by Marina Adair
Her mother had been horrified when she’d come to pick her up that last summer. Covered in mud and smelling of slop, Josephina had raced into Letty’s house shouting for the world to hear that she’d caught Ham Hock all by herself. She had chased, tackled, and hogtied all two hundred pounds of pork. Her mother had ripped her out of Letty’s proud arms and quickly extinguished any dreams she had of marrying the boy over at the neighboring ranch and raising hogs. After that, summers were filled with ballet, violin, and classes “appropriate” for a Harrington.
And look where that got her.
Puckering up, she planted one on Jimmy Dean. If Josephina was going to make things here work, she was going to have to switch it up, go Letty on life. Embrace the mess.
There was only one way to come out of this a better person, and it wasn’t by holding back.
Grabbing her purse off the nightstand, she fished Charlotte’s card out and dialed before she lost the courage. Whatever Wilson thought, her parents’ growing disappointment over her choices, whoever she was, she needed to break free—before she just broke.
One night, her mind whispered. One wild night and then she could go back to being the kind of person who ran a successful business. The kind of person a bank entrusted with its money.
Taking a deep breath, she rested her hand over her heart and listened to the phone ring. Her pulse pounded through her chest. This was crazy. But crazy suddenly felt right, like if she stopped trying to be Josephina Harrington and just went back to being Joie everything wouldn’t be so hard.
“Dr. Holden,” her voice came over the phone.
“Charlotte, it’s Joie.”
“It’s Joie now, is it?”
“It is for tonight. That is if you’re still up for a night out?”
“Now, what would a sweet girl like you have in mind?” Charlotte’s smile radiated though the phone.
“Nothing cultured or proper, and something guaranteed to horrify my mom.”
Chapter 10
The Saddle Rack was just like Brett remembered—packed, poorly lit, and offering up some of the best hushpuppies in the country. Lone Star was on tap, whiskey behind the counter, and a red and black Atlanta Falcons emblem hung above the mirror behind the bar, making sure anyone who entered knew whose territory this was.
Brett stepped into the bar, causing a chorus of howdys to erupt and making him wonder why he’d stayed away so long. The town might be small and the people nosy as hell, but there was something about this place that was in his blood. It was home.
A few pats on the back and several offers for a two-step later, he sidestepped the dance floor, which was in full swing, and finally made his way to the bar. “Give me a cold one.”
Etta Jayne, owner of the Saddle Rack, stood at the bar next to the shotgun mounted on the wall. It was loaded and served as a reminder that she decided who got served, who got played, and sometimes, who got laid. Apparently she was still pissed at him for taking Joie’s side the other night, seeing as she served him up a hostile glare instead of a much-needed beer.
After his week, he thought he’d be used to that—being ignored by stubborn women.
He’d only come here tonight because it was better than sitting at home, thinking about doing something stupid. Like going over to Joie’s place and asking her out only to be shot down again.
Glory walked up, tray of empty bottles in hand, and shot him a rare smile. Not that she didn’t smile a lot. The woman was always flashing those pearly whites and offering up a sweet hey. There was nothing at all sweet about this one. It was a shit-eating grin, one she reserved just for him, and one that he knew all too well.
He and Glory Gloria Mann had met sitting up on the rocks behind the eighteenth hole at the Sugar Country Club. Brett had been waiting for his daddy and Glory had been avoiding hers. They swapped secrets and spit and had been best friends ever since.
“You’re looking mighty fine tonight.”
Brett looked down. He was wearing boots, jeans, and a button-down. “I look like this every day.”
“No, usually you’re wearing some kind of logo shirt and a ball cap. With a logo. These clothes you actually paid for.” She raised a brow. “Brett McGraw, you’re dressed to impress.”
“Can’t a man come in for a drink and a little music?”
“Not dressed like that.” Glory slid behind the bar and poured him a tall one. She had traded in her football attire for a denim mini and worn-in cowgirl boots, transforming herself from Falcons fan to the best beer slinger slash cocktail waitress slash bouncer in all of Georgia.
