by Marina Adair
“Which could result in the possible violation 18B,” Glory continued. “Unintentional combustion or smoldering of the hosting orchard without prior consent.”
“Prior consent, huh?” Cal mused from the wingback chair beside her.
She’d never been so aware of a man before. His scent, the way he crossed his legs—ankle over knee, bringing his thigh mere inches from her hand—even the way he sounded when he breathed. From the moment she’d pulled into Kitty’s drive and saw him leaning against his truck in his contract-for-hire gear, waiting for her, Glory had felt that tug. The one that started in her chest and traveled south of the border.
Cal McGraw was impossible to ignore. A sentiment that seemed to be universal for women everywhere. He’d said three words the entire meeting, and even holding a dainty cup, he’d instantly grabbed the attention of every female in the room.
“What if it is an intentional combustion or smoldering?” he said, and the female gallery listened intently as though he’d just asked for the meaning of life.
“Then that would be a 19A infraction,” Glory said primly, eyes on Kitty. “And would result in a lifetime expulsion.”
“Are you accusing me of illegal practices and making threats in front of my guests, Miss Glory?” Ms. Kitty lifted her tea and took a measured sip as though she wasn’t the one on trial.
“She’s doing her job, Ms. Kitty,” a stunning blonde said as she crossed the room. Willowy, cultured, and probably the most elegant Miss Peach in the history of the pageant, Charlotte Holden was a Southern belle in every sense of the word. She was also the current regent of the Sugar Peaches—so any pageant decisions made would need her approval. “Making sure that everyone is following the rules.”
Ms. Kitty smiled serenely as Charlotte took a seat on the other side of Glory. “Well, then I will chalk her behavior up to ignorance, rather than an intentional attack on my character. And I didn’t know you were coming. Your mother said you were at the hospital this morning.”
“I am the current regent of the Sugar Peaches and a four-time Miss Peach.” Charlotte matched that smile, only it had a bigger impact on the room. “There was no way I’d miss the fun. Now, why don’t you explain your side then we can get to the luncheon.”
“My pleasure.” Ms. Kitty slid an official-looking paper across the table. Glory leaned forward to pick it up, the heavy scent of magnolia blossoms and Aqua Net thickening the closer she got to the Peach Gallery. Wrinkling her nose, she snatched the invoice, leaned back as far as she could, and read through it—twice. Then looked up and met the older woman’s eyes. They were smug. “Any upgrade to a tractor or its engine approved by the harvest commissioner is legal. And as you can see, the new fuel pump and lines on the Prowler needed replacing, and since the manufacturer doesn’t make my model anymore, Peg approved a new install, with modifications to keep it sanctioned, of course.”
“Let me see that,” Etta Jayne said, snagging the form. She perched her reading glasses, which hung on a camouflaged lanyard, on her nose. “Peg would never approve racing parts.”
“She didn’t. I had a new John Deere pump installed. Read the form.”
Etta Jayne did. Then frowned and glared over her half-rims. “John Deere doesn’t make parts that work with Green E15.”
“Exactly.” Kitty narrowed her eyes. “So before you start pointing fingers and stealing tractors, you need to check your facts. And the facts state that you were wrong. Not that any of us are surprised.” Before anyone could argue, Kitty looked at Glory and added, “Now, if you have any other concerns, I suggest you address them to the former harvest commissioner.”
Etta Jayne scooted so far to the end of her chair that Glory was certain she was going to fall off. “She’s in the Gulf and you know it!”
“Not my fault.” A room full of eyes settled on Glory and she felt her face heat.
Of course, the one person who could confirm or deny the authenticity of this install was fishing in the middle of the ocean—at her request.
“But since I don’t want to waste any more of the committee’s time on this nonsense, why don’t you talk to my mechanic, Lavender Spencer. I believe her shop, Kiss My Glass Tow and Tires, is still a committee-approved mechanic.”
