by Marina Adair
“There’s still time to change your mind,” Darleen offered with enough sweetness to give Josephina a cavity.
“I’m good,” Josephina said, eyes on her guy.
“I would just hate for you to wind up empty-handed and dirty.” Darleen smiled at Brett, big and inviting, her eyes never leaving his when she continued, “Because anybody can sink their claws into one, but it takes a real woman to tie ’em down.”
Josephina eyed her Romeo, with his two hundred pounds of slicked muscle and sheer testosterone, and knew that taking this one down by force would be a painful lesson—for the woman stupid enough to try.
Fairy Bug, Aunt Letty used to say, where’s the sense in chasing a male into a pen who don’t want to be caged? Especially when a pile of slop and a gilt in heat will do the trick.
Josephina smiled. Rather than corner this big guy, she was going to seduce him right into her arms.
Bodies tensed and mud squished under shifting feet as the clock counted down. At zero, a heartfelt “Sooiee” boomed through the high school speakers, cutting the silence.
Grunting and squeals filled the pen as the women zeroed in on their boars, determined to be crowned Miss Sugar Slick. That the prize was a round of golf with none other than Sugar’s golden boy only increased the odds that someone was going home in an ambulance.
To Josephina’s right, Darleen took off in a sprint and, knocking down a fellow Peach, gunned for the smallest greased pig, Bacon Bits. Bits was small but fast, squeaking right through Darleen’s fingers and making a hard left to circle the pen.
Josephina’s eyes never left Romeo, who, the heavyweight of the seventy-sixth annual Sugar Slicked Pig Roundup, stood stock-still in the middle of the pen. With the body of a tank and a don’t-fuck-with-me glare, Romeo was the one pig every woman avoided and the one that if you gave him a chance would rip your face off.
With a single snort, Romeo created a three-foot radius of intimidation around him.
Ignoring the other women, Josephina slowly made her way to the center of the pen. Stepping over a downed contestant and narrowly missing a charging Bacon Bits, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a handful of sugar cubes, and dropped to one knee.
Romeo would come to her in his own time. Her job was to wait until he figured out that all she wanted to give him was a bit of sugar.
* * *
“I ain’t but just hollered sooie and that Yankee is already done for,” Hattie said, shaking her head.
“She isn’t done for, Grandma. She’s got more pluck than that,” Brett said, leaning back on the bleacher, his eyes never leaving Joie.
“Well, I’m going closer so I can get a picture when that boar takes her out. Payton showed me how to upload photos on Twitter and I just bet my Tweeps would love them a picture of a Yankee bathing in manure.”
He didn’t know what Tinker Bell was thinking, kneeling in the middle of a greased-pig contest, but he knew she would rather jump in the pile of slop than lose to a Peach. Especially since there were ten-to-one odds that the city girl would wind up with a mouth full of mud. They were calling it the When Pigs Fly Odds, and Brett was going to make a killing.
“As long as you don’t disappear when I come to collect, Grandma.”
Hattie’s white spikes disappeared into the crowd, but not before Brett saw a single arthritic finger flip high in the air.
“Looks like you were betting with the wrong head,” Cal chuckled.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Jackson looked at Brett and shook his head. “There’s no maybe about it. You’re not sleeping on the couch anymore and it’s clouding your judgment.”
“She’ll win.” Brett grinned as Joie plopped down, legs crisscrossed while mud seeped through her jeans, soaking her delectable backside. Her lips and body moved as if she were wrapped in a deep discussion. She nibbled on something then extended her arm in offering to big old Romeo.
The other women were hollering and diving in the mud, and there sat Joie, in her own world, talking to a pig.
“Win?” Jackson barked. “She’s squatting in the mud, holding out her hand like she expects the pig to shake it.” Not giving a rat’s ass that everyone was whispering or that Hattie was taking her picture, Brett thought. “Plus, she’s wearing a Saint’s hat.”
“She just likes the color,” Brett lied. Joie would have picked out that hat on purpose, knowing it would piss off the Sunday School Mafia.
