A Taste of Sugar

by Marina Adair

  “Oh, it will be awesome,” he said.

  Payton beamed.

  The girls cheered.

  Jace took his time, sizing up the girls—stalling for genius to strike. Nothing happened. He hoped that since they were mostly older, maybe a few of them had licenses and had worked on cars with their dads. And Jace had learned when working with some of the most difficult clients in mechanics, if he wanted to meet expectations he had to ask the right questions. “Raise your hand if you’ve ever changed a tire.”

  Not a hand went up.

  “Put air in a tire?” Nothing but crickets. “Pumped gas?” Okay… “Reprogrammed the stereo?”

  “I hooked my iPhone up to the car’s Bluetooth so what we could practice to beats. Does that count?” This from Lacy, the almost breaking six-foot blonde of the group who had a temporary SHS tattoo on her cheek.

  “For today it will.”

  All of the hands went in the air telling him jack shit about the girls, except they got creative when push came to shove. Which gave him an idea. “Okay, let’s start with what you hope to take away from this lesson. Why are you here?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” Payton’s eyes got big, her smile went electric, and Jace felt himself relax. Easy was a great word. Easy was what he was looking for today. Hell, an easy day with his niece and her friends, sharing stories and reconnecting, was exactly what he hoped to get out of this.

  That was what working under the hood was about. That was what constituted most of his memories with his dad. And it was something he was excited to share with Payton. If getting back on the same page with his niece, making a connection that would last over two hundred miles, meant getting to know her friends in the process, even better.

  “We want to be efficient, independent driving members of society,” Payton said with a sweet smile.

  “We want to be car babes,” Lacy supplied as though that was an okay title to aspire to.

  Jace would have thought the girl was joking if his niece’s expression hadn’t gone from role-model niece to I’m so fucked in two seconds flat. The girl had explaining to do. “Car babes, huh?”

  Payton studied her shoes.

  Lacy beamed. “Yup. After reading several Maxim, Cosmo, and Men’s Health articles, we’ve figured out that men are into the three C’s. Cheerleaders, cars, and, well…” Lacy looked down at—oh hell no—the letters stretching across the front of her uniform and smiled.

  Jace did his best to stare the girl in the eyes. “You want me to teach you about cars so you can impress some guys?”

  All six heads bobbled in perfect unison, because, just his luck, they were finally on the same page.

  * * *

  Two hours and eleven minutes later, Jace leaned over the hood, staring down at the Stingray’s engine, taking in the blessedly quiet garage. Each girl had successfully balanced a tire, checked the oil, and, as a team, taken off the valve covers on the Stingray and jump-started one of Spencer’s cars. Although they were more concerned with who got to pick the radio station than the actual placement of the cables, they all left with a better understanding of car safety—and with enough grease under their nails that Jace didn’t think they’d be back anytime soon.

  Everyone came out a winner.

  “Want to hand me the gasket?” Jace asked, figuring that at least she could pitch in after bamboozling him.

  “What does it look like?” Payton asked.

  “It’s a black rubber rectangle with four circles cut out.” Payton looked at a complete loss. “It’s sitting next to the torque wrench.” Hell, if she didn’t know what a gasket looked like, then… “It’s the—”

  “Big silver thingy sitting next to the big black thingy?” She held up the gasket and the torque wrench, then cracked a smile. “I might have said I came to be a car babe, but I was paying attention.”

  Jace smiled back. “So being a car babe isn’t in your future?”

  “Nah.” Thank God. “I want to get my license. Bad. And that means proving to Daddy that I can change a flat and check my oil. Plus, Mason isn’t into car babes. He says he’s into me.”

  “Mason sounds like a smart guy,” Jace said, loving how her cheeks went pink.

  “He’s the best.” She beamed, and the next thing he knew Payton was sitting next to him on a rusty old stool she’d pulled over from the workbench.

  That was all it took: Jace showing up and sticking around long enough, and suddenly his niece was looking at him like he was the best.

