Sugar's Twice as Sweet: Sugar, Georgia: Book 1 (2 page)

“Ah, hell.” Who wanted their grandma to see them getting it on? Plus, Hattie had the biggest mouth in Sugar, possibly the entire South. “Knowing her, she’s set up a paying peep show, complete with popped corn and sweet tea.”

“Since it has over a million downloads on YouTube, I’m guessing that’s the least of your troubles,” Jace said, looking amused enough for the entire bar.

“Again, two consenting,
single
adults blowing off steam. Not five o’clock news material.”

“It is when you sleep with Dirk Stone’s daughter. His
only
daughter.”

Yeah, he got that part.

“First off, that video was taken two years ago,” Brett defended. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t know she was taping it. And no, I had no idea who she was.”

“Yeah, too bad none of that matters. All the press will see is your play-it-loose reputation,” Jace pointed out, knowing full well how a reputation can be more convincing than actual evidence.

Brett swore, because Jace was right. Even though Brett didn’t talk, women usually did. And he’d never bothered to deny the rumors.

“Damn it, Brett,” Cal said. “You’ll be lucky if all you lose is Stone’s endorsement. If he jumps it won’t be long before others follow suit.”

 “He can’t dump me, we have a contract. And as long as I keep winning the others will stick.”

“According to Stone, he can and says he will,” Cal confirmed. “Your contract is up for renewal after this season. Plus, any sponsor can pull their endorsement if they can prove you acted in a way that could adversely affect their image.”

“The man made his fortune selling golf balls. How much morality can there be in golf balls?”

“This is Georgia,” Jace pointed out. “A God-fearing, Bible-thumping state. What the hell did you think would happen?”

“Not this.” Brett was always so careful. He might look as if he played life fast and loose, but persona and reality didn’t always mesh. He took into account every action, knowing his life was made up of perception and percentages. It was never just his career on the line. A lot of families were dependent on his swing and ability to sell ad space.

Even the residents of Sugar, Georgia, weren’t above cashing in on his name, and that income source would dry up real quick if his sponsors bailed. Which was exactly why he took his responsibility seriously. The people of Sugar might live for gossip but they took strong exception to outsiders butting in on their business. They also protected their own—and that meant he had to do whatever it took to ride out the scandal.

He just wished like hell he were enjoying this ride half as much as the girl still gyrating on the screen.

The bartender came back, carrying a tray of beers and swinging her hips in the universal sign for
I’m game
. “Figured your friends would be thirsty, too.” She offered up three beers, a bowl of peanuts, and a seductive wink. “If you need me, you just let me know. I’m always available to whet your thirst, Mr. Brett.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Seems like you have some thirsty customers over there,” Cal said shoving his beer to the side and giving the waitress a polite kiss-off.

She puckered her lips up in a pout and mouthed for Brett to call her before heading off to the other side of the bar.

Cal glared and Brett didn’t see the big deal. He was upfront with women, always made sure they knew it was a no-strings situation, always left them more than satisfied, and always acted like a gentleman.

Bottom line—he loved women. And they loved him right back.

“Wipe that smug-ass grin off your face,” Jace said, sounding equally amused and pissed.

“The only reason you’re still standing is because Payton made me promise to bring you home in one piece.” Cal ran a hand through his hair and looked every bit the stressed, single dad of a teen girl.

Shit.

“Payton saw it?”

“No, I got her out of the room before it got good, but she’s already asking questions.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing yet, but I have to come up with something. She’s twelve.
Twelve
, Brett. Do you think she won’t hear about it at school? Or from Hattie and her Bible group?” Cal leveled him with a glare. “Hattie’s already saying she’s going to tan your bare hide. Right below and to the right of that tattoo of yours.”

“Wait? Did you say home? As in Sugar?”

“Yup.” Now it was Cal’s turn to smile.

He’d rather face a whole course of pissed-off sponsors than that town. When Brett left for college it was on a scholarship set up by the good people of Sugar. When he made the PGA they threw a parade in his honor. After his first Masters win they’d named a highway after him.

