Gimme Some Sugar

by Kimberly Kincaid

  “You know what? I’m probably blowing it way out of proportion. We’ll all hang out, have a good time. No big deal.”

  “Bellamy asked me about it. After you left the other night.” Shane’s eyes skipped over Jackson’s for a brief second before he turned his attention back to unfurling the canvas for the canopy.

  Jackson exhaled through his teeth. “What’d you tell her?”

  “That you have your reasons for not wanting to get serious with anyone.” He yanked one edge of the cream-colored canvas over the corner post of the tent frame to fasten it in place, and the action gave Jackson a minute to decide how to proceed. He opted for the standard, easygoing approach that was as much a part of him as the swirl of his fingerprints.

  “Look, I don’t have anything against the concept of serious relationships. I mean, other people fall in love and get married all the time. It’s just not my thing.” Jackson gathered the opposite end of the canvas, attaching it to the posts on his side with a series of efficient tugs. In this case, not my thing roughly translated to no way in hell, but it wasn’t as if Jackson could really say that out loud. Christ, his buddy was the poster boy for MEN SICK IN LOVE.

  Shane didn’t lift his eyes from the tent. “At the risk of getting my ass kicked for saying so, you’re not your father, you know.”

  Jackson stopped short, a fistful of canvas twisting in his palm. His answer shot out before he could reel it back.

  “Well, nobody really knows that, do they? After all, I look exactly like him. It probably wouldn’t be so bad, except from time to time, my mother flinches when I walk into a room.” He snapped the canopy over its corresponding corner post so hard, in hindsight he was shocked it didn’t tear.

  “It doesn’t matter who you look like. You’re not that kind of guy,” Shane insisted, his voice low.

  Screw this. He knew his friend meant well, but he was so not having this conversation. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not stir things up and find out.”

  Unfortunately, Shane’s response was measured and steady, which meant Jackson wasn’t going to get out of this as easily as he’d hoped. “I’d just hate to see you miss out on a really good thing because you’re caught up in what your old man did over twenty years ago. Just because he—”

  “No.” Jackson held up a hand to cut Shane off. Enough was enough. “Look, I know you have good intentions here, I do. But with the exception of a little guilt over fooling my mother from time to time about my relationship status, I’m happy doing what I’m doing. I’m not too jaded to see that being serious works for some people, and I’m glad that it does. All I’m saying is that I don’t want it to work for me, okay?” The overhead sun beat down on Jackson like a vengeful marching band, and he swiped his forearm over his sweat-laced brow.

  Shane pulled the final corner of the tent canopy over the frame, knotting the ties into place with a series of smooth tugs. “Okay,” he said. “My mistake.”

  The hitch in his dark eyes as he focused his glance on the finished canopy suggested that Shane’s remorse was genuine, and Jackson shifted at the sudden pinprick of guilt left in its wake.

  “No worries, man. You want to help me anchor these stakes in the ground? I’m starving over here,” he replied, trying a grin on for size. The hollow feeling that invaded his gut every time anyone brought up the F-word loosened its grip, and the thought of his mother’s chicken salad made the blurry image of his father even more indistinct as he pushed it from his mind.

  “You? I’m shocked,” Shane quipped, rumbling out a laugh that universally signaled all is well in guy code.

  “Yeah, yeah. Pick up the pace, grease monkey, or I won’t leave you any chicken salad.”

  Shane dutifully gave Jackson the finger, and the two laughed and joked until the tent was secured into place in the backyard. As they headed for the house, still jawing back and forth, Jackson couldn’t help but run a hand over the ache that had settled right beneath his ribs.

  The one that had nothing to do with food.

  Chapter Seven

  “If either one of you tells my sisters I said this, I swear I’ll deny it. But seriously? This party’s not half-bad.”

  Jackson rocked back on the heels of his work boots and surveyed the crowd dotting the lush expanse of his mother’s backyard. Waning early-evening sunlight poked through the leafy canopy of trees overhead, scattering hushed, golden tones of summer over the partygoers. People wound their way through the yard, clear plastic cups of iced tea or frosty beers in hand. An occasional burst of noise rose up from the horseshoe pit at the far end of the yard, usually following the resonant metal on metal twang of a ringer.