  “He has this old truck he bought off Mr. Gregory, and it is always breaking down. So on the weekends he comes over and works on the car at Grandma’s. We can’t really date until I am sixteen because, well, you know Daddy.” She rolled her eyes, and even though Jace agreed with her daddy wholeheartedly, he rolled his eyes with her. Which made her laugh.

  And made him feel like a fucking superhero.

  “Anyway, I sit on the porch steps while Mase works, and we talk about everything.” Apparently, everything was a ten syllables word in Payton’s world. “But it would be cool if I could actually help him. You know?”

  Oh, Jace knew. Knew how much two people could share while working on cars. With his dad, it was more about the journey than finishing the project. Sure, the conversation was great, but it was the unspoken moments that shaped Jace’s life.

  Like Jace, his dad wasn’t a big talker. He said what needed to be said and didn’t mince words. Yet every person in his world knew that they were loved.

  “Your grandpa and I used to work on engines all the time,” Jace said, and realized that this was the first time he’d talked to anyone about his dad in ages. “Sometimes it was a tractor or the neighbor’s mower.”

  “What was the first thing you fixed?” Payton asked, handing him the gasket.

  “I was twelve and decided to borrow Mr. Wilkes’s John Deere,” Jace said, smiling at the memory. He set the gasket in place, wiggling it around to ensure the fit was airtight. “It was parked out behind their barn, and my buddies talked me into taking it for a spin.”

  Payton’s eyes went big. “You took a joyride in Mr. Wilkes’s tractor?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was the coolest guy in the eighth grade for about two minutes, until I drove it right into a ditch and cracked the engine block. When my dad found out he walked me back to the scene of the crime and made me apologize.” He let out a low whistle. “I was sentenced to an entire summer of hard time rebuilding that engine.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” he said, because—shit, now that he was talking he couldn’t seem to stop. “Your granddad helped me every step of the way, teaching me what he knew. By the end of the summer I even taught him a few things. Not that he let me off easy. I had to pay for all the new parts out of my allowance. I was broke for the next two years, but my interest in engines was solid.”

  “I pretended I was tutoring a senior football player once, because I thought he was hot,” Payton admitted, a little sass and a whole lot of teen drama in her tone. “Only, Dad found out, and I spent the rest of my summer washing down livestock at the feed store in town. And he made me wear a jumpsuit.”

  As far as Jace was concerned, the girl got off easy. And if the football player was still walking, then he had, too. But Jace was feeling too good about being her confidant to say anything.

  “Jumpsuits aren’t that bad,” he teased, and Payton snorted.

  “Then how come you’re not wearing one?”

  She had him there. The head gasket snapped into place, and Jace picked one of the bolts out of the box he’d set on the side rim of the car. “Grab that big silver thing and help me tighten this bolt.”

  Payton didn’t hesitate, stepped up to the bumper, and tried to get the wrench around the bolt. Jace flipped it over and helped her get it into the correct position. “Now turn it this way until you hear a click. That is the wrench telling you it has the correct pressure.”

  Payton started turning, and when it clicke
d she stopped. But she didn’t sit back down, she reached for the next bolt and started twisting. Painted nails or not, his niece was pretty good with a torque wrench.

  “You know, when I was about your age my dad decided he wanted to fix up his dad’s old car. This one.”

  “I saw the photos on Grandma’s wall, but all I can make out is your backside sticking out of the hood.” Payton laughed, and suddenly the heavy sense of loss he’d been carting around didn’t feel so heavy. “She said you were a born grease monkey.”

  Jace paused, letting that process. “I think I am more of a guy who loves to solve puzzles, especially ones where I can get my hands dirty. It didn’t hurt that I got to hang out with my dad, one on one, so I didn’t have to compete with my brothers for his attention.” Because Jace learned early on it was impossible to compete with the golden boy and the hometown hero. “When we were under the hood, it was my time.”

  And Jace could just be himself.

  “So it was your thing and Grandpa’s, huh?”