And there went any chance the ladies had for winning this argument. Spencer could rebuild anything with an engine, never took shit from anyone, and was honest to a fault. Meaning she couldn’t be bribed and wouldn’t hesitate to lay out Ms. Kitty if she started throwing her power around.
Glory knew it. Kitty knew it. And the whole room knew it. If Spencer did the install, then it was up to regulation. No question.
“Or you can lift up your hood and end the speculation once and for all,” Etta Jayne said. Glory was pretty sure Etta Jayne would have launched herself at Kitty if Cal hadn’t placed his hand on her chubby knee, restraining her in her seat.
“So you can see what makes a winning machine? Steal my secrets?” Kitty snapped back. “What’s under my hood is my business and the founding council agreed, which is why if you want a look, then you’ll have to bring me a signed order from the council saying you have the right to look. Until then, stay out of my bay.”
“Well, then Glory will give the order right now, won’t you, Glory?” Etta Jayne said smugly.
“On what grounds?” Kitty asked. “Moldy hay? Harvest commissioner or not, she needs real evidence to get the whole council’s approval. Anything else would look like an abuse of power for her family’s gain.”
“Hold on, there are two commissioners here, and no one’s abusing anyone’s anything,” Cal said, setting his teacup on the side table, and Glory felt herself actually take in a breath. “As the new co-chairs, we’re finding our way through this and we want to make sure everything goes smoothly. And that includes people being heard, following up on concerns, and upholding the rulebook. Right, Glory?”
She looked at him and nodded. She didn’t know what else to do. It was such a silly thing, but Glory hadn’t had a man stand up for her in such a long time that it felt strange. And nice. And a tad bit scary.
“Handbook,” she corrected and smiled up at him.
“Handbook.” He smiled back and addressed the room. “So why don’t we table this discussion until next Wednesday’s Harvest meeting? It will give Glory and I a chance to follow up with Spencer.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Charlotte said. “Don’t you, Kitty?”
“Wonderful,” Ms. Kitty deadpanned and stood. The sounds of twenty pairs of heels hitting the floor as the majority of the room rose echoed off the marble tiles. “The former Miss Peaches and I are already behind on our schedule. We have taken the liberty to come up with some ideas for the theme and décor to share with the council on Wednesday. So if there are no other objections, then I assume you can show yourselves out.”
Glory did have objections. The first being that Ms. Kitty was hijacking the pageant. Her pageant. Not that Glory had wanted the position of commissioner but now that she had it, she didn’t want Kitty taking over.
Second, there was no way in hell the pageant would be held there. She couldn’t imagine some poor girl who wasn’t a part of the “in” crowd feeling comfortable entering that place. But as she looked around the room and found everyone looking back, her stomach bottomed out. Kitty knew once the Peaches were reminded of just how regal her family’s three story, twenty-seven-room plantation home was, complete with a grand ballroom, which had hosted everyone from celebrities to presidents over the years, getting them to agree to another venue would be impossible.
Glory had been played. This entire meeting was an intentional violation of 22B. Hosting the pageant, inviting the former Miss Peaches, inviting Glory over at a time so that she’d have to go straight to work afterward—and would show up in her uniform—hadn’t maintained fair and equal standards. Nope, Ms. Kitty in her perfect house, with her perfect reputation, and her perfectly laid out plans only highlighted all of Glory’s imperfectio
ns.
But when Glory went to open her mouth, Charlotte gently touched her hand and whispered, “Not now, Glory. Wait until you’re calling the meeting, then you can call the shots.”
Glory nodded and with a wink Charlotte stood and followed the other Miss Peaches as they headed toward the ballroom, talking in excited voices about what color lace should billow from the chandeliers. Glory went to stand, but found her legs wouldn’t hold her. She was tired of always being on the losing side.
“Unintentional smoldering?” Cal asked quietly. He stood and his arm brushed her, just barely, but enough so the hard muscle against her warm skin created some serious sparks. “Did you memorize the entire handbook?”
