his boots.

“Why you asking me? I didn’t do it.” Hattie slid a glance at Etta Jayne.

“Don’t you dare go blaming me! My safety’s on,” Etta Jayne, the only person to rival Grandma Hattie as the most feared woman in town, stated, smacking her hip with the butt of her rifle. She was rumored to have teathered a cheating patron to the town flag pole, hogtied and naked.

Hattie looked at her gun and shrugged. “Whoops. Must have forgot. My apologies.”

Brett sighed, feeling a knot form behind his right eye. A bear, he knew, had been a long shot, but an armed grandma and her Bible buddies hadn’t even made the list of possibilities.

If his heart hadn’t been racing from the frantic drive over, he’d have taken a little pleasure in the situation. The two most stubborn women he knew were at a standoff. But then he turned his gaze to Joie and any pleasure he might have found vanished.

She stood at the base of the steps, the hand above her head shielding herself from the falling glass, while the other clutched a golf club so tightly that her knuckles were purple and her arm shook. Eyes closed tight, hair a loose riot of curls, she was mumbling something that sounded oddly like the theme song to
Zorro
. She wore a pink lacy thing, which covered next to nothing, and matching tiny bottoms that covered even less. Which his lower half registered immediately.

He felt as if he was looking at the real Joie, the one she kept hidden from the world.

But what had something catching deep inside of him and sent his body into action was the moisture clinging to her lower lashes. She was shaking and kind of green and scared shitless. And she had a right to be. Grandma Hattie was terrifying enough without the benefit of a loaded pistol.

“Put that away,” he scolded, shooting a look at Hattie, who ignored him completely. He cautiously approached Joie. Lowering his voice and her hand, he said, “You can put that down now.”

She shook her head, eyes still firmly shut. “Not until they drop theirs.”

“Sugar,” Brett said lightly. “First off, you’re outgunned. And even if you stood a chance, which you don’t since these ladies taught me how to handle a firearm, you’ve got your eyes closed.”

“I’m not dropping anything,” Jelly-Lou, the woman who had knitted him his first baby blanket, said, petting that rat dog with one hand and raising the barrel of a Colt .45 with the other.

“Sneaking up on us like that. Where are your manners, young lady?” Etta Jayne chided.

“Me? You’re in
my
house!” Joie said, eyes still shut tight, but her East Coast accent was thick and tough. And he found it incredibly hot.

“Hogwash,” Dottie snapped, setting the bowl of pretzels on the table, sending a stack of poker chips crashing to the floor. “Been coming here since I was a girl. So as far as I’m concerned, this place is as much ours as yours, seeing how we took care of your aunt when you and your kin couldn’t be bothered.”

Tinker Bell’s eyes snapped open, blue and iced over, her body taking on an irate glow.

“Out!” she shouted, convincing Brett that she might just be magical after all. No human would take on the Sunday School Mafia. “I want you all out or I’m calling the cops.”

“Little Jackson Duncan? He isn’t nothing but a pansy. Carries a .22,” Grandma Hattie scoffed, but her voice wasn’t as hard as it had been a moment ago. Joie’s pinched face most likely had something to do with it.

“Look, dear,” Jelly-Lou said, her tone bringing Brett back to story time at the library. “We didn’t mean to scare you. We were just playing our weekly game of poker. Been going on since your aunt moved here.”

“She never told me.” Joie’s face was a jumble of emotions.

“Reckon she had good reason not to.” Jelly-Lou finally lowered her gun and wheeled her chair a little closer. “A bunch of ladies sneaking around drinking whiskey, smoking cigars, and playing cards. Talk about scandal. The Sugar Peaches would vote us out for sure.”

The Sugar Peaches were the most exclusive ladies’ society in Sugar County, its membership dating back to the town’s establishment. No one wanted to be ousted from the Sugar Peaches, not even Hattie.

Joie was lowering her nine-iron. The handguns were returned to their respective handbags. And everyone looked as if they were willing to play nice. Brett actually allowed himself to exhale. Then Grandma Hattie spoke.

“And we ain’t going to let some city girl who was too busy to care when caring was needed come in and take what’s ours.”

 “Out! Get out of my house! And don’t ever come back.” Joie was mad, but worse, she was hurt. He could see it in her eyes, which had slid shut again.

“Those are fighting words you’re using. Better be careful or you might just find yourself in a feud,” Etta Jayne said, putting a comforting arm around Hattie, whose eyes looked a little misty as well. Of course those two would bond when words like kin and feud were being tossed around.

“Bring it on!” Joie bellowed, club extended like a sword.

No one spoke. Silently, Etta Jayne waddled over to Joie and waited until she slowly opened her eyes. Then she spat.

Right on the floor at Joie’s feet. A southern signature confirming that a feud had been called, the sides were chosen, and poor Joie was on the losing end. Sugar protected its own, even if it meant taking down a woman who was in way over her head. So when Hattie started sniffling up her John Hancock, Brett grabbed hold of her elbow and steered her toward the door. She dug her feet in, ripping her arm away.

Brett took in a long breath, channeling his charm, knowing that with women it worked better than brute force. Which he was willing to use if they didn’t get out of there, and fast. Tinker Bell was a sniffle away from tears and he was pretty sure that all of them, except Jelly-Lou, were tanked.