  “You could say that.” He handed her the next bolt, then causally threw out, “It could be our thing, too. If you want.” And when Payton didn’t seemed horrified at the idea of turning wrenches after school with her uncle, he added, “I could use the help. And when we get her running I’d even let you drive her.” Payton’s fingers froze and she looked up at him. “On private property, of course.”

  “Really? Omigod! That would be so cool,” she said, and gave him a hug, an honest-to-God hug that didn’t come with bouncing or squealing. She pulled back and went serious. “So we’d be partners, like you and Grandpa were?”

  “You bet.”

  “Okay, because I was thinking cherry red is kind of outdated. Way too mainstream. Not to mention it wasn’t an original color to the year.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “Google.” She pulled out her cell and a few swipes later flashed him the screen. “Look at this one. I found it online last night when I was looking at classic car sites to see what kind of car we’d be working on. It’s sky blue and has a cream leather interior with matching blue piping on the seats. It is all the original paint and interior. I think if we restore this, then we should restore it right.” She looked up at him, uncertainty in her eyes. “Don’t you think?”

  Was she kidding? His niece had been excited enough to search the Internet before coming today. They could paint it sparkly pink for all he cared.

  Chapter 13

  It was nearly ten by the time the front door creaked open. Jace bit back a smile, because Charlotte was sneaking in. Heels in one hand, a Fabric Farm bag dangling from the other, and guilt clinging to her like her wool coat.

  “You’re home late,” Jace said from the couch, where he’d been waiting for her to come home.

  Charlotte spun around, and the realization of being caught had her hand flying to her chest and her things crashing to the floor.

  “You scared me,” she said, and gasped.

  “That’s what sneaking will do to a person, set them on edge.”

  Charlotte picked up her shoes and the bag. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Ah, this is where I just smile and say, ‘How was your day?’ See, that was me considering my partner’s needs.” When Charlotte didn’t answer the question, instead focusing on her bag, he held up a wineglass. She reached for it and he pulled it back. “You have to sit down and tell me about your day while you drink it. Sharing about one’s day creates a connection.”

  She eyed him, then the small couch, then the wine. The wine won out, and she plopped down. He handed her the glass and filled it barely an inch. When she held the glass there, waiting for him to top it off, he said, “Talk and I will fill.”

  “Are you serious?” He quirked a brow. “Fine. I wasn’t sneaking.”

  He filled it a tad more.

  She huffed.

  “I was taking a class.” Now they were getting somewhere.

  “What kind of class?”

  “If I tell you, will you fill my glass to the top?” He thought about that for a moment then nodded. “I was taking a knitting class.”

  “You knit?” he asked, and when he went for the bag, she snatched it back. He held up the wine. “I’ll top you off again.”

  She pushed the glass closer to him, then with an annoyed yet self-conscious expression, Charlotte pulled out a pathetic-looking six-inch square. And bam. That was all it took. The image cemented itself in his head, and he was screwed.

  Jace had come home with a plan, a good one that included nothing more than showing Charlotte just how easy it was when they were together. That they could have a good time without the added pressure of sex or hashing out the past. But the contrast of her sitting on the couch in that uptight doctor getup next to those fucking heels while looking all domesticated with knitting needles and pink yarn was enough to sidetrack him.

  Because Dr. Charlotte Holden, with all of her degrees and well-thought-out plans, was sexy as hell. A flustered Charlie McGraw, holding a sorry-as-shit-looking scarf or whatever it was she was attempting to knit was a different story altogether. That woman was so damn irresistible.

  But he wanted more than a little nibble. He wanted the whole cake—icing and all. And that meant sticking to the plan. No sex before bonding, because if he wanted to convince Charlotte that they deserved that “more” he was after, then he knew getting naked before getting in her bed was a bad idea. According to the article in Hitched magazine, for a woman sex was a different form of connection.

  Sex feels good. A connection, when nurtured, lasts forever.