At the thought of going home with this scandal surrounding him, Brett felt that familiar churning in his gut. It happened whenever he thought about letting people down. Which was why he’d kept his visits home short and sweet.

“Sorry, guys. I can’t go home.” Even the word felt wrong. It no longer referred to the aged farmhouse they’d been raised in. With his first Masters purse, Brett had built Hattie her dream home on the back side of the family property, which butted up to Sugar Lake. The ridiculous McMansion, with is marble floors and sweeping staircase, was situated right off the newly named Brett McGraw Highway and served as a painful reminder of all that had been lost. “I’ve got the John Deere Classic.”

“We already decided, you’re skipping Illinois,” Jace reminded him.

Cal put his hands up, effectively cutting off any argument Brett could have made. “What you need to be worrying about is Stone’s daughter, especially since she is getting married in a few weeks and tensions in the family are now probably running high. Let’s give Stone a chance to lie low. Cool down. Forget about you and his precious baby girl. And give your agent a chance to fix this without having you screw it up by parading around town with a herd of horny golf-bunnies in your wake.”

 “Cal’s right. Giving it a few months to let the media frenzy die down wouldn’t hurt,” Jace added, and Brett felt like an ass. The earlier stress Brett was picking up wasn’t just for him, the stations were probably playing all the footage from Jace’s arrest. Every time his kid brother moved on with his life—new job, new town, new girl—his past always seemed to resurface and fuck it up. Brett’s career was a big reason it kept resurfacing. That Jace was crashing at Brett’s place in Atlanta only made it worse.

If he went home the hype would fizzle. No photos, no story. And in Sugar
no one
would make it easy on the press. Last time the media had come to town sniffing out a story the locals had, with a southern smile and a
Bless your heart
, rolled up the welcome mats.

“You were thinking about helping Cletus host the Sugar summer golf program for the kids this year anyway,” Jace offered, trying to polish the obvious turd that was Brett’s predicament. Brett had been one of those kids. Actually he was the flagship student. As far as Brett was concerned, Cletus Boyle was one of the reasons he was a professional golfer and not in jail.

“So basically you two came here to tell me it would be a great place to
lie low
for the next few months?” Beyond a better grip, Brett doubted he had anything positive to offer these kids other than how to fuck up your life in one night.

“I came down here to kick your ass. Cletus came up with the idea of you helping out for the summer,” Cal said, piling on the guilt. “Full time.”

Full time?
“Crap, he saw the video?”

“Called a few minutes after it broke. Thought you could use some time dredging the lake for golf balls and figuring shit out. I happen to agree,” Cal said.

Great, Cletus wasn’t looking for a mentor for the kids. He was looking for a way to save Brett from himself. Again.

“And Hattie said you promised to MC the Sugar Ladies’ summer concert in July.”

“I said I’d
try
to make it.” Which in Hattie terms meant she was free to leverage his name for a good cause. This time it was the Sugar Medical Center’s new pediatric ward. The town had spent the better part of the year trying to raise funds to finish the project—and Brett was their secret weapon.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose, not seeing any way around this. He was already here, in the great state of Georgia, with apparently nowhere pressing to be until the playoffs. Which meant that he had to go back to the one place that made him feel like that scared fourteen-year-old kid who’d just lost his parents, looking like a coward with his tail between his legs.

“Fine, ten weeks,” Brett groaned.

“Aren’t you even curious about what Wilson is up to?” Russell, the delivery boy for Big Wang’s, asked, leaning against the door frame of Josephina’s New York high-rise, a bag of takeout dangling from his finger.

“Nope.” Curiosity had faded the second Wilson’s jet had pulled away, leaving her half naked and stranded on a corporate tarmac. She was curious, though, about how long a woman, who was clearly wearing the same wrinkled slacks and chocolate-stained blouse from three days ago when she tried to leave the house, could live on Chinese food before she began to look pathetic.

“Because his Facebook status says engaged.”

“It’s said engaged for the past two years.”
Two years, seven months, and eleven days.
Josephina dug through her wallet and pulled out two bills.

“To Babette Roberts,” Russell threw out.

