Sugar's Twice as Sweet: Sugar, Georgia: Book 1 (17 page)

She looked up at him, since he was now leaning against the door frame, a towering mass of testosterone and sexual power, and rolled her eyes.

He reached into the back pocket of her skirt, pulled out the missing keys, and dangled them in front of her. “I don’t know where
your
mind’s at. I was talking about a date, which included horseback riding.”

“A date?” She snatched the keys. “No way am I spending several hours with you. Five minutes in a bathroom and everything came unglued.”

“Not everything.”

Didn’t she know it.

With a long sigh she turned to look into those devastating eyes. They were crinkled around the corners from that easygoing smile he always wore and sparkled with humor, but tonight they also held a hint of uncertainty.

She understood that feeling. She had thought tonight would be exciting. Fun. A night to remember what it felt like to be free. Feminine. Sexy. Maybe even have herself an orgasm. Or two.

It hadn’t turned out that way and she was out of second chances.

“My life is crazy. Between my disaster of an engagement, trying to get this inn ready to open, and earn the respect of the people in this town, I’m not looking to date anyone right now.”

“All right,” he brushed a finger across her temple, “what are you looking for then?”

“No strings, balls-to-the-wall sex.” No hesitation. No shame.

When Brett just stared at her, apparently too shocked to respond, she shrugged and busied herself with unlocking the front door. Too bad her hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t even get the key into the slot. Another recurring problem.

“That’s what you were looking for? Balls-to-the-wall sex?”

Her hand slipped at his tone and she dropped the keys to the floor. She bent to get them and his hand covered hers, strong and sure. They both stood, but he held on until she met his gaze. All signs of humor gone.

“Were you using me, then?”

She blinked. “Is that a problem?”

He looked at her a long time and an unsettling feeling settled over her. “Yeah. It is.”

“What did you think this was?” she asked, trying the key again, because looking at him with that laid-back, life’s-a-game façade missing did funny things to her chest.

“A date.”

This time she laughed. “In the bathroom? Be still, my beating heart.”

“I was getting ready to ask you out.” He sounded defensive and a little unsure. “And you’re the one who cornered me.”

Yes. Yes, she was. And that he reminded her only added to the humiliation. And the fact that he wasn’t listening to her.

“I’m sorry if I read this all wrong and offended you in some way. But even if I was thinking about dating again, which I’m not, you’re not really a long-term kind of guy.”

Brett started. “Who says I’m not long-term?”

“Brett, you’re the PGA Playboy, king of one-night stands.”

As soon as the words left her lips she wanted to take them back. She opened her mouth to apologize, but from the way Brett stood, silently staring at her as though he must have misunderstood, the lines around his mouth becoming more pronounced with every second of understanding that passed, she knew she’d gone too far. In the process of trying to make herself feel better, she’d hurt him.

He gave a tight nod and silently took the keys. In one try he slid them home and twisted, swinging open the door.

“Funny thing about that, Joie. I thought I’d introduced myself as Brett McGraw.” He handed her the keys and turned on his heel, but not before Josephina saw the raw disappointment in his eyes.

Heart heavy, Josephina watched him make his way down the steps, into his truck, and down the driveway—a cloud of dust in his wake and her panties in his pocket.

T
wenty minutes later, Brett found Cal, slouched over a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table. His eyes were bloodshot, and if Brett looked hard enough he’d bet he’d find a gray hair or two, no doubt thanks to Payton, who was already upstairs sleeping.

Hattie was in the office, counting her latest eBay earnings and estimating how much money they had left to raise for the new pediatric ward. Which left Brett with the choice of dealing with his nosy grandma or his know-it-all older brother.

“Payton said you caught her talking to some kid and flipped,” Brett said, repeating what his niece had told him when he’d called to wish her a happy birthday.

“She was flirting. In that two-piece. And he was fucking eighteen,” Cal growled. “Nearly killed him. Then Payton. Burned the bikini.”