“Maybe I got all dressed up for you. Ever think of that?” he lied.
Back in high school they had kissed. It was a disaster. It was like locking lips with his sister; then she told him she was in love with someone else.
“Then why do you keep looking at the door?” She slid his beer across the bar. “Grandma told me all about your part in the gun-slinging run-in with her Bible group. Funny. You didn’t mention that the other night.”
“Must have slipped my mind.” He purposely turned his back to the door.
“Seems to me you were all tongue-tied because little Joie Harrington is back in town,” she said thorough a grin. “Or maybe your mind was occupied by what she had on under that robe.”
Brett picked up the glass and took a long swig. He had no intention of discussing Joie or her robe with anyone, especially Glory.
“If I remember correctly, Joie was the girl you were going to marry and raise, what was it, goats?”
“Hogs.” Apparently Brett had shared one too many boyhood secrets with his good friend.
“That’s right. You were going to be the best golf player in the world and come back and buy her a pig farm.”
Brett smiled against the rim of his mug as the memory from long ago resurfaced. He’d forgotten about that. He and Glory were going to get out of Sugar, get rich, and then marry their secret loves. At least Brett had gotten out. Glory hadn’t been so lucky.
Glory grabbed six beers and expertly flipped open each cap. “She looks exactly like you said, barefoot, scabbed, and with the biggest blue eyes.”
Except his wild-child Joie was now Josephina Harrington and she was uptown, uptight, and he would be up to his ears in trouble if Cal found out he was considering reminding her just how much fun getting dirty could be.
“Yeah, well, things change.”
“They sure do, seeing as just about every single woman in Sugar and even a few of the taken ones have been throwing themselves at you since you got back. You’ve dated, let me think…not a one.”
“So?”
“So, she still gets to you.” Glory leaned across the bar and poked him in the chest with her scrawny finger.
“Nope.” He shifted in his chair.
“Let me get this straight, because you know I love it when I get to say, ‘I told you so.’ If she was to walk into this bar, right now,” she motioned vaguely over his shoulder toward the entrance, and he didn’t have to ask who she was, “you wouldn’t care?”
“Nope.”
“Thank goodness, because I’d hate to see you make a fool of yourself. Again.” She grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and lined up four shot glasses. “Especially the way she’s dressed.”
Shit.
Brett choked on his beer. Setting the glass on the bar, nearly sending Glory’s row of shots dominoing over, he turned to look over his shoulder. Trouble didn’t even begin to describe his situation.
Joie, dressed more for some uptown wine bar than a honky-tonk, walked in wearing another pair of those ridiculous shoes. This time it was fancy boots with a tall heel and high sleek leather that curved around her knees, leaving only a few inches of sweet skin before the denim of her skirt started, and—holy shit—a flimsy gold top that slipped off one shoulder and cupped her very cuppable breasts.
He watched her glance around, nibbling her lip and giving away her nerves. Her eyes locked on his. He raised his hand an
d, like an idiot, waved. She gave a cordial smile, then ignored him, wiggling her fingers at someone else who was sitting on the other side of the bar.
He worked hard to casually crane his neck, needing to see who the hell she was greeting with those baby-blues, happy it was just Charlotte and Spenser. Not happy when he straightened and found Joie watching him.
With a quick smile that nearly knocked him off his stool, she went back to ignoring him and strode through the crowded dance floor, those hips of hers swaying with determination.
“Admit it,” Glory said, resting her forearms on the counter. “You knew she’d be here tonight.”
“Nope.” But he’d hoped.
Brett took a sip of his beer, this time managing to swallow without making a spectacle while he watched Joie slide onto a bar stool. There was no point in trying to hide his intentions from Glory. She always saw right through him.
Glory set down the dishrag, her expression going solemn. “Some of us never get a second chance, Brett. What if this is yours?”