  Beneath the canopy Jackson and Shane had put up mere hours ago, three wood-planked picnic tables stood at the ready, dressed up in red and white checked tablecloths like it was their Sunday best. In the true spirit of a small-town gathering, everyone had brought “just a little something” to share with the crowd, and platter after platter filled with top-secret family recipes graced the tables in a wide array of mouth-watering down-home charm.

  “You clearly haven’t tried the fried chicken yet. Dig into that, and your not half-bad will slide right on into I’m never leaving,” Shane said with an arch of his brow. “And don’t get me started on the biscuits Lily Callahan brought from her new bakery.”

  “There’s fried chicken? And biscuits?” Bellamy moaned, clutching her stomach. “When did all that get here?” Her green eyes skimmed the nearby table with a look caught between oh yeah and no fair.

  “Mrs. Teasdale brought the platters out while you were helping Autumn dish up the pulled pork,” Shane replied, taking a draw from his beer.

  “Speaking of I’m never leaving. Your mother’s pulled pork is to die for, Jax. Honestly, it should be its own food group,” Bellamy mused.

  Jackson scanned the yard, catching sight of his mother sitting at a picnic table with Dylan and Kelsey. The lines on her face seemed lighter somehow, partially erased by happiness, and he smiled at the sight.

  “Yeah, she let me dig into it before I hit the grill. This might be one of the best batches of sauce she’s ever cooked up.”

  He’d been all too happy to man the grill, flipping everything from burgers to brats and feeding the masses for over an hour as the crowd grew. Something about the deep, smoky scent of the charcoal sent all of his neurons into total relaxation mode, and the orange-edged glow of the coals combined with the hypnotic hiss of the meat on the grill just hammered the whole perfect-day thing home for him.

  “Hey, when was your last Jenna sighting?” Jackson asked, jiggling his brows playfully at Bellamy as he fished around in a nearby cooler for a beer. As soon as he and Shane had finished with the tent, Jackson had made up his mind to stop worrying about the whole faux-girlfriend thing for real. His mother deserved to be happy, and if that meant a little sleight of hand on his part, then it was worth it just this once.

  “By now she should be on the road, but with the spotty cell service up here, I can’t catch her to find out when she left. These mountains can reduce a 4G iPhone to a technologically savvy paperweight in about two seconds flat,” she sighed. “I know she feels horrible about having to get here so late. Her boss doesn’t normally pull a Cruella Deville, so something awful must’ve gone down at work for her to have to go in today.”

  “It’s all good,” Jackson replied with a wave, and he meant it. The atmosphere buzzed with the happy chatter of neighbors catching up, eating, and laughing. The air seemed electrically charged with the down to earth goodness that fit Pine Mountain like a flawless puzzle piece, and Jackson drew in a big breath of it, letting it rush through his chest. Man, on a night like this, he felt almost anything was possible.

  “So where’s this girlfriend who’s going to make an honest man out of you?”

  Except maybe that.

  “Wow, Brooke, you don’t cut any corners, do you?” Jackson asked drily, covering his grimace with a sip of beer.

 
“When it comes to giving you a hard time, I pull out all the stops,” his sister said with a grin. “So, really. Where is this mystery girl? I’m starting to think you made her up.”

  “Huh?” Jackson sputtered, sending beer on a straight shot to his windpipe. Shane whacked him on the back with one hand, covering up what was surely a smart-assed snicker with the other.

  “Jenna had a work emergency, but don’t worry. She’ll be here,” Bellamy assured Brooke with a genuine smile, while Jackson proceeded to cough up what felt like a vital organ. God damn, his lungs were on fire.

  “Wow, little brother. You okay?” Brooke balanced her daughter on one hip, juggling a huge bowl of potato salad in her opposite palm as she peered at him with concern.

  “Wrong pipe,” he gasped, finally managing to clear his throat and stand upright.

