Sugar's Twice as Sweet: Sugar, Georgia: Book 1

by Marina Adair

  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.

  “Grandma, how about you and the ladies head on over to our place. There’s some beer in the fridge, cards in the game chest. Just make sure the cigars are smoked outside or Cal will have my—” Grandma Hattie cleared her throat. “We can all get a good night’s rest and work this all out in the morning.” When none of the ladies moved, he added, “It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

  It took some cajoling, a little flirting, and a whole lot of bribing—including an economy-sized pack of signed briefs—to get them gone. But five minutes later he was watching them roll Jelly-Lou down the ramp, arguing over who won the last hand.

  He closed the door and turned to Joie, more excited to be alone with her than he should be.

  “Nice top. That color really brings out your—” he purposely paused, loving the way her face went pink, matching her lace, “—eyes.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Humiliation and lace seem to be my thing lately.”

  She crossed her arms in an attempt to look tough. Imagine his delight when that only highlighted those beautiful breasts of hers. Which from the looks of them were cold—or she wasn’t as immune to him as she pretended.

  “Sounds like a story I’d love to hear.” He leaned a shoulder against the door. “Maybe over dinner. Or we could go straight for the pillow talk.”

  “Briefs, huh?” Joie said after a good old-fashioned eye-rolling.

  “Apparently they fetch a good price online.” They were back to surface sparring, so why didn’t he feel relieved?

  Glass crunched and a few chips snapped under his boots as he crossed the room. He glanced down at her bare feet with red tips and understood why she hadn’t moved. Sliding a hand down her arm, he wrapped his fingers around the club, untangling it from hers and setting it against the wall.

  Josephina stood silent, staring at the floor. Then she looked up at him and, wow. No sense in denying it. She was gorgeous.

  He’d spent the better part of the week avoiding her, rationalizing that if he didn’t see her this insane attraction would fade.

  It hadn’t. And now he didn’t think ignoring her was going to work.

  She had a great body, long and toned with X-rated curves, which was currently so close he could smell her shampoo. Her hair was loose, bed-rumpled, and seemed to glow under what was left of the chandelier. She was biting down on that full lower lip, which had starred in some pretty impressive dreams lately. Her nose was pert, peeling, and little too pink.

  Tinker Bell had been out in the sun.

  He pulled a little piece of curled-up skin off her nose. “You should wear lotion when you sunbathe. Georgia sun is strong,”

  “I was pulling weeds.” Interesting. “And I did.” She scrunched her nose, making it pinker. “Guess not enough though.”

  He looked at her hands. They were small and elegant, even though every nail was chipped. So Tinker Bell liked to get dirty. She got more fascinating by the moment, and that was not a good thing. Especially when those blue eyes, soft and so big he was afraid that if he wasn’t careful he might just fall into them, met his.

  “You okay?” He stepped closer, resting a hand on either hip. His fingers brushed the exposed skin between her tiny bottoms and even tinier top.

  She nodded, then thought better of it and shook her head. “The chandelier,” she whispered so low he barely made out the words. “It’s broken, isn’t it?”

  Brett looked up. “It’s not that bad,” he lied.

  “It was Letty’s favorite.”

  He could also tell that it was hers. Hell, she had slept under it that first night. Tonight, though, she had called him from a bed, which added a new location for his fantasies.

  “I can fix it,” he heard himself offer.

  She shrugged, deflated. “It’ll never be the same. And pretending it is, is even worse than admitting it’s broke.”

  When she spoke like that, her voice filled with sadness and something deeper, it tore at his gut. He wanted to do whatever it took to bring back that sassy and stubborn woman he’d picked up on the side of the highway. He knew how to handle her. This woman, the vulnerable one with her heart on display, made him nervous.

  “You are not what I expected, Joie. One minute you’re this carefully manicured woman who is so together it’s annoying. The next you’re in fairy wings looking like a tornado hit and worrying yourself over an old lamp. What I want to know is which one is the real Josephina Harrington?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, tugging at the hem of her nightshirt, looking as if she’d somehow disappointed him.

