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

by Marina Adair

  He tucked a finger under her chin and raised her gaze to his. “I never thought you’d embarrass me, Joie. You’re just so busy with the inn, I didn’t think you’d…No one has ever…Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She felt herself blush.

  “Look”—he cupped the bill of his hat and drew it down lower on his forehead—“about the money.”

  Oh, right. The money.

  She cleared her throat. “I meant to tell you, but you seemed busy with guys’ night and your fans and then the angry townspeople with their pitchforks. I just kind of blurted it out.” She took a breath. “It’s official. I signed my life on the dotted line. Woo.”

  He traced his thumb across her cheek and she forgot how to speak. “I’m never too busy for you.”

  “Because I let you hide out at my house?”

  “Because of this,” he whispered, then lowered his head and kissed her.

  He brushed his mouth across hers and all thoughts of being in control evaporated under the heated little tingles starting at her lips and spreading south. She instantly switched gears, her hands sliding down his chest. She was amazed at how the rock-hard muscles bunched and tightened under her touch as her arms slipped around his waist.

  She expected hot and demanding with the ability to melt her panties off. Instead, what she got was altogether different. A gentle brush of the mouth. A languid touch, so tender the air whooshed out of her lungs.

  His hand curved around her waist and he tilted his head, getting his hat out of the way, as he deepened the kiss, gently loving her with his mouth. She opened for him immediately, her tongue seeking out his.

  Slow down, part of her was screaming, this was too much. With each caress she was being dragged further and further into his world, until one day she would look up and be surrounded by only him. She was already planning his big charity event, and falling into his bed would be dangerous.

  Another part of her, the part that flooded her body with heat and slammed her heart against her chest, was so loud it kept her from hearing anything except her resistance crumbling to dust.

  Brett pulled back enough to look into her eyes. His expression was nothing like that cocky playboy she’d met on the side of the Brett McGraw Highway. It was a look of hopeful uncertainty.

  “Joie,” he whispered. He gave her room to breathe, time to step away and pretend that everything hadn’t changed.

  She tried to convince herself to walk away, get in her car and drive home before they couldn’t go back. Only she must have taken too long, because he tightened his arms around her waist and buried his face in her hair.

  Her good sense clearly impaired, Joie stepped into his embrace as if it was the most natural place in the world to be—and she knew. There was already no going back.

  Brett wasn’t the shallow womanizer everyone made him out to be. Sure, he could smile and melt every heart in the room and, okay, he oozed southern charm. But he had offered to help her for no other reason than that he was the kind of person who genuinely cared for others. It showed in the way he treated his family, how the people in town responded to and protected him. What got Josephina the most, though, was his unwavering belief in her.

  “Ask me again,” she said into his chest.

  His hand ran beneath her hair, hugging her tighter, so when he spoke his breath tickled her ear. “Joie, will you allow me the honor of taking you to dinner? In public,” he added hastily.

  She lifted her face to his and smiled. “Why, Brett McGraw, I thought you’d never ask.” She latched on to his belt loop and tugged him closer. “Can we go home and make out some more?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter 17

  At seven sharp, Josephina turned onto Maple and pulled into the first cobblestone driveway. Ulysses had just finished his second rendition of Dixieland when she took her third tour of the parking lot, which was packed full of mud-splattered trucks and a few worse-for-wear Cadillacs. As Ulysses revved up for an encore, she eased her car over the concrete stop, through a dirt lot, and parked under a tree housing some suspicious-looking mockingbirds.

  “It’s just a date.” She rested her head against the steering wheel and groaned.

  No matter how many times she said it, it didn’t stop her hands from sweating. Even though it was silly to be nervous—seeing as they had cohabited for the past few weeks—Josephina wanted tonight to go perfectly.

  After a deep breath and mumbling the entire theme song to Zorro, Josephina stepped out of the car, the thick heat immediately causing her skirt to curl up at the hem and vacuum seal to her skin. She stared up at the flock of birds overhead. They looked harmless enough, but then so did opossums.

  Smoothing down her skirt, she tiptoed around gopher holes, over what she hoped was a log and not an alligator, breathing a sigh of relief when she made it to the parking lot without breaking an ankle.

  She had insisted that if this was a first date then Brett would shower and get ready at his grandmother’s house and they would meet at the restaurant. Showering with only a wall separating them and leaving in the same car seemed too domestic. Plus she wanted to show up wearing an outfit guaranteed to make Brett ache. Only fair considering she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since he moved in. And with her little black dress, which was held together by a single wraparound bow, he didn’t stand a chance.

  Josephina didn’t know if she was ready for strings, especially with him leaving in a few weeks, but she did know that she would regret not seeing where this led.

  Tossing back her shoulders, she looked at the restaurant and suddenly felt overdressed. The Gravy Train was a one-story wood-sided A-frame that sat on the corner of Maple and Oak, and looked more like a ranch house than an eating establishment. Complete with a wraparound porch, a guard dog named Jessie James, and a dinner bell, the Gravy Train was not only the local feeding hole but—since Skeeter the cook was rumored to be sweet on Etta Jayne—one of the many businesses that sided with the Granny Mafia.