  “Hey, Brooke. Let me take that for you,” Shane offered, swooping in for the distraction. From his expression, it was clear he meant to get the scoop—so to speak—on the potato salad, but Brooke didn’t skip a beat.

  “Thanks, doll.” She handed off her daughter with practiced ease, while Shane gave up a look that would make a deer in headlights burst with pride. His help me out, please garnered zero results.

  “You have to admit, you deserved that,” Bellamy murmured with a quirk of her lips, and turned to coo at the baby, “Yes he did. Didn’t he?”

  Shane held the baby as if there was a live grenade beneath her Pampers and pigtails, and Jackson laughed.

  “Come on, dude. Hailey’s not even old enough to be that squirmy yet. Just don’t drop her and you’re all good.” He took the bowl from his sister and wedged it next to a platter of confetti-colored fruit salad, his stomach perking to life with the prospect of round two.

  “Okay, hotshot. You want to show me how it’s done, then?”

  “Oh, no.” Brooke’s long blond ponytail danced behind her, brushing her shoulders as she shook her head. “I have plans for this one. It seems we’re running way low on ice, and Mom wanted a couple gallons of ice cream to go with Bellamy’s pies. Now that you’re done on the grill, think you can manage a run to Joe’s?”

  “Hello, for apple pie à la mode? I think I can swing it.” Jackson reached over and plucked his niece from Shane’s stiff embrace, tickling her round baby-belly with just enough pressure to make her squeal with glee. “And for the record, they can smell fear.”

  “Show off,” Shane groused, but he looked more relieved than irritated.

  “You know it.” Jackson returned the baby to Brooke’s outstretched arms. “I’ll be back. ’Til then, could you please not eat all the potato salad?”

  “Only because I’m saving room for pie,” Shane retorted as Jackson made his way through the yard.

  After a bit of creative maneuvering, Jackson managed to get his truck free from the throng of vehicles parked on the grassy shoulder leading up to his childhood home. The lingering smell of charcoal from the grill wound its way through his open window, reminding him of the smoky flavors of the burgers he’d flipped. The way the grill marks had formed perfect charcoal outlines across the thick patties, the bright, hearty color of the garden-grown tomatoes, the soft, fluffy pillows of the perfectly toasted potato rolls sandwiching it all together . . . ahhhhhh. The whole thing had been pure bliss.

  Jackson leaned back in the driver’s seat, his mouth watering even though he’d eaten barely a half an hour before. The sexy rasp of a familiar voice ribboned through his memory, unfurling and spreading out in his mind.

  And you have yourself an experience . . . Carly whispered, hot in his ear.

  Oh, hell.

  Even though he hadn’t seen Carly since the morning of their accidental kiss, the thought of her sure had made itself at home inside his cranium. In fact, thoughts of her were popping up with such unnerving frequency that Jackson had pretty much stopped trying to fight them. What harm could a little daydreaming about a pretty girl do in the grander scheme of things?

  You mean aside from the hard-on you’re sporting like the banner at a homecoming parade?

  Well shit. He needed something dull to dwell on, and he needed it quick. A stack of ho-hum papers, neatly bound with a two-inch metal clip à la the Jaws of Life, caught his eye from his passenger seat, snagging his attention with perfect timing.

  If reciting random excerpts from the Pennsylvania Building Code couldn’t get his mind on the straight and narrow, nothing would.

  By the time Jackson pulled into the parking lot at Joe’s Grocery, his recollection of residential building codes for outdoor storage enclosures was fresh as a daisy, and his XY parts were in a much more cooperative mood. He did a quick visual assessment of how many bags of ice would fit in the cooler he’d stashed in his truck bed and sauntered into Joe’s. The place was a ghost town.

  “Hey, Joe. Not a lot of people on account of the holiday, huh?” Jackson grabbed a cart and auto-piloted it in the direction of the frozen food.

