Authors: Marina Adair
She walked over to rest a pudgy hand on his arm, giving him a little pat. “Why don’t you let me take her to school?”
“Thanks, Grandma. But this is our thing. Not to mention—” He snatched the keys out of her meaty little hands, but not before delivering a kiss to her puckered brow, to soften the blow. Last thing he needed was another pissed-off female. “You can’t drive.”
“Sure, I can. Just did as a matter of fact.” She snatched the keys back and stuck them in her pocket, then went about making his lunch. “And before you go hemming on, my reflexes are just fine.”
“Not according to Jackson, who last I heard tore up your license.”
“Man’s a moron.”
Cal ran a hand over his face. “You drove through the side of Kiss My Glass Tow and Tires.” Thankfully the owner, Lavender Spencer, was a family friend and didn’t press charges—or sue for damages.
“Actually, I was aiming for Kitty Duncan and her cart full of enough high-performance air filters to power the entire NASCAR fleet. Seeing as how I made that turn on a whim and smashed her cart while missing
her
entirely is a testament to just how good my reflexes are. Damn fine eyesight, too, if that was what you were going after next.”
Cal took a seat. In ten minutes his entire day had turned to shit. He had a hormonal daughter, five separate construction permits to file at three separate county offices, and a crew on the clock that couldn’t start running plumbing and electrical for the hospital’s new pediatrics ward until he got the inspector to sign off on the footings.
And if that wasn’t enough, now his grandma was justifying nearly taking out the mayor’s mother because of a damn tractor pull. Although the feud between Jelly Lou Mann and Kitty Duncan was legendary in Sugar County, it had been pretty quiet for the past few years—the two women agreeing to coexist in the same town without bloodshed. But if there was one woman who could rile everything back up again, it was his grandma.
Oh, she wouldn’t do it on purpose. She would go into it with the intent of protecting her friend. But Hattie’s best intentions usually ended with him negotiating her bail. And he’d already bailed one woman out of jail this week; he was hoping to avoid the sheriff’s station for a while.
“Nothing’s illegal about buying car parts.”
Her eyes went hard. “It is if you’re soupin’ up a tractor for the Sugar Pull. Which I know that cheat of a woman, Kitty Duncan, is doing. It goes against every bylaw of the competition, and because her son is the mayor and her grandson the sheriff, she would have gotten away with it, too.”
“So you want to talk about what you did the other night?” Cal asked. He’d put off talking to her about the stolen tractor and big-ass dent in his truck until he’d calmed down.
“Me? It’s that woman.” Hattie snapped open his lunch pail. “She cheats every year and every year she wins, then she rubs it in Jelly Lou’s face. Well, this year, if she wants the Prowler to be the lead tractor for the Peach Day Parade, then she’s going to have to win that spot, and win it fair! And that means no high-octane fuel.”
Cal pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t put this off any longer. Hattie was a danger to Sugar’s residents, not to mention his peace of mind. She belonged behind a wheel about as much as he did cooking up pancakes at a mommy-daughter potluck. “We need to talk about your driving.”
“No. We don’t.” She stopped mid-slice into last night’s leftovers, shoving a chunk of Payton’s cake in his lunch pail instead of that tri-tip sandwich she was ready to make. Snapping the lid shut with force, she leveled him with a practiced glare. “And I don’t want to talk about the dent on the back of your truck either.”
His phone buzzed and a photo of Brett giving the camera the finger appeared on his phone. The way his luck was going, it would wind up being his sister-in-law, Joie, with another blind date for him. A date who would be prim, proper, perfect wife material—and boring as hell.
“Fine. But just know that until we talk, you aren’t going anywhere.”
“You can’t ground me,” Hattie harrumphed, dangling his keys.
“Watch me.” Cal shot up and, after wrestling his grandma for the keys and taking a few cheap shots to the ribs, he finally managed to snag them away and make his way to the front room.
His phone vibrated again. He sat on the couch, rested his head against the back, and answered, “McGraw.”
“Morning.” His kid brother’s greeting came through the phone, low and muffled. The rasp in his voice told Cal that he’d either just woken up or was still half asleep.
“How’s California?” he asked, wondering why Brett was up so early the day after his golf tournament, and thanking God that it wasn’t Joie.
“Smoggy, crowded, and beer comes in a damn mug. What kind of man drinks beer from a mug?”
Cal smiled. “So, I take it you’re still pissed that you ended up somewhere other than first?”
“Nah. It’s just a charity event,” Brett said with casualness that Cal knew was bullshit. He could almost hear him force out a shrug. “The new children’s ward will still get their money.”
