Sugar's Twice as Sweet: Sugar, Georgia: Book 1
Page 6
The charm-your-pants-off smile that was Brett McGraw, PGA Playboy and everybody’s best friend, faded into something softer, something genuine.
“Because of that?” He tilted his chin toward the stack of sketches littering the floor.
Before she could stop him, he picked them up, slowly sifting through her drawings. To anyone else they might seem like pencil lines on paper, but those were her dreams, the way she envisioned Fairchild House.
Despite the panic bubbling inside, Josephina straightened, bracing herself for his reaction. She’d heard it all before. Her parents had pointed out every flaw in her plan, every reason why she would fail, completely discounting all of the work she had put into Wilson’s career-making hotel.
Brett got to the last page and looked up. “Seems like a pretty big undertaking.”
“My parents think it’s an impossible undertaking,” she replied, doing her best to sound confident. Because suddenly everything they had said was coming true and she wasn’t sure if she could do this.
Brett looked around and she knew he was checking out the watermarks above the fireplace, the crack running down the far wall, the way the upper walkway seemed to sag a bit in the center. But then he looked back at her and shrugged.
“I didn’t think anything was impossible when you were wearing these.” He lightly tugged on her fairy wings and she felt a simultaneous tug on her heart. “This town needs an inn, a warm place for folks to stay when they come visit. Your aunt understood that. She was one of the strongest women I knew. Stood down my grandma a couple of times when I was a kid. My brothers and I used to think she was magic, a fairy guardian, she’d call herself. And I can see a lot of Ms. Letty in you, Tinker Bell.”
“Thank you.” Those two simple words didn’t even begin to explain what he’d just done for her, but it was all she could squeeze out past the tightness in her throat.
Leaning closer, he ran a finger down her wings and waggled his brows. “Did you know I have a thing for fairies?” She laughed. And it felt good. “Hand to God. It has something to do with those skimpy little petal dresses.”
She went up on her toes and kissed the cleft of his chin. “Why couldn’t you have been a hog farmer?”
The room fell silent. Brett searched her gaze for a long intense moment, his own reflective and uncertain.
To diffuse the sudden shift in mood and bring it somewhere closer to manageable, Josephina gave him a playful shove. Which did nothing, considering he was built like the side of a mountain. He was also slow to move away so she backed up and held open the door. He followed, Boo prancing excitedly at his departure.
“If you need anything—” He stopped at the top of the steps, the easygoing Brett securely back in place, and ran his eyes down the length of her body. “And I mean, anything. Call me.”
Irritated that she was all flustered, she opened her mouth to give a breezy, not-affected-in-the-slightest laugh. Instead, a giggly and semihusky, “Not gonna happen,” came out, followed by a mortifying snort.
“We’ll see.”
* * *
Brett rolled over, his skin squeaking against the sticky leather. He’d achieved exactly fifty-seven minutes of sleep, a kinked neck, and a bad case of bed head. Best night of sleep he’d had in three weeks.
Damn, this house was going to kill him. It was too big, too clean, hell, it even smelled like a new car. Hattie and Payton had spearheaded the decorating, making it a shrine to everything that’s wrong with the world. Every inch, including the guest room, was an infusion of Minnie Pearl and Paris Hilton—redneck chic. Which was why he’d decided to take up residence in Cal’s office—the only room Cal had a say in—even though cramming his over-six-foot body onto a toy-sized sofa was never a good idea.
Or maybe it was the fact that he’d accomplished jack shit since coming home to “lie low.” No matter what Cal called it, it still felt like hiding.
He looked around the office and took in just how far the McGraw brothers had come. Cream-colored walls, a comfortable sitting area composed of overstuffed leather furniture. It was a far cry from the three-room farmhouse he and his brothers had grown up in.
A gallery of photos hung above the mantel. In the center of the collection was a shot of their parents that Cal must have salvaged from the fire. His parents had been in love, all the way up until the moment they died, there was no doubt about that.