Josephina froze. Her eyes flew to Russell’s.

“How do you know?” she whispered, hating the way her voice shook.

“Sherman told me when he let me up.”

Sherman was the doorman. He took his job seriously, and his gossip to the bank. If he was telling the delivery boy about her disaster of a life, the entire co-op had been informed days ago.

Great. Just great.

It explained why Mrs. Goldstein had left a bottle of scotch and a collection of chick-flick DVDs on her doorstep yesterday.

“Well, good for them.” She shoved the money at Russell while reaching for the bag. She needed wine, grease, and a good cry. Immediately. And she wasn’t willing to show weakness in front of witnesses. Not again.

But Russell held on, tugging back. “Um, it’s actually twenty-seven, thirty-five.”

“It’s usually twenty-five with tip.” She should know. She’d ordered Chinese takeout every night for the past eleven days. The first night, Russell had forgotten her fortune cookie and she had cried all over his red
B
IG
W
ANG’S: 24-
H
OURS
S
ERVICE
T-shirt. The next night he’d brought a half dozen cookies and extra napkins.

So when she, once again, let out an ugly sniffle, Russell took a small step back.

“This is all I have,” she whispered, hating how she’d once again managed to come up short.

“That’s all right,” Russell said. “How about you go freshen up while I set up dinner. Then after we can start the healing process.” He waggled his brows and—

“Ohmigod. Are you offering a ten percent discount to Big Wang’s in exchange for sex?”

“A little rebound nookie to go with the extra fortune cookies.” There went the brows again.

“No and no.” She slammed the door, but not before grabbing the bag of takeout.

“What about my tip?” Russell shouted through the door.

“Here’s one,” she shouted back. “Offering sex in exchange for two bucks might be considered offensive.”

“It was a good offer.” The heavily accented voice came from behind her.

Josephina turned around and saw her mother’s housekeeper standing at the bedroom door clutching a stainless-steel coffeemaker to her bosom.

Rosalie shrugged one meaty shoulder. “He’s right, you need a man. It will help with the pain.”

“I
don’t
need a man.”

What she needed was a new life. She looked around what had been her house for the past few years and wondered when it had become so sterile. Clean lines, steel beams, and polished marble floors. Not a thing was out of place—except for her. Not that she knew who
her
was anymore, but Josephina decided that she’d like the chance to get to know the person she had been before—before the engagement, before the career-making-moment, before she let everyone’s expectations and lives snuff out her own.

“Well, that’s good because more of that,” Rosalie looked pointedly at the takeout and added a few clicks of the tongue, “and your thighs will jiggle. Men don’t like women who jiggle,” Rosalie said, as though she weren’t shaped like a squat pear with tiny legs that forced her to waddle everywhere she went.

“Now, what do you want me to do with this?” She held up the coffeepot. It was a roaster, foamer, Frappuccino maker, and carbonator all in one—and it was Wilson’s favorite appliance.

“You don’t have to help me pack, Rosalie,” she said, although she was secretly happy Rosalie had come. She’d boxed up more stuff in the past hour than Josephina had managed all day.

For three weeks, she’d stared at the door, thinking this had to be some kind of mistake and that at any minute Wilson would walk in and everything would go back to the way it was supposed to be. Then, last night, while watching
Under the Tuscan Sun
and inhaling a red velvet cake, she realized that she didn’t want to go back to the way things were.

Even scarier, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment she’d lost balance in her life and in turn lost herself. Which was why she was moving out. It was clear that Wilson wasn’t coming back—he hadn’t even called to see if she was okay or tell her that he was engaged to someone else. And every moment she stayed there, in the place she thought she’d grow old and raise babies, the regret ratcheted tighter around her chest, until breathing hurt.

No, she needed to leave—and pronto. Problem was, the only place she had to go was her parents’ house, where the couture décor and upstate judgment would be equally suffocating, just in a different way. Even thinking about it gave her hives.

“Your mother pays me.” Rosalie narrowed her eyes. “She says to come here and help you. You say you need to move. So I fill boxes. Now—”