  “What am I going to do with you?” He closed the gap, surprised when she dropped her head to his chest.

  Right then, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with her. The image of her in that getup, in whatever bed she’d been calling from, was making a lasting impression. He just hoped she didn’t notice.

  “That’s all right. No one ever knows what to do with me. Most of the time I barely know what to do with myself.”

  “Sounds exciting.” It did. Every second of his life, it seemed, belonged to someone else. His manager, his sponsors, his fans, his career, his family. Even now, stuck in his hometown, bored out of his ever-loving mind, it was still at someone else’s request. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that his life was his own.

  “Sometimes. But usually it just lands me in a mess.”

  “Like I said before, messy can be sexy.” It was what drew him to her. She pretended to be carefully put together, but under all of that big-city swagger was this free spirit who felt her way through life. Unlike him, for whom every action had a monetary value and decisions were weighted by repercussions, public image, and upside.

  “Or it can just be messy.”

  “Not on you.” He traced a finger up her arm to her chin, tilting her head to meet his gaze.

  A heat passed through her eyes that told him she liked his touching her, liked being with him. Determined to find out just how much she liked his hands on her, he tightened his grip on her hip, shifting closer until they brushed up against each other. He dipped his head, just enough to let her know his intent.

  Her breath caught and suddenly their mouths were only a fraction apart. Their gazes held, neither talking, just sharing breath.

  “Brett,” she whispered again, her voice a little thick. “We shouldn’t. I just got out of a relationship and you, well, it’s weird that I don’t even know you but I’ve seen your tattoo and…”

  Brett smiled. So she had seen the video. Paid close enough attention to notice his tattoo, which meant she was staring in the vicinity of his ass. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. But her dilated eyes and shallow breathing were.

  It was the damnedest thing, they were barely touching and yet he was reacting as if they were naked and pressed against each other. Maybe this was what he needed, one night to get her out of his system, then he could forget about this crazy attraction and go back to lying low.

  Just one night.

  He lowered his head and she went up on her toes. Her eyes fluttered shut. He wasn’t sure wh
o started it, but suddenly they were kissing, her arms on his chest, his in her hair. Their lips brushed once, and then some more. Tender little kisses that made his chest tight and his jeans even tighter.

  She gave a small purr of approval that was pretty much his undoing. She didn’t grab or demand, instead cuddling into him all soft and vulnerable. So damn vulnerable. With another sexy sigh she pulled back, just enough so that they weren’t kissing but were sharing breath, staring into each other’s eyes. Hers were huge and unguarded, showing him every damn thing she was feeling.

  Brett tensed, waiting—hoping like hell—for her to push him away. End this and give him an easy out.

  Too bad nothing about her was easy. She wrapped her arms around his middle, pulling him close enough to bury her head in his chest, and her whole body melted into his. That one move changed the game.

  He stood there, stock-still, his hands at his side. His brain raced, trying to figure out what she needed from him. Apparently it was a hug, because when he wrapped his arms around her, she let go a warm sigh that went all the way to his heart. She held on to him as if she were afraid there was somewhere else he’d rather be. Which should have terrified him, because there wasn’t. He could stand there all night and just hold her, listen to those soft little sounds of hers, which turned him on almost as much as her mouth.

  A sure sign that he was in trouble.

  A lot of trouble. There was no room for this in his life. Nowhere for this moment to go. He was leaving and she wasn’t a casual-fling kind of girl. Still, he pulled her closer, wanting to be what she needed.

  Understanding his offer, she smiled into his chest and shuffled closer.

  “Ouch!” She shifted her feet again, “Ow, ow, ow!”

  Without asking what was wrong or giving her any more time to play tap dance roulette on a bed of glass, Brett scooped her up and carried her to the couch, trying to ignore how soft and curvy she felt against him.

  Setting her on one end, he eased himself down across from her and lifted her foot. Shit.