Brett found himself wondering what that felt like, to love someone so much that the rest of the bullshit didn’t matter. Not that he’d ever want that for himself.
Oh, he understood the desire for that kind of love. Saw it in his parents’ eyes growing up, watched how his dad’s entire world revolved around a little bit of a woman. His dad’s love went soul deep. That’s how it was for McGraw men, they went all in. So much so that Brett knew his daddy died because living without his wife would have been too hard.
Then watching Cal’s entire world crumble when his wife, Tawny, walked out was a harsh reminder for Brett to keep it simple and surface with people—especially women. If Cal hadn’t had Payton to focus on, Brett didn’t know how his brother would have bounced back.
Deciding a hot cup of coffee and a morning spent on the course was the only way he was going to clear his head, Brett pulled a pair of sweats out of a box and dragged them on. They were black, brand-new, and fit perfectly. Just like the other fifty identical pairs, which he got from one of his sponsors—a sponsor that he might lose.
Cal and Payton were already awake, most likely getting ready to head out for their annual father-daughter Disney World vacation. Payton was frying up some bacon and eggs. Cal sat at the table, staring at his daughter and looking surly.
“Uncle Brett,” Payton said a second before she launched herself into his arms.
“Morning, kiddo.” Brett pressed a kiss to his niece’s forehead, then leaned a hip against the counter.
“Thank God, you’re up. Please tell Daddy that wearing a two-piece is not the end of the world.” Payton’s voice rang with dramatic warning—if he sided with Cal it would be the end of her world.
“I don’t think he has the body to pull off dental floss and triangles.” Problem was, Brett suddenly noticed that his niece did. When the hell had that happened?
“Conversation’s over, Payton, so drop it,” Cal said wearily.
“But it’s already packed.”
“Easy. Unpack it.”
“I think something is burning.” Brett jerked his head toward the smoke coming off the skillet.
“Grandma’s teaching me how to make Daddy’s favorite breakfast,” Payton explained as she walked back to the stove and, pushing Brett aside as if he weighed as much as Joie’s rat dog, flipped the bacon. “I made the first batch of biscuits.”
Brett had tried some of her biscuits the other morning, which was why he was skipping them today. The girl was a disaster in the kitchen, but Hattie was determined to make a southern lady out of her, which included mastering all of the secrets in the McGraw recipe box.
“Now, Daddy,” she said, dragging the word out until Brett considered skipping breakfast altogether. “About—”
“No means no.” Cal’s eyes went wide, then hard. “Remember that!”
Payton rolled hers. “All my friends wear two-pieces.”
A few months ago, her standard had been cleats, scabbed knees, and a ponytail. Today she wore a flowery sundress, cowboy boots, and a sweet smile that said she was a proper cowgirl. A proper cowgirl who was going to have every young buck this side of the Mississippi knocking down her door.
“They also wear makeup and scraps of denim they think pass for appropriate attire.”
“Why are you being like this? I’m thirteen.”
“Twelve.”
“Almost thirteen. And old enough to choose my own clothes.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I had to muck the stalls for over a month to earn enough money to buy it, which means I should get to wear it.”
Payton gave Brett a quick wink and set down a plate—eggs over easy and heavy on the bacon. “Right, Uncle Brett?”
Now it was Brett’s turn to squirm. He hated being in the middle. When it came to Payton he was normally a yes man, but looking at his brother, bloodshot eyes, gripping his mug as if it were the neck of some kid who had the balls to ask his daughter out, Brett felt sorry for the guy.
He took a bite of bacon. Chewed once and forced himself to swallow. The bacon and the grimace. “Thanks.”
Payton’s phone chirped. She glanced at the screen and let out a dramatic sigh. “Ever since your video went viral, all my friends are begging to come over and meet you.” It chimed again. “Kendra wants to know if she can bring her mom?”
Brett felt the tips of his ears heat. “Listen, about that, honey.” He stopped. How the hell was he going to explain to his niece that the reason he’d ended up baring his butt to the world was the same reason she couldn’t wear a bikini. Boobs made men do stupid things.