“You always were a romantic.”
“So are you and you know it. You didn’t come back home to lie low or because Cal guilted you into it. Besides your family, you could care less what people think of you or those stupid sponsors. You came home to figure out what’s missing, what you lost. Sure you went off and won that godawful green coat.”
“Jacket,” he corrected.
Glory shrugged, sliding a beer to the guy two seats over. “Whatever, the point is that golf was the means, not the dream.”
Maybe that was his problem.
A few days before that video hit the networks, Brett had played a damn near perfect round, winning a decent-sized purse. After the handshakes and autographs and interviews he’d gone back to his hotel room—alone—feeling restless as hell. It was as if something was missing, had been missing for a while. Then he saw Joie with her travel-sized rat and golf clubs, clicking her way down his highway—and suddenly, all the BS didn’t matter.
“You saying I should open a hog farm?”
“No, I’m saying you should take things slow with Joie.” She held up a hand, silencing him before he could make some comment about just how slow he’d take Joie. “Everything’s always come easy for you, and when it wasn’t, people made it easy—golf, college, friends, women. Especially women, because you go for the ones who are easily impressed. With Joie you’re different, off-balance, like you have to work to make her like you.”
“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t have to do much more than wink and flash her a smile and she’d fall into my bed.”
“And then what? A hot night. Maybe two? Then she gets catalogued like all the rest.” She set down some pink concoction in a glass and spread her hand to encompass the women in the bar.
“I thought out of everyone, you knew me better.” But when he looked around, a bunch of eyes batted back in his direction. Several of which were just a few feet away, giving him the look and waiting for Glory to leave so they could pounce.
“Hey, Brett,” one of them said, taking an aggressive step forward and proving Glory right. Her eyes said they’d met before. Her body language said she was ready to get reacquainted.
“Hey, there…uh…”
“Summer,” Glory said, saving him from an embarrassing situation—making it easy on him. Damn it. “I was just headed over with your drinks.”
“Actually, Summer was just headed home. Weren’t you?” Darleen Vander interrupted, her hand coming to rest on Brett’s arm.
Darleen Vander was a distinguished Sugar Peach and three years his senior. She’d invited him to homecoming her senior year and took him to her daddy’s hunting lodge instead.
Stacked, dyed red, and flashing her newly naked finger, Brett had to admit that Darleen was still an attractive woman. She was also making it clear to everyone in the bar she intended to leave with him tonight.
“I wanted to come over and personally express just how grateful the Sugar Peaches and I are that you so graciously agreed to pose for our calendar.” She stepped closer, getting as personal as one could get and still be clothed. “As you know, it’s our biggest fundraiser.”
“So you said.”
“In fact, this year we are donating all the proceeds to help build the new pediatric ward for the Medical Center.”
You and everybody else, Brett thought. Half of the organizations that had come to him for help with their fundraisers were donating all the proceeds to pay for the new wing at the Medical Center. It was all Hattie and her ladies choir talked about—well, when they weren’t figuring out how to take down the new neighbor.
“Can you imagine,” Darleen went on. “The Sugar Peaches Pediatric Center? Our founding members would be so proud. And with you showing up to personally sign people’s calendars, we’re sure to win.”
“And here I thought this was all about the kids,” Glory said, her eyes big and innocent.
Peaches like Darleen made a career out of doing charity work, and spent their life reminding women like Glory exactly who the charity was for. So Brett wasn’t surprised by the hostility between the two.
“You are absolutely right, Glory Gloria Mann.” Darleen separated the ‘A’ and attached it to the ‘Mann” making it sound like, “Glory, Glory, Amen.” A locker room name coined by a bunch of jocks in high school who had, at one time, brought tears to his best friend’s eyes. Now it just brought resignation. “This is about securing a much-needed children’s ward for our town. I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure I heard what you and your mama were doing to help? Oh,” Darleen gasped, clutching her pearls. “I am so sorry, forgive me. I forgot.”