“He’s got it bad.” Jackson shouldered Cal. “His eyes have that dazed look to them. Like he’s been in bed for hours but hasn’t slept a wink.”
Brett shrugged, not caring that Jackson and Cal were exchanging glances. Brett knew what he looked like, gazing at Joie all the time, following her around town like some lost puppy. But he didn’t give a shit how pathetic he came off. He only had a few weeks left before the FedEx Cup and he intended to spend every second of it with her.
“So I take it that she didn’t kick you out after she found out about the loan,” Cal said.
“Nope.” Which wasn’t a lie. Brett hadn’t told her. He planned to, just not tonight. Tonight he wanted to help her shower off every speck of mud while she wore nothing but that crown she was about to win.
“Hold up,” Jackson said, his voice going low with disbelief.
Brett and his brother looked back down at the arena floor.
“Well, shit,” Cal mumbled, no doubt counting the bills he just lost.
Brett stood to get a better view. “Who’s the idiot now?”
In the middle of a muddy war zone sat Joie—her gaze locked on Brett’s with a smile that got his heart pumping—petting her pig. Reaching into her back pocket she pulled out a gold leash, dangling it from her fingers, and the damn animal actually lowered his head while she slid it on.
Brett shook his head, knowing exactly how the boar felt. The poor guy never stood a chance.
All the ladies but Darleen stopped and watched as Joie and Romeo strutted over to the judge’s table. Darleen, who had wrestled her pig to the ground, knotted off her rope and stood, wiping mud off her cheek.
Joie paused to pull off her camouflage shirt, exposing a pink tank-top underneath, and tossed it to Darleen.
“You got a little something, right there.” Joie waved her hand to encompass Darleen’s entire body. Then she turned back to the judge’s table and when the sun caught the gold glitter affixed to her top the crowd erupted.
In bold letters, spanning her generous chest, sat two little words that took her from New York socialite to Sugar’s sweetheart: GOT WINGS?
Tinker Bell had indeed found hers. She was playing by her own rules, no longer afraid of what people would say, taking a stand for her right to live here in Sugar. And in the South that makes you “People.”
Brett had already made his way down the bleachers and hopped the rail by the time the Sugar High School principal spoke.
“Well, I’ll be. It looks as if we’ve got ourselves a winner,” the principal said into the mike. He held up the Miss Sugar Slick crown and the crowd cheered some more. “It’s with great surprise and pleasure that I crown the winner of the seventy-sixth annual Sugar Slicked Pig Roundup and Miss Sugar Slick, Miss Joie Harrington—”
“Hang on, Mr. Jessup,” Brett interrupted, taking the crown. “As the sponsor of this event, I believe that pleasure is mine.”
“What kind of pleasure are we talking,” Joie whispered, looking up at him through her lashes.
The moment those baby-blues hit his, Brett was lost. She was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen. Covered in mud and glitter with a pig on a leash, Joie Harrington wove her way into the place in his heart that Brett had long thought dead.
Skeeter’s camera flashed, capturing the moment for the Sugar Sentinel, as Brett crowned his fairy princess. It kept right on flashing as Brett pulled her into his arms and kissed the hell out of her in front of God and Hattie. Oh, and Romeo, who was grunting something fierce and trying to wedge his way between them.
“I call for a recount,” Darleen snapped, snatching the crown off Joie’s head and stopping Brett before he went too far and embarrassed them both. “She didn’t follow the rules. She didn’t hogtie her boar.”
“Well, hang on there, Ms. Darleen,” Skeeter said, sending Joie an encouraging wink. “The rules state that this is a roundup, not a hogtie.”
“Mine’s technically tied,” Joie said. “But you can have the crown if you want. I just wanted the golf lessons.” She sent Brett a sexy grin.
He’d give her lessons all right.
“I don’t want the crown,” Darleen shouted. “And you used a leash. I roped and tied mine and you just bribed yours with sugar.”