“Daddy already explained it.”
“Did he, now?” Brett was interested in just what his brother had told her.
“Which is why I should be able to express myself.” She folded her little-girl arms across her no-longer-little-girl chest. She was as single-minded as her mother had been when it came to getting what she wanted. “My two-piece is a form of self-expression, just like your tattoo.”
“She’s got a point,” Brett said, wondering how much of his video she had seen and thinking that a teenager’s two-piece had to cover more than the woman he’d interacted with. Didn’t it?
“Payton, did you tell your uncle that our resort is hosting Florida State’s high school football summer training program?” Cal snapped off a piece of bacon, his teeth grinding it to sawdust.
Now Brett knew why Cal looked ready to kick someone in the nuts. He knew what Brett knew. That what she’d be expressing and what teen boys would be interpreting would be two different things. He knew because he’d been one himself. Had talked many a girl out of a teenage two-piece.
He wondered how many daddies had wanted to kick him in the nuts when he was a teenager? How many still did?
Shit.
Suddenly every line, every smile, every pickup phrase he’d ever used came back to him with nauseating speed. There was no way in hell Payton was going to wear a bikini. Ever. He didn’t even think she should be allowed near a large body of water. Starting today, guy was a four-letter word.
“I’m not wearing it to impress some boy.” Payton laughed, breezy and fake, while bending over to wrap her arms around Cal’s shoulders, hugging him from behind. “I’m wearing it for me.”
Cal managed a provoked expression and turned his head, waiting until Payton rested her cheek on his shoulder.
Finally, he whispered, “Great, then you can wear it in the hotel room and putter around in the bathtub.”
“That’s so unfair.” Payton stepped back, her lips puckering out in a perfected pout. “You never let me do anything other kids my age get to do. You’re ruining my life!”
Two seconds later she burst into tears and raced out of the kitchen.
Cal pushed his plate back and dropped his head to the table with a thud. “How about you take her to Florida and I stay here with Hattie?”
“Are you crazy?” Brett said, staring at the empty doorway. Payton was usually so easygoing, like him. It’s why they got along so well. “Who the hell was that? And when did she start getting—” He gestured helplessly toward his chest region.
“Don’t say it.”
Fine by him. He couldn’t. Boobs and his niece weren’t something that belonged in the same thought.
“It supports my theory that the bigger the,” Cal made the same helpless gesture, “the crazier they become.” Cal looked ready to punch someone again. “I swear to God, if someone had told me my kid would come out looking like my ex-wife I would have married a cross-eyed, bucktoothed, two-by-four.”
“Instead of a complicated socialite with the body of a porn star?”
“God, don’t remind me.”
“Speaking of complicated socialite.” Brett opened the bottle of hot sauce and doused his eggs. “Ran into the new neighbor yesterday. Found her stranded on the highway, so I gave her a lift.”
“A lift, huh? And what kind of lift are we talking about?” Cal mumbled, lifting his own perfectly seasoned bite to his mouth.
Brett ignored him.
“Letty’s girl is here?” Before Cal could savor his forkful, Hattie waddled through the kitchen and grabbed her favorite wooden spoon. White spiky hair gelled up in quills, she wore a blue tracksuit with a yellow shirt, yellow tennis shoes, and a whole lot of attitude. He wasn’t sure if she was dressed for church or to run a marathon, but she was still ticked about his video. “Just like a Yankee. No respect for etiquette or tradition.”
Hattie pulled out her recipe box, the one passed down from great-grandma Clover, which only made an appearance when impressing was imperative, and started flipping through the pages.
“I need to make a covered dish of some kind for her so she doesn’t have to cook. Offer her a proper Sugar welcome.” Hattie had already diced up the onions and was moving on to the celery. “I bet that Etta Jayne was home last night baking her up something gossipworthy. She’s always trying to look charitable so she can make the rest of us look like sinners.”