  Going for balls-to-the-wall, she fluffed her hair, hoping the humidity hadn’t turned it to frizz, and waltzed by a white pickup parked by the front door, next to a sign designating the spot as belonging to Brett McGraw. She patted Jessie James, who stuck his nose in her crotch and drooled on her toe in greeting, on her way into the restaurant, where the scent of slow-cooked ribs and something almost exotic filled her nose.

  Josephina inhaled long and slow, trying to decipher what could make southern BBQ smell so…incredible. Not that she didn’t appreciate southern fare, she loved it, but this smelled like…

  Josephina didn’t get a chance to finish her thought, because every eye in the joint was now turned to her.

  The ones belonging to Hattie and her crew were the easiest to spot, since they were aimed with lethal accuracy. Maybe this was a bad idea. A sign that she should get into Ulysses and Dixieland her behind home.

  The grannies crossed their arms and glared.

  Definitely a bad idea. There was no way she could sit through this meal. Not staring at the man she intended to seduce into bed while his grandma was three tables away.

  Chicken or not, Josephina took a step backward and right into a warm wall of manly smelling muscles. Brett’s arms came around her waist, his body encasing hers in a way that made her feel protected and safe. As if she belonged.

  “Having second thoughts?” he whispered, making her thighs quiver.

  “No, well, maybe,” she admitted. With Brett behind her, his front pressing against her back, she mustered the courage to glare back at the old ladies. “Maybe we should just go somewhere else.”

  “Why would we do that, when this place has the best ribs in the state and”—he leaned in, dropping his voice—“it’s only a few minutes from home?”

  Brett’s palms glided over her stomach as he gripped her hips to turn her. She looked up into those eyes, made even bluer by his shirt, and forgot to breathe. Even in jeans and a dark gray button-down he radiated pure sexua
lity.

  “You didn’t think you could wear that,” he looked down at her dress, “and expect me to make it through dinner and an hour drive home.”

  “We can always skip dinner and go straight home.”

  “As tempting as that sounds, Miss Joie, I want to enjoy a nice meal, maybe a glass of wine, and make cow eyes at you from across a table.”

  “They serve wine here? Funny, I was under the impression that the only thing served in this town came in a pitcher or a shot glass.”

  Brett pressed his hand to the small of her back and led her toward the back of the room, past the firing squad. If he took issue with charming a girl into bed while his grandma was five feet away, he didn’t show it. He merely nodded his head, in that respectful southern way, and smiled at each and every lady as he said, “Evening,” before steering her into a corner booth with high seatbacks for privacy and a sign that read, YOU NOT A MCGRAW? THEN SKEDADDLE.

  * * *

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Brett said after the hostess took their drink order and disappeared.

  “Starved.” Her mouth twitched up at the corners and her eyes, which had been bouncing between him and his grandma’s table, heated and locked on his. Oh, she’d built up an appetite all right, he thought with a smile, it just wasn’t for anything on the menu.

  Brett sympathized. Seeing her in that dress had his mind racing, picturing him slowly unwrapping her until she was sprawled out naked across her bed. Naked except for the heels. Her hair was down, wild and curly, just how he liked it. Her heels were red, high, and over the top. He knew damn well she had chosen that outfit with the single purpose of driving him crazy.

  It was working.

  He had held out for weeks in the hope that he’d get the chance to take Joie out, prove to her and to himself that he could be relationship material. And yet, right now, the only material he could focus on was the silky material hugging her breasts as she reached over and grabbed one of the menus.

  “You don’t need that.” He plucked the menu out of her fingers. “I was planning on ordering for both of us.”

  “I like to order for myself, thank you.” She snagged the menu back and made a big deal out of studying its contents, which was a waste of time, since he’d called ahead and prearranged their entire dinner.

  “I know you are more than capable of ordering. It’s just I know what’s good here, what the house specialties are.”

  “Uh huh,” she said biting her lip in a lame attempt not to laugh as she read from the menu. It didn’t work. “Like the McGraw Slaw? Or, wait, should we order the Hole-in-One Hot Brats?” She cleared her throat and continued. “Guaranteed to make your top blow.”

  Brett felt embarrassment creep up his neck. He snagged the menu and tossed it on the table behind them.

  “Here’s your drinks,” Skeeter said, moseying up to the table. The man was slow as molasses, wielded a mean spatula, and never left home without Lorain—a .45 Desert Eagle—strapped to his hip.

  Skeeter set down a basket of croquettes and his famous hushpuppies. Followed by two drafts. Odd, since Joie had ordered an appletini—a drink that he’d made sure Skeeter had all the ingredients for when he’d called in their order.

  “Now, I got the ribs smoking out back and made sure to set aside one of my peach and passion fruit cobblers—”

  “I think there was a mixup with the drink order, Skeeter.” Brett slid the beer to the edge of the table. “The lady ordered an appletini.”

  Skeeter stole a glance behind him and wiped at his brow. “But beer goes better with ribs.”

  “Better or not, you and I both know that if a lady orders pecan pie and all you have is peach, then you’d better go plant yourself a pecan tree and pray for rain.”