  He still wasn’t sure what forever held, but he was certain that wherever it was he didn’t want to go there without Charlotte.

  “Don’t laugh,” she said. “It’s for Woolamena. I’m making her a new jockey. Jockey Jane.”

  “She’s pink.”

  “I-am-woman pink,” Charlotte said, then told him about her plan for sheep scurry domination, her walls crumbling with each sentence. When she was finished, she leaned back and pulled her legs beneath her.

  “Only in Sugar could the fate of the world come down to a sheep and my ability to knit a doll.” She laughed. It was a great laugh. Deep and throaty, and so honest he had to laugh, too. And admit, silently to himself of course, that after everything he’d witnessed overseas, after living in a dozen big cities where no one gave a crap about their neighbors, it was refreshing to know that there were still towns like Sugar. Places where everyone cared enough to meddle and the biggest obstacle in sight was a man-hating sheep.

  Not that Sugar was for Jace. But he could see why Charlotte had come home. Envied her, even, that she had the ability to come home. Because even if Jace moved back, he would never be able to find peace. And as far as he was concerned, home was where you were supposed to be at peace.

  Although, sitting right there, sharing a glass of wine and his day with Charlotte, Jace felt more at peace than he had in a while.

  Charlotte went silent and rested back against the couch. Jace tugged one foot out from beneath her, then the other, and placed them in his lap. He looked at her toes, painted a bright red, and with a smile started rubbing circles in her arch. “I got a call back about the cars.”

  “You did? Already?”

  “Yup,” he said, feeling kind of like a superhero. “I got two classics for people to ride in and one concept car, which should bring a nice crowd.”

  “How on earth did you get a concept car to come here to Sugar?”

  “I called a friend of mine who is a collector, plus he owns a racing team. The classics are his, the concept car belongs to the team.”

  Charlotte thought about that for a long moment. “And what did you have to do to get that?”

  “Agree to consult on a new high-performance engine they are experimenting with next season.”

  “In Atlanta?” she asked, and something about the way she said it had his hands stopping.

  “Atlanta
Motorsports is in Atlanta. So yeah, most of the projects I work on are in Atlanta.”

  “Makes sense,” she finally said then closed her eyes and wiggled her toes for him to continue. He obliged. “I heard Payton came to visit you today.”

  Happy to accept her topic shift, Jace said, “She did. Thought she could impress some guy by pretending to be a car babe.”

  “Car babe?” She snorted. “Where do girls get these ideas?”

  “From boys.”

  “Right, I remember now,” she said, then moaned when he dug his fingers deeper into the pad of her foot, right below the big toe. It was her secret pleasure button, and when he hit it just right, applied the correct amount of pressure, while sliding his other hand up her calf and maybe a little higher for his own benefit, her eyes rolled back.

  “God, that feels good.”

  Hell, yeah, it did, because every time he hit that spot, she pressed down on his spot. Hard. So he did it again and—

  “Ah, Charlie, please tell me my boots are under your bed.”

  She slowly shook her head and damn it if he didn’t feel like crying. He purposely hadn’t checked, wishing like hell that after his visit this morning she’d reconsidered. Made a step in his direction. And damn, he was disappointed that she hadn’t.

  “Then you need to stop wiggling your foot.” Her eyes slid down his body until they reached his lap, which was sporting a major bulge, and he saw the pulse in her neck pick up. She went to move her foot, but he held on to her ankle. “Just let me be the one giving the foot massage and we’ll be good.”

  “You sure?”

  No, he wasn’t sure about anything anymore. Like why he was so bent on not having sex with the woman he loved, especially when she was making it clear by the way she was looking at him—as if he were her dessert and nightcap all rolled in one—that she was more than open to a little tangled sheets two-step.

  Oh, he wanted sex, all right. But he also wanted naptime shenanigans, and daily hugs and kisses, and to go to bed together so that the next day, when she woke up all warm and soft with sleep, he was the lucky son of a bitch who got to put the good in her morning.