“That’s because sugar’s twice as sweet.”
* * *
Careful not to step on the paint-coated tarp, Josephina made her way to the kitchen and tried not to think about Brett in the shower. Just the sound of the water running gave her way too many ideas. She set the table and was putting the final touches on dinner, her body humming with desire, when Brett padded into the kitchen. Bare feet, jeans hanging low on his waist, he toweled off his hair before pulling on a black T-shirt.
He looked so right, standing in her kitchen. Actually he seemed to belong in nearly every room of her house. She had thought living together would be awkward, especially after sex. It was anything but. Their daily routine was so smooth it was almost choreographed. They seemed to have settled into each other as if this was how it was meant to be.
Brett grabbed two beers from the fridge, popped the caps, and, instead of sitting at the table, joined Josephina at the counter.
Standing directly behind her, he placed his beer on one side of her, and hers on the other, effectively caging her in. “Smells good.”
“Uh-huh.” She busied herself with serving up dinner to keep from leaning back into him. Even though they had just spent the last hour testing out the new master bath, she wanted him.
“It’s chicken and dumplings.” Dang it, her voice was all breathy. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t even touching her. He was so close she could feel his heat seep into her pores. Feel his breath on her neck.
“Wasn’t talking about dinner.” A second later he was pressing forward, his hands slowly working their way around her waist, his nose burying itself in her hair, and she went from breathy to breathless.
“Dinner’s getting cold,” she whispered.
“It’ll keep.”
She jerked a little when his fingers, chilled from holding the beer, met the bare patch of skin above the button of her shorts. Sliding his hands under the hem of her shirt, he eased them back until his thumbs worked circles at the knots in her lower back.
“I’m just working out some of those knots you seem so fond of,” he innocently explained.
“Okay.” That was all the answer she could get out. His hands continued working their magic as the refrigerator hummed, Boo yipped for his dinner, and her body slowly turned to Jell-O.
“When did you learn how to make chicken and dumplings?” His lips brushed her ear.
“It’s Lettys’ recipe,” she sighed, leaning forward, giving his strong, capable hands complete access to her sore muscles. “She used to make it for me when we would celebrate something big.”
She felt him smile. “And what are we celebrating?”
“I told my parents about the loan and about the Pucker Up and Drive.”
Brett’s hands never slowed, but she felt a slight hesitation. “What did they say?”
Unable to stand still at her good news, she straightened, turning in his hands. “At first they were surprised that I managed to secure one, which kind of hurt. But after a lecture on how I could have gotten a better rate and that I should have just borrowed the money from them, my dad actually sounded proud.”
“Of course he did.” Brett dropped his hands and took Boo’s plate, setting it on the floor. Boo glared for a brief second and then lapped up his dumplings.
“No, you don’t get it.” She carried their two plates over and set them on the table. “He even canceled a trip to Brazil to make sure he and Mom would be here for the fundraiser and grand opening. He wants to see what we’ve done and thank you in person for helping me with this mess of a project.” She did her best to keep her smile intact as she threw air quotes around the last few words.
Brett joined her, placing a beer at each plate. Although he sat in his usual way, leaning easily back in the chair, legs sprawled out as if he didn’t have a care in the world, there was a tightness to his expression that said he wasn’t easygoing about her parents’ call.
“Don’t let him do that. Don’t let anyone minimize what you’ve done here, Joie. This event, the remodel, everything was you. I just earned a few peaceful nights of sleep by swinging hammers.”
Josephina told herself it was ridiculous to get teary-eyed over his words. Brett was just a protective kind of guy. The reminder still didn’t stop the swelling in her chest or the warm flutters in her stomach because he was extending that McGraw protectiveness toward her.
She moved the food around her plate for a second, wondering if she should go on, especially since he was looking a little nervous. She had a feeling that if she told him exactly how much of an impact he’d made on the inn he would get uncomfortable, just as he did when people around town thanked him for his help. But he deserved to hear how much his belief in her meant.