“No.” She looked up at him and, call the fire department, smoldering didn’t even begin to describe the look he gave her. He was smiling, dimples flashing for her alone, and then those intense blue eyes locked on hers and for a brief moment everything seemed to disappear and Glory didn’t feel like the loser. Didn’t even feel out of place. With him looking at her like that, she actually felt like she belonged. “Just the parts that were useful.”
“And sanctioned combustion and smoldering laws peaked your interest?”
“Anything that evens the playing field with Ms. Kitty peaks my interest.” Glory remembered the full room and felt her confidence sink. “Not that it mattered. There is no way anyone will take me seriously with her in charge.”
“According to a district court justice, they have to take you seriously,” he said with a smile.
“Tell that to Kitty. I mean the woman amassed a cashmere army of experts. How can I compete with that?”
“First of all, you don’t have to compete. Ever,” he said and her stomach tingled. “You just be you. People want options, so give them some. And if they still won’t listen, then amass your own army of experts. ”
There was so much confidence in his voice that even though she didn’t know any experts in the pageant world, she didn’t feel so hopeless.
Cal offered her his hand and she took it. A warm zing started in her fingers and spread out across her entire body as he helped her up—and right into his chest. His big, strong, yummy male chest.
“I need an army then,” she admitted. “Because we can’t have the pageant here.”
“And why’s that?” he asked quietly, still holding her hand.
She looked around at the domed ceilings, the art on the walls, the crystal chandeliers, and her chest started pinching again. It was all too much. Suffocating for a girl from the sticks. Too many chairs to choose from, too many rules to remember, too many memories to fight all at once. “Too many bedrooms.”
“You have a thing against bedrooms, boots?”
She looked down at her cowgirl boots and then gave him the one reason he’d side with. “You know what a group of high school boys would do with access to a few dozen teenaged girls and twenty-seven bedrooms?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth and she felt her lips throb. Then a warm tingle started in her belly and slid lower so she had to fight the urge not to squirm in her boots. “You’re right, bad idea.”
What the hell was he doing? Nothing good, that was for sure.
Cal dropped her hand and took a step back. It was safer than touching her while talking about bedrooms and what he’d like to do in them—with her. Which was a lot.
He’d come here to do his job, make sure the issues were resolved without bloodshed, then report back to Judge Holden. Not that he was thinking about his job or Holden now. Nope, that honor went to Glory. Not sexy nurse Glory or soft sundress-wearing Glory, but beer-slinging, red-lipped saloon Glory in her inspiring top and fantasy-inducing boots that, if they were to make it to one of those twenty-seven bedrooms, he’d beg her to keep on.
She was all soft curves with heart-stopping beauty, her exotic eyes locked on his mouth as though she was remembering their kiss, too—as though she might be open to leaving the boots on if he asked. That was to say nothing for the way her ass looked in that skirt. Jesus, it started below her navel and had just enough denim to cover her cheeks, exposing a pair of legs that left him with a hard-on, twenty-seven bedrooms, and three different Glorys to choose from.
The damndest thing, though? Cal wasn’t sure which one he’d choose. He couldn’t keep his eyes—or his hands—off the Glory in front of him now. But it was the vulnerable Glory, the one who’d sat in his truck in a pair of torn galoshes and flannel bottoms that drew him in, spoke to his true inner nature, the side that wanted nothing more than to pull her in and protect her. And somehow that Glory was the one looking up at him from beneath all the makeup and sweet curves.
“Why did you come, Cal?”
He could have lied. Should have made up some story about doing Brett a favor. But this decision had been all his. At breakfast Hattie started yapping about illegal fuel and Glory throwing the book at Kitty and he figured she’d need some backup. The next thing he knew, he was here and not at work overseeing the biggest project in his company’s history. “Like I said inside, there are two chairmen. You and I are in this together.”
“When I saw you standing there…” She shook her head and swallowed. “Not a lot of men would risk a room full of pageant queens talking color palettes and tasting menus to rescue me.”