Cal had to smile. Even though his kid brother drove him crazy, it was good to hear his voice. Good to talk with another guy. Because guys didn’t include the words
feelings
,
hair
, or
dating
—ever. Plus it might help alleviate the permanent twitch forming behind his right eye.
“Nice double bogie on the eighteenth. I really thought you had it in the bag. Too bad about that kid.” Cal grinned. “What is he, fifteen?”
“Nineteen.”
“Right, nineteen. He really came out of nowhere and kicked your ass.”
“One stroke!” Brett said and—yup, definitely pissed. Brett lowered his voice and Cal could hear him press the phone closer to his mouth. “The little prick won by one stroke and he’s pissing himself like he just won the Masters.”
“Where are you?” Cal asked because it sounded like Brett was standing in the middle of an echo chamber mumbling into his armpit.
A moment passed. “The john.”
“You’re calling me from the bathroom?” This would be good. Brett had a knack of getting himself into stupid situations, which used to drive Cal nuts, but right now Cal could use a good laugh. “Crazy night, huh?”
And Cal could almost imagine it. A bunch of buddies, throwing back beer—from mugs apparently—watching highlights from the tournament, ribbing each other until Brett passed out, only to wake up locked in some poor guy’s bathroom.
“Crazy doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Brett said and Cal crossed one ankle over the other and found himself relaxing and settling in. “I’m hiding in the hotel bathroom, sitting in the fucking tub because”—his voice dropped two levels—“I don’t want to wake up Joie.”
Cal felt his smile fall. “Joie?”
“Yeah, she flew out yesterday to watch the tournament. She was up all night icing her swollen feet from standing all day, poor thing. Can’t even wear those sexy little heels of hers anymore,” Brett said as though it was a national travesty.
Brett McGraw had more championship titles and bunny-buckles notched in his career belt than any other golfer in the history of the PGA. Then he met Josephina Harrington, socialite turned Sugar’s hospitality specialist, and Brett traded in his playboy swagger for a prissy pooch and domestic goddess. Yeah, his life was as pathetic as Cal’s.
“Then last night the back aches started again. I swear—” Brett sighed—
sighed
. “We’re supposed to head out this morning for the Napa Valley, for our babymoon,” he added like Cal knew what the hell a babymoon was. “But between the bloating and the morning sickness—”
Cal hung up. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t listen to one more womanly problem. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women. He loved women. He was just surrounded by them all the damn time. Hell, couldn’t even remember the last time he’d thrown back a cold one in silence or watched a ballgame without someone asking him what a first down was or if cottage cheese caused cellulite.
His phone rang. Three rings and a calming breath later, he said, “Yup.”
“Sorry, the phone must have cut out.”
“Must have,” Cal lied. “Look, I’ve got to get going. School starts today and we’re finally pouring the concrete in the footings at the hospital.”
“I’ll make it quick then,” Brett said, giving a big pause that wasn’t quick at all. “I got a favor to ask.”
“Your last favor ended up with me spending five grand,” Cal said, thinking back to the way Glory’s lips had felt against his. “The one before that landed me on a blind date with a dental hygienist.”
“She was sweet.”
“She spent the entire night looking at my teeth. I flossed obsessively for the next month.”
Now that his sister-in-law had found love, she was determined to find Cal the perfect woman, not understanding that those two words didn’t belong in the same sentence as far as he was concerned. Not anymore. Not after Tawny walked out with his heart, his savings, and his ability to trust in her rolly suitcase.
Ignoring his insistence that he was fine being single, and insisting that it was time to get back out there, Joie spent the past few months playing matchmaker. So far she’d set him up with three socialites, a lawyer, and a librarian with a penchant for silk ties who he’d rather forget. All of them nice enough, pretty, smart, interested. Yet not a single one inspired anything other than lukewarm feelings.
Whatever gene it was that helped McGraw men pick the right one must have skipped Cal, because his picker was so far off center, he somehow managed to mistake trouble in a miniskirt for forever.
“I guess Glory called Judge Holden to see if there was any way to work this out, and since Gunther refused to sign the arrest report, the judge agreed to an informal meeting in his chambers tomorrow. He wants both parties present to get to the bottom of the assault charges,” Brett said.
“Well, that’s good for Glory. Holden will take one look at her and drop the charges.”
“I hope so but Glory’s up for some big position at the hospital that she’s worked her ass off for, which will mean nothing if this gets out of hand. And we both know that Jackson loves to play hardball with her, which is why I’m calling.” Cal got that squirrelly feeling in his gut. The same kind of sick knotting that happened right before Payton asked him about feminine products. “You know I wouldn’t ask you if there was anyone else, and I know that she isn’t your favorite person, but Glory’s my best friend and she needs someone on her side. Hattie’s taking Jelly Lou to a doctor’s appointment and there is no way I can make it back in time.”