“She had a burger from town last night.” Just the thought of her in those wings turned him on. “But I bet by tonight, she’ll appreciate a nice home-cooked casserole.”
“See, Cal. Poor girl had to eat greasy-spoon food,” Hattie said. “Now, be a dear and grab me some of those mushrooms.”
Cal shot Brett a glare. Brett smiled back. Cal set his fork down and stood. Making sure, in the process, to elbow Brett with a sharp What the hell? in the ribs.
To which Brett shrugged an equally expressive, Welcome to my life, buddy. How does it feel?
He’d spent the past two weeks measuring, mixing, and scrubbing. Not to mention taking in an earful over his wandering ways.
“Maybe some of your coconut cake. Nobody makes coconut cake like you,” Brett added.
“Coconut cake,” Hattie mumbled pulling out a round pan before disappearing into the pantry, dragging Cal with her.
Brett smiled. Seeing his brother take orders instead of giving them was a nice change.
Cal peeked out from the pantry. “Wait? How does a guy who is off women know what she had for dinner?”
“Just being friendly.”
“Uh-huh,” Cal grunted, exiting the pantry balancing sacks of sugar and flour, along with a large can of lard. A bag of dried coconut hung from his teeth.
“After we whip up this cake,” she said to Cal as if this was now a team effort, “you’re going to take me over there so you can watch me give her this welcome basket. Then you’re going to tell everyone you see what a gracious person I am, welcoming Letty’s kin with my coconut cake. Make sure you remind folks that I had a recent brush with death and still managed to whip out a blue-ribbon welcome. See if Etta Jayne can top that!”
Hattie and Etta Jayne had been best friends since FDR was in office. Also fierce competitors since the Sugar-Pull Championship of ’54, when Etta Jayne was crowned Miss Peach with what Hattie claimed was a stolen “Star Spangled Banner” rendition, complete with cowbells and a flame-throwing fiddle.
“It was heartburn, Grandma,” Cal reminded her.
“All folks will remember was that I was taken off in an ambulance with the siren blaring.”
“You told them that if they didn’t run the siren, you’d shoot them.”
Hattie ignored him, ignored the fact that she carried a .45 in her handbag at all times, ignored that she’d been arrested three times for discharging her weapon in public, and went back to making
her prize-winning cake.
“I’ll do it,” Brett offered.
“Oh, no.” Cal shook his head. “Don’t even think about going over there. I know that look, it’s the same one you got when Katie-Sue Sherman’s dad said she couldn’t go to prom with you.”
Ah, Katie-Sue Sherman, with her big green eyes and minuscule green dress. “That was a great prom.”
“You were a freshman. And she was the superintendent’s daughter. And just like Katie-Sue should have been, that new girl—”
“Joie—”
“Whatever.” Cal placed his hands palms down on the table and leaned in. “She is off-limits.”
Brett stood, leaned forward, and mimicked Cal’s stance. “I never said I was interested in testing those limits.”
“You didn’t need to. It’s all over your face.” Cal exhaled, his expression going serious. “Ever since Mom and Dad died you’ve been running off to fill any kind of hole you could find. I’d hoped you’d take this time to relax, figure out what’s next.”
“I’m sitting out until the FedEx Cup,” Brett said, shifting a little on his feet. “What more do you want?”
“Come on, Brett, I’m not talking about golf and you know it.”
He did know it. Brett had been playing life eighteen holes at a time for so long it was easy to forget why he was running. But being here, back in Sugar, where everything reminded him of his parents—of what he’d lost—was slowly driving him insane. That empty feeling he usually didn’t have the time to dwell on was slowly taking over his entire chest, and the only time it had seemed to recede was when he was sparring with Joie.
“No need to go all father-knows-best. I was just wasting time with a pretty girl,” Brett said. A surge of emotion pushed through his chest, calling him a liar.
“I get it. But there is nothing safe or low-profile about a girl like that. She is exactly how you can ruin your career.” Cal sat down and let out a breath. “And I just went and made her that much more of a challenge, didn’t I?”