Forgot, my ass. Everyone knew that Glory’s mom had run off with someone else’s husband, leaving behind a confused six-year-old with her wheelchair-bound grandma.
Brett plucked the pink drink off the bar top and handed it to Darleen. “You have a good night with the girls, Darleen. And make sure to tell that boy of yours hey for me.”
“Sure will, but maybe we can have a drink later?” she asked, taking the glass, unable to hide her surprise when Brett turned back to Glory, placing his hand on hers, asking without words if she was all right. He had hoped that things had gotten easier on her the past few years. Seems they hadn’t.
After Darleen strutted off, he said, “If you want me to, I’ll tell the Peaches I can’t do the shoot. Blame it on Darleen.”
“No.” She slid her hand out from under his and busied herself wiping down the bar. “Charlotte has put everything into finding the money for the Medical Center, which this county desperately needs. I won’t let one mean woman screw that up.”
Glory measured the distance from Darleen to the bar and adjusted her voice accordingly, “Look, Brett, I know you didn’t have sex with every bunny who’s claimed to have driven your driver. But you’ve had your share of women.”
He had. Darleen being one of them. And not just in high school. He’d run into her a few years back in Atlanta. She had been newly divorced from husband number two and he’d been coming off a great season. Ever since, they had made a habit of falling into bed—attached to a box spring or four mud tires, she wasn’t picky.
If he came home and she was between husbands, they hooked up. No drama, no strings, just sex with no expectations. Although the last few times, the sex hadn’t been all that great. And Darleen had been pushing for some kind of commitment.
Which was why, when he’d first come back into town and she’d invited him over for dinner, making it clear that her son Tribble was at the ex’s house for the entire week, Brett gave her some excuse about having to help Cletus prep for the summer camp. And now that he’d met Joie, Brett had no intention of picking up where he and Darleen left off last winter.
Watching her saunter from one table to the next, whispering, while her friends stared Glory down, Brett wondered how he could have ever slept with a woman like that in the first place.
God, maybe Glory was right. He was a pig. Exactly the kind of guy that J
oie avoided.
“She does like me, by the way. Joie, that is,” he defended. “Said I was sexy.”
“Oh, I’m sure she did.” Glory topped off each glass of Jack. “Girls like her aren’t won with charm and smooth words. Take this slow, put some elbow grease into it, and actually get to know her. See where it goes.” Her gaze flicked to Darleen, who stood in the wings, still available and waiting. “Or do a total McGraw thing, go for the easy win, and blow it. Problem is, you might just spend your whole life wondering.”
Glory picked up her tray of drinks and slid out from behind the bar. “Believe me, Brett, wondering, even for a heartbeat, sucks. When it’s your whole life, it’s more like a sentence.”
Chapter 11
Josephina was debating changing her order from an appletini to a margarita. From the outside, the bar looked like a typical southern dive. A single-story brick structure complete with red awnings over the paned windows and a neon sign asking Ain’t it time you fell off the wagon? Once inside Josephina couldn’t decide if she was in a rodeo, bar, or strip club.
Black-and-white checkered tiles spanned the room and outlined a circular wooden dance floor that was packed with people two-stepping. At one end was a long mahogany bar, at the other a padded pit with an electric bull. But in the center sat a small stage with a disco ball, a church pew, and two metal poles, which she was certain weren’t used for pole aerobics.
An unwelcome tingle raced down her spine. Without even looking up she knew who she’d find.
Brett leaned against the opposite side of the bar, looking relaxed and way too tempting in a pair of well-worn button-fly jeans and a dark blue shirt. Same place he’d been when she’d walked through that door ready to ask him for a dance and a roll in the hay.
This time when their eyes locked and he smiled, it was slow and sure instead of shocked, as he’d looked when she walked in—not the look a woman set on seduction wanted to get from her potential one-nighter.