Setting her fork down, Josephina walked around the table and made herself right at home on his lap. “It’s about more than paint and siding, Brett. You believed in me. No one has ever done that before.”
* * *
The next night, Boo sniffed his dinner twice before showing Josephina his tail as he plodded gamely over to the entryway and plopped down. Ears alert, tail completely still, he looked out the screen door.
“Boo, come eat. He’s not coming,” Josephina said, pushing back her own plate.
The moment she set down the paint cans and started dragging furniture out of the salon, Brett had made some excuse about meeting Cal at the Saddle Rack and hightailed out of the house. Without their usual dinner. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal until Josephina sat down at the table and realized she had come to enjoy his company. Dinner with Brett was fun and easy. She liked having someone to share her day with. Someone to talk to about her crazy parents, to celebrate the little accomplishments on the inn.
Okay, it wasn’t just someone. It was Brett. She liked having him around. More precisely, she loved having him around and that terrified her. Somewhere between ripping up subflooring and wrestling hogs she had fallen hard. And he was leaving.
Appetite gone, Josephina picked up her plate and dumped the remains of her tarragon chicken and polenta in the trash. She was just rinsing it when she saw something streak across the boat dock.
Walking to the screen door, she strained to see through the night. The moon was high and after a few seconds her eyes adjusted. She grabbed a flashlight and one of the drivers from Wilson’s golf bag before quietly sneaking onto the back deck to end this.
Hattie, as of now renamed the Hillbilly Hellion, was at the front of the pack. Hard to miss in her kiwi green and condemnation, she waddled up the dock with tree trimmers in one hand, making complicated gestures with the other. Behind her, creating more noise than a street corner preacher in Manhattan, two others slunk in and out of the shadows. At the dock, sitting in the boat with her hand on the motor, was Jelly-Lou, loudly whispering orders and directions, which all ended with “God willing.”
Josephina did some slinking of her own, down the back steps so she could track their every move. Crawling through the rose garden, she crouched behind a hedge, blindly reaching for the garden hose and coming up short.
“Thisaway,” Etta Jayne hissed.
“What?” Hattie hissed back, so loud that it was most likely heard in town.
“I said, thisaway.”
“Don’t you tell me whichaway to go. Been coming here
since Christ walked the earth. I know where it’s at!”
Both women took off toward the side of the house, jostling and elbowing for position, neither giving an inch until they reached the side wall.
Josephina didn’t know where Dottie had disappeared to and whether to call the cops or giggle at the old ladies—until she heard the metal of the tree trimmers sliding open and saw an explosion of sparks followed by a loud boom that ricocheted off the water and around the lake.
All the lights inside the house went five hundred Kelvins brighter, illuminating the entire backyard long enough to make out the shocked expression on each of the ladies’ faces, including Dottie, whose head peeked out from under Ulysses’s hood. A second later, the lights of all the houses around the lake flickered out like dominoes, one by one, plunging the entire area into a sea of black.
Boo took off, his little claws skidding their way across the back porch and down the steps, his bark somewhere between small-dog-defending-his-home and elation at seeing his friends. Traitor.
“Lord Almighty, Hattie, I thought you said no one was home,” Jelly-Lou announced.
“Well, you thought wrong.” Josephina flicked on her flashlight, shining it in their eyes.
There was a brief oh-shit moment, then Dottie’s binoculars hit the dirt and they all took off, making their way around the hedges, every biddy for herself.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Josephina snapped, stepping over the hedge, determined not to let them get away. “You broke it and this time you’ll fix it!”
Two steps and Josephina felt herself sink. Up to her shins in mud and soaked clay. She lifted her foot, and the suction was almost loud enough to drown out the now-obvious spray of the hose, which, based on the saturation levels, indicated that someone had turned it on hours ago. The same someones who were currently hobbling across the dock.
This was not happening. She was not going to be bested by a bunch of mean old ladies. She was going to catch them, call Jackson, then press charges, finally ending this feud.