Satisfied that Cal was in an equally shitty mood, Brett grabbed a bowl and a spoon and joined him at the table. Except for Cal slurping up his milk, they finished their bowls in silence. Both poured another.

“Heard Grandma and Etta Jayne issued a feud on the neighbor girl,” Cal said around a mouthful of Cheerios.

“Yup.” Joie was the last person he wanted to talk about. He could still taste her sweet lips and the bitter rejection.

 “Also heard you were keeping that low profile you promised.”

Since Cal already seemed to know every goddamned thing that happened while he was gone and Brett was tired of his brother’s shit, he didn’t bother to answer, instead doing some slurping of his own.

“Look at you, acting all pissy like a woman. Would it have anything to do with ‘lying low’ tonight with our lace-wearing neighbor at the Saddle Rack?”

“She wasn’t wearing lace tonight.”
At least not when she left
. “And how the hell do you know if she was there?”

“This is Sugar. And there was a post about it on Hattie’s blog.”

Brett swallowed. “Grandma has a blog?”

“Facebook and Twitter accounts, too. She says it’s to increase traffic so she can sell more of her quilts. She’s got over a million followers. Want to know how she gets them?”

No. He did not.

“She writes about her favorite superstar grandson, posts baby pictures, even gives up-to-the-minute information about your life. Kind of like a reality show in journal form.” Cal dropped his spoon and the smug grin. “Jesus, Brett. You took a girl out in a robe and teddy?”

“I took her to the emergency room for stitches. And fuck you.”

Cal was silent, assessing Brett in a way that told him he’d given away too much.

“Holy crap. You didn’t get any.”

“What makes you think I went looking?” Brett took another spoonful.

“You’re always looking.” Cal raised a brow. “Plus, you’re wearing a shirt with buttons.” His expression went slack a second before he started laughing. “I was right,
you
didn’t get any!”

At his brother’s remark, Brett surged to his feet, slamming his bowl into the sink and rinsing it out. When Cal fell silent, Brett turned to face him, giving his best screw-you glare.

Cal studied him for a few moments, going serious. “Odd thing is, usually you’d just give up, move on to someone who was interested. You didn’t do that tonight. Why?”

Good question. One with a pathetic answer, which Brett didn’t care to share with anyone, let alone his pain-in-the-ass older brother.

The truth was Brett liked one-night stands—almost as much as he liked a challenge. And although Joie was a challenge, what she wasn’t was a one-night stand. He’d had enough of them to recognize that no matter what Joie was telling him, or herself, girls who believed in fairies and remodeling money-pits were looking for more of a happily ever after. And part of him, a part that he had ignored for most of his life, wanted to be that guy—for her.

For a minute there tonight, a short minute, he thought he could. Then she reminded him of who he was: Brett McGraw, easygoing playboy who spent ten months out of the year on the road, where every new city brought a new bed and a new girl—or so the papers said.

The press got part of it correct. He did tend to take the easy path in life and love, which usually led to just a few nights. Not a future. The part that they missed, though, that Joie missed, was that deep down Brett wanted to commit himself completely to someone else; he just didn’t know if he had the balls to try. He’d lost his ability to stick the night his parents died.

Growing up surrounded by the kind of love his parents had shared, only to have it ripped away in a single night, had taught him how powerful love could be—and how easily it can all be taken away. He craved the connection that he’d witnessed from them, that he had shared with them, but the idea of putting himself out there only to lose—he didn’t know if he could handle that kind of pain again. So he’d always kept things casual—until tonight.

“Just following your orders to lie low,” he lied. “Keep myself out of trouble. Plus, she’s really wrapped up in that inn.”

“Son of a bitch,” Cal mused, leaning forward in his seat as if straining for a closer look. “It finally happened, didn’t it? You found the one girl in all of Sugar that doesn’t want to sleep with you and you’re sweet for her.”

Brett gave a harsh laugh with absolutely no humor in it. Because she wanted him all right, just not the way he wanted her. Man, karma was a bitch.