  “Everyone’s at your ma’s, from what I hear. I’m actually closing up shop in a couple minutes.” Joe gave a friendly grin from behind the deli counter. “But go ahead and grab whatever you need and let me know when you’re ready to check out.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”

  It was a little eerie to have the normally bustling store to himself, and Jackson started to whistle as he made his way toward the freezer cases in the back of the store. Some old tune had been stuck in his head for days now, and he couldn’t seem to place it, let alone get it out of his mind. The oddly familiar notes rolled off his tongue, threatening to drive him batty, but he shrugged it off as he cut through the dried goods aisle to get to the ice cream.

  A flash of movement and sudden stillness caught his eye, and he stopped midstride next to a display of long grain rice. A girl, maybe sixteen or so, stood on her tiptoes, her back to him as she reached for the top shelf. A long, dark braid snaked between her shoulder blades, and her arm seemed frozen above her, stopped short by his sudden presence.

  “Oh, here. Let me get that for you,” Jackson said, sliding a box of funny-looking pasta from the shelf. The heady smell of wildflowers filled his nostrils, and he dipped his head to look at the young woman in equal parts confusion and excitement. In the breath before she turned around, Jackson realized that he’d made a critical error based on the girl’s petite stature.

  She wasn’t a teenager at all. She was a woman—the woman—that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about all week.

  And she looked furious.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  The question popped out of Carly’s mouth and seemed to hang in midair for a ten-second eternity before Jackson blinked and took a step back.

  “Am I . . . huh?”

  Carly crossed her arms, undeterred by the way Jackson’s white T-shirt hugged every hard plane of his chest like it was custom-sewn for his gorgeous muscles.

  Okay, fine. So she was mostly undeterred. But he wasn’t so good-looking that she’d let him pick on her.

  “Are you making fun of me?” she repeated, taking the box of orecchiette from him and tossing it into her basket without looking. No way was she buying his who me? act. The minute he’d rounded the aisle and seen her standing there, he’d started whistling “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman,” for God’s sake. Even with her back turned, she’d known that the crooked tune could only be coming from one set of lips.

  Why was he so determined to make fun of her? And moreover, why did she care?

  “I’m sorry. I thought . . .” Jackson paused to clear his throat, and Carly was surprised to notice that his cheeks had reddened. “You’re kind of small, so I didn’t, uh, recognize you. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you for not being able to reach the shelf, though.”

  Carly’s eyebrows winged up. “You think I’m talking about the shelf?”

  “Well, yeah. What else would you be talking about?” Damn those crinkly blue eyes. They were like lonely-girl Kryptonite, for cryin
g out loud.

  “You were whistling,” she accused, eyes narrowing. Come on. There was no way he just happened to have Aretha Franklin on the brain. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Jackson let out an unnervingly good-natured laugh. “Sorry, it’s a habit. I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time. Was I whistling the theme song from The Wizard of Oz or something?”

  Carly’s lips parted, and she promptly wanted to kick herself at the laugh that escaped. “I’m not that short!” she protested, trying with all her strength to muster a straight face. The harder she tried, though, the more elusive her scowl became.

  A smile poked at the corners of his mouth. “Right, right. I forgot. The PC term is vertically challenged, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t help it if you’re the Jolly Green Giant, you know.” Carly was dangerously close to actual out-loud laughter, but she gathered up the makings of a stern frown. “What are you, like seven feet tall?”

  “I’m six-four, which isn’t really that tall. Unless you’re . . . what? Five-foot-nothing with your shoes on?” Jackson squinted down at the top of her head as if judging the measurement.

  Of course he had to be spot-on accurate. She straightened and kicked up her chin.

  “You just have to make fun of me, don’t you?” To Carly’s surprise, Jackson’s expression sobered.

  “Sorry. I was just messing around, but I didn’t mean anything by it. I honestly didn’t even recognize you until you turned around.”

  Oh, God. The whole whistling thing had been a coincidence. Carly shifted her weight from one flip flop to the other, smoothing her palms over the front of her jeans.

  “No problem, really.” She examined her unpainted toenails and resisted the urge to wince at her egregious lack of a pedicure. “Well, enjoy the rest of your evening, then.” Carly gave an awkward wave and ducked by him, grateful for the basket full of groceries that would keep her occupied for the remainder of the evening.