“I don’t want to get involved. Jackson’s my friend and this is already complicated,” Cal said. Not only were the Duncans huge financial backers of the Sugar Medical Center, but they were also a huge part of the reason McGraw Construction won the bid to build the new pediatric ward.
“He’s mine, too, which means that we both know how jaded he can be when it comes to Glory. Christ, Cal, he kept her in cuffs all night. Not to mention, you and I both know that the charges are complete BS.”
“I’m not a lawyer, Brett, and I wasn’t there at the time of the arrest.” Although he’d been there afterward, when she’d cried in his arms, soft and vulnerable, and like an idiot he’d kissed her. And she kissed him back and—
holy hell
—what a kiss. Two seconds of touching her was enough to turn Cal from sensible single dad to the kind of guy he’d been when he met his wife. Which was the only excuse he could come up with for his embarrassing as shit display yesterday at the hospital. “I posted her bail, made sure she got home safe, what more do you want me to do?”
Brett paused and then hit him with the one thing Cal couldn’t ignore. “I want you to be a good guy. The same guy who always stands up for what’s right, but I forgot we’re talking about Glory here, so never mind. I’ll just tell Joie that we’ll need to head back tonight. We can take the babymoon later.”
“No, wait,” Cal said, digging his fingers into his temples. He was a good guy—always had been. Just his luck,
that
was branded into his DNA.
He stood and walked to the window, relieved to find there wasn’t a single rain cloud in sight. “I’m on it.”
A
ssault is a serious charge that carries serious consequents, Miss Mann,” Judge Holden said from behind the bench.
“Yes, sir.” Glory took in a deep, calming breath. It didn’t help. She was going to be sick.
No matter how many times she told herself she’d be okay, the scenery said differently. She had walked through the doors of Sugar County Municipal Courthouse a whole fifteen minutes early to find Judge Holden already situated behind the bench and not a single seat in the house empty.
Okay, so there had been one empty seat. Situated at the front of the courthouse, behind the defense table with a big
RESERVED FOR GLORY GLORIA MANN
sign taped to it—just in case there was a sole left in town who was confused as to exactly who was on trial today.
She eyed Jackson, who sat smugly on the other side of the room. But instead of giving in to the intimidation, she smiled. Big and bright. “I understand the severity, which is why I have decided not to press charges against the sheriff or the department.”
“Come again?” Holden said, taking off his glasses and leaning forward.
“What?” Jackson bellowed, coming to a stand. “You want to press charges against me?”
Glory kept her eyes on the judge. “I decided to let the matter of Sheriff Duncan keeping me cuffed in a cold cell all night go, since I did dent his cruiser. And his pride.”
She heard someone chuckle from behind her. Glory turned and her stomach gave a little flutter. Because her chuckling someone was a giant sexy sight for sore eyes, sitting right behind her in work boots, a snug McGraw Constructions T-shirt, and that protective attitude that made her nervous parts warm a little. Yup, Cal McGraw had strolled into that courtroom sipping on a latte and still managing to look big, badass, and as though he was there for her. He’d strolled up to the table and set down a steaming latte for the defendant, flashing one of his trademarked smiles and releasing those heart-melting dimples her way.
Sure, he hadn’t said a word on her behalf. Even took a seat on the prosecution’s first row. But that one simple gesture and Glory suddenly hadn’t felt as alone.
“It was within my rights as an officer of the law to restrain a suspect who I felt held a risk to my men,” Jackson defended.
Glory rolled her eyes and Cal winked. Apparently Judge Holden’s BS meter was blowing a gasket, too, because he leveled Jackson with a single look.
“You had to be there. It was a dangerous situation,” Jackson defended.
“She was on a tractor, Sheriff. In”—the judge glanced down at the report and back over his glasses at the sheriff—“pajama bottoms and rubber galoshes. What kind of risk did she pose?”
“She hit me with a cow pie.”
“You sure you want to admit to that, son? Here in front of your peers and voters?” A few hushed laughs sounded and Jackson’s ears went red. “As far as I am concerned, this whole case is a big waste of my time.”
“Noted, sir,” Jackson mumbled.
It didn’t matter that Jackson was packing or that the judge was dressed to swing a nine iron, not a gavel. One question from the Honorable Eugene Holden in that carry-and-conceal tone was enough to silence the excited murmurs filling the courtroom—and make Jackson take his seat.
Glory smiled. Until the judge turned the