“I’m not sweet for her.”

“Really? Because the last time I saw you this wound up was when…” Cal shook his head and unfolded himself from the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Brett gave him the finger.

Cal laughed, a stupid-ass grin following him across the kitchen. “You know what? I take back everything I said. Watching you make a fool of yourself over some woman is worth the risk. So, chase away, little brother. Chase the girl next door.”

At the reminder that Joie was next door, for the foreseeable future, Brett felt his stomach hollow out. The idea of seeing her around town, across the lake, sitting on her front porch swing, made him want to pack up and hit some balls. Say, in Hawaii.

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t want to be chased.”

“Even better.” Cal elbowed his way to the sink, slapping Brett on the shoulder. “Perfect way to stay out of trouble and the media, if you ask me.”

Brett wasn’t asking, because he feared he was already head deep in a sand trap. And this time he had no idea how the hell to swing his way out.

Josephina stood on the forth rung of the ladder with a sheet of wallpaper over her head, a cutter in her left hand, and a scraper in her right. No matter how long she stood there or how many times she chanted balls-to-the-wall, she couldn’t gather the courage needed to crawl up one more rung.

Hands clammy, she sliced the wallpaper horizontally and watched it slip the whole five feet to the floor. She crawled down, then flopped into an overstuffed armchair, hating how her heart felt as if it was going to explode right out of her chest.

Her phone rang. Pulling it from her back pocket, she answered. “Hello?”

There was a tense silence, some heavy breaths, and teeth clicking as though someone was biting through fingernails, then, “Um, hey there, Miss Harrington?”

Josephina sat up. “Rooster? Are you all right? When you didn’t show up yesterday I got worried, then when you didn’t return my calls—”

“Yeah, about that.” The knot that had settled in the pit of her stomach yesterday tightened. “Seems I’ve got me some back problems and I don’t think I’ll be able to get out to your place for some time.”

 Josephina rolled her eyes at how he emphasized the last two words, implying that Hattie would be crowned Miss Peach before he’d ever come back to her house.

“So by back problems, do you mean the weight of five overbearing and nagging grannies obliterated your spine completely?”

Rooster stuttered and gasped for so long, Josephina almost felt sorry for the guy.

“Look, don’t worry, Rooster. I get it. I’ll send you a check for the work you already completed.”

He mumbled some apology and they hung up. With a weary sigh she leaned back and took in what she’d spent three and a half hours accomplishing. The wall looked like the rest of the room, bare plaster up to her head and dusty roses spanning the remaining fifteen feet of the wall.

Josephina sighed. This was what happened when one’s contractor went MIA, then up and quit, forcing one to make do with limited demolition skills.

She closed her eyes and laid her head back. After four years of interior design school and three more spent in the field, Josephina Harrington couldn’t manage to take down wallpaper.

Accepting defeat—for now—she walked over to Kenny, pulled back his head, and took a handful of candy corn. Last week, she’d wisely replaced the poker chips with corn syrup, carnauba wax, and yellow dye number 5. She shoved them into her mouth and savored the sanity the sweetness brought.

Licking her fingers, she scrolled through her contacts. She had already expanded her knowledge of construction, but unless she found a book on how to install window flashing with a chapter on overcoming vertigo, Josephina needed to find another handyman. She had told the bank she’d be up and running by summer’s end—meaning she had a lot of work to do.

Brett stood under a
M
EMAW &
P
A-
P
AW’S
G
ROOM,
F
EED, AND
R
ESCUE
banner with a goat humping his leg, a pug clutched in his arms, and Mrs. Wilkes’s hand cupping his ass.

“Smile.” She squeezed. “And don’t you worry about nothing. This is going up above the register. Right next to the one from last year. You’re still our hometown hero.”

Brett silently swore. He was exhausted, smelled like livestock, and hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Today was his day off, but he was feeling guilty, and helping Mrs. Wilkes with her grand opening groom and vaccine drive had become a tradition. So he smiled, took the photo, and went back to hosing off a donkey.