  Joie’s eyes darted to Skeeter, who picked up the beer, foam sloshing over the rim as he tried to set it on his tray. Her face went soft and something close to understanding and apology flickered between the two.

  “It’s okay, Brett. Really, beer is fine.” With a forced smile she took the beer back and sucked down a big gulp, leaving a thin line of foam on her lips.

  Brett looked toward his grandma and her friends huddled around the table and felt his jaw clench. This was no longer about a drink or even the inn. This was about the North and the South all over again. The Civil War might have ended in 1865, but in that second, with their stern looks and chapel posture, Brett knew that the battle still raged and they were asking him to choose sides.

  And every damn person in the place was watching to see where Brett McGraw’s loyalty fell. Family or female.

  “Refreshing,” Joie said. “Thank you, Skeeter.”

  Even when unwillingly placed in the center of a scandal, a place Joie had avoided at all cost, she still acted compassionately, placing Skeeter’s comfort above her own. The town was determined to make her feel like the outsider, yet she was the only one looking out for their people.

  Skeeter swallowed and ducked his head. “You’re right welcome, Miss Harrington.”

  “And your hushpuppies,” she took in a deep breath, “smell incredible.”

  She picked up a hushpuppy and studied the cornmeal ball thoroughly before taking a delicate nibble, as if it were some fine wine. Then she let out a moan that had Brett thinking of something else entirely.

  “My God, that is phenomenal. Is there lemongrass in these?”

  “Um, yes, ma’am. I spent some time in Vietnam after the war.”

  “Asian-infused southern cuisine.” She took another bite, her tongue sliding over her lip. “Brilliant.” Her eyes went wide with excitement. “Would you be interested in doing a few classes at Fairchild House when we’re up and running? People would line up to learn from you.”

  And Brett saw it happen, Skeeter’s face flushed and he gave a half-smitten smile. Joie had spun her sugar and won the old man over with her sweetness.

  “Why, I never really considered—”

  A scolding throat cleared from behind and Skeeter shot a worried look over his shoulder. The man who did two tours of Vietnam, the second with only three fingers on his trigger hand, was sweating over a bunch of old ladies and their feud. And Brett knew what he had to do.

  Eyes on Hattie and in a voice loud enough to carry across the bar but charming enough to be polite, he lifted Joie’s beer and said, “Mighty southern of you to buy us our first round, Grandma. But I think you misunderstood, the lady ordered an appletini.”

  The restaurant fell silent. It was as if the collective gasp sucked all of the air out of the room.

  Brett had just called out his grandma’s manners in front of God and a good quarter of the town.

  Hattie would take his head off the next time they were alone, but he refused to falter.

  The silence stretched on, getting thicker by the minute. Brett crossed his arms, flashed a dimple, and waited. He could outwait anyone, even his grandma, if it meant making Joie feel welcomed in Sugar.

  Hattie gave a final furrow of the forehead and then plastered her most welcoming smile on. “Well, you heard the man, Skeeter. Bring the lady her city drink.”

  Skeeter scurried off without another word and all eyes returned to their respective plates. Conversation resumed and the restaurant hummed with the usual quitting-time energy.

  “Thank you,” Joie whispered.

  “You can’t thank me yet, you haven’t even tried his croquettes.” Brett picked up one of the dumplings, dipped it in the sauce, and held it to her lips.

  He thought she was going to refuse, and he wouldn’t blame her if she did. Sitting in that booth was like being onstage and having the whole town watch their date play out. Then, with a smile that said, Let’s give them something to talk about, she opened her mouth and took a bite.

  “Oh, my God, that’s heaven,” she moaned, and Brett had to agree. Feeling her lips brush his fingertips as she finished off the second half of the appetizer was on par with the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. “There’s Thai chili paste in ther
e.”

  “You didn’t think I brought you here because the menu is named after me, did you?”

  She nodded and he laughed. He’d brought her here because he knew she loved food, and the Gravy Train was one of the few places around that offered a unique take on…well, anything.

  “If you think that is heaven, wait until you taste the ribs. Skeeter soaks them in Baijiu and hot mustard, then smokes them until the meat falls off the bone.”

  He licked off the remaining sauce and went for another one.

  She watched him eat, her expression heating to the point that he started squirming in his chair. Brett didn’t do nervous around women, but there was something about Joie that kept him off-balance.

  Since the day he’d seen her walking down that highway, he had known they were building toward this moment. It was only their first date, but it felt like he’d known her forever. Just being with her made him happier, and hornier, than he could ever remember being.

  “I think we should get some to go.”

  “What?” Brett choked down the croquette he’d been swallowing. “Is this because of my grandma?”

  Joie shook her head, those gorgeous curls spilling over her shoulders. “It’s because I want to be with you.”

  She rested her elbows on the table and leaned in, the neck of her dress dipping low enough to give him a generous view. “I want you naked in bed, and if you think I can sit here staring at you for the next hour and not touch you—”

  “Skeeter, can you make that to go?” Brett asked, grabbing her hand as he stood.

  He’d been an idiot to think they could sit here, in the middle of town, and not undress each other with their eyes all night. Sliding his fingers more deeply between hers, he threw a couple of bills on the table and tugged her toward the exit.