There it was. The reminder that he needed. Because Glory was looking for “that Cal,” the one who did the right thing. And the right thing didn’t include thinking about her ass in that skirt. Especially because that ass and its owner were co-chairing a committee with him.
“I just spent a weekend surrounded by a giggly cheerleading team and their moms,” he said, ushering her toward the front door. He needed to walk her to her car, erase any fantasy he had about finding out what was beneath that skirt, since the two of them together would lead to nothing but trouble, and send her on her way. “Color palettes are a breeze compared to boy and makeup talk.”
“Oh, that’s right. The Pep-Luck was Saturday. How did it go?” Her legs struggled to keep in step with his longer ones, so he slowed his pace.
“It went.”
“That bad?”
“She made me drop her off at the front of the school, then go find parking so I’d have to meet her inside.” Actually she had ignored him the entire ride.
“Ouch.” Glory slid him an amused look and he wanted to ask what was so damn funny. Nothing about Saturday had been amusing.
“You drove her?” she asked as he opened the front door.
“Yeah.”
“Wasn’t she paired up with Mason Simms?”
The bright August sun radiated off the circular drive, immediately causing sweat to bead on his skin. He could almost feel the humidity clogging his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was the sound of the prick’s name.
Nope, it was the way Glory looked in that skirt when she walked. The swish swish of her hips as she headed to the driver’s door of her car sent that skirt of hers on a trip due north and left him to wonder what color panties she had on—because it was clear she wasn’t wearing much else under there.
“Oh no,” she said. “I know that look.”
“What look?” Was he that transparent?
“This one.” She scrunched her face and glared. It should have been scary as hell to be hit with that look, but on her it only managed to look adorable. “Brett gets it sometimes when he’s being stubborn. Which means you didn’t let her go with her football chaperone.”
Oh, that look. “Hell, no I didn’t. She’s fourteen. She doesn’t need some boy sniffing around. What she needed was to go to the Pep-Luck with her dad.”
“Are you listening to what you are saying?” When he didn’t answer, she reached in her purse, fished out her keys, and then looked him right in the eye and laughed. She laughed. At him. “You had the perfect scenario, Cal. A respectful kid wanted to take your daughter to the school for pancakes during the light of day at a school-sponsored event. With you chaperoning.”
W
hen put like that, it sounded almost innocent. But Cal knew better. He’d been a respectful kid once upon a time. Being respectful was a key factor to getting laid when you were a teen. Just ask Brett.
Cal grabbed her keys, thrust them into her lock, twisted, yanked, and wrenched open her door. He handed her back the keys. “The kid’s lucky I didn’t show him into last year.”
“He mowed my grandma’s lawn last week just to buy Payton some flowers. He’s a good kid.”
“He’s a boy. They lose their ability to be good after they discover boobs.”
“You do hear yourself, right?” She dropped one hand to her waist, that shirt of hers riding up high enough for him to make out a little flower tattooed on her right hipbone, proving his point.
“Yup.”
The other hand went to her hip, and Cal had a hard time not looking at her tanned midriff. But he didn’t want to get distracted. He’d had his share of women since his divorce. Even dated a few of them. But never once had he talked about his daughter. Either it wasn’t the kind of date that required personal information, or the woman hadn’t been interested. But Glory not only looked interested in Payton’s life, she looked like she genuinely cared. And she also looked at him like she thought he’d made a mistake.
He leaned back against the side of her car and crossed his arms. “What would you have done?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you seem to have an opinion on this. Are you saying that if your daughter shows up dressed for a night waiting tables at Hooters, starts arguing about how not all boys are trying to get in her kick pants, and then some kid shows up at the door ready to take her away in some…sex wagon, you’d let her go?”
“Yes.” She smiled up at him as though she thought he was cute. He scowled. “You raised a great daughter, Cal. Payton is smart and sensitive and has a good head on her shoulders. Let her practice those skills you worked so hard to teach her. And to be clear, Mason drives a pickup, too rusty and small to be considered a wagon, sex or otherwise.”