The tradition had started six years ago when Brett’s season was sponsored by one of those chain pet stores that, according to Memaw Wilkes, spent its big bucks putting hardworking folks like herself out of business. To help balance the scales, and his guilt, Brett had agreed to be her spokesman and help out every time he was in town.

Today was no different. Only this time the money went toward the new wing at the Medical Center, and his guilt came from how he’d spent the past forty-eight hours. Instead of listening to the part of him that wanted to make Cal proud and protect Jace, Brett had ignored his brother’s advice and gone to Illinois for the tournament. His fans were expecting him, his sponsors counting on him, and his name was on the ad.

Oh, and it was a thousand miles from a certain blonde socialite he couldn’t get out of his mind.

Unfortunately, he’d missed his flight—and a scheduled interview with ESPN—lost by a stroke, and ended up in an elevator with Dirk Stone and his daughter Bethany. The press went apeshit. Cal threatened to beat his ass. Jace had to go underground for a while, moving to Daytona to work for an old army buddy. The only bonus was that Hattie had doubled her money on eBay.

The last thing Brett wanted to do was come out here, with everyone smiling at him as if he hung the moon, and groom Ms. Mann’s armadillo, who sat patiently in the wheelchair with his owner.

Not only was Jelly-Lou Glory’s grandma, she was also Brett’s childhood Sunday school teacher. Wondering if the woman who taught him the Ten Commandments on a felt board had watched him making the beast with two backs on national television had his chest constricting and his hands sweating.

“Afternoon, Ms. Mann,” Brett said, forcing his legs to move and his arms to scoop up the armadillo. Before she could tell him how sorry she was for his predicament, or make some crass comment about Bethany and her family, he rushed out, “Is Road Kill here for his oatmeal-cucumber bath?”

“Yes, he is. It works miracles on his dry skin. And I just love when they put those cute little bow ties on him.” She patted Brett’s hand. “But don’t you worry yourself, I can have one of the others wash him.”

“That’s all right. If I can handle Ms. Longwood’s geese, Road Kill will be easy.”

“I’ll do it, Uncle Brett,” Payton said, resting her hands on the wheelchair handles.

Brett looked around for Cal. Didn’t see him, but noticed that a group of senior boys had their eyes fixed on his niece. Brett glared until the kids ducked their heads.

“Does your dad know you’re here?”

Payton held out her arms in response. Dressed in a pair of head-to-toe blue coveralls and a ball cap, the kid looked miserable. Especially when it was pushing a hundred and her teammates were flittering about in shorts and tank tops, making plans for a BBQ at Sugar Lake.

A BBQ Payton wouldn’t be going to. Wanting to make some summer cash, his niece had taken up tutoring at the library. Too bad for Payton that her first customer had been eighteen, on the varsity football team, and more interested in anatomy than algebra. Too bad for the kid, Cal showed up early and nearly tore his head off. Payton’s tutoring career came to a premature end, and she was sentenced to three weeks’ community service—with the elderly.

“Grandma asked me to bring you this.” She held up a paper bag. Brett’s mouth watered at the grease-stained bag. “It’s fried chicken. She wanted to make sure you ate.”

“It’s also a ruse.” Jelly-Lou looked around and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “To give you time away from all the shameful gossip about you and that girl. Vultures.”

Brett looked at his niece and shifted on his feet. “The press can be—”

“Not the press, dear. The nosy people in this town. Sinners, every last one of them. They’ve got a pool going to see if she’s carrying a McGraw in the oven.”

Brett choked. “That video was taken two years ago.”

“Not Miss Stone,” Payton clarified. “Miss Joie.”

“Joie? But I haven’t…We aren’t even seeing each other.”

“Neither were we.” His niece looked over her shoulder at one of the guys and gave a sad smile. Brett almost felt sorry for her…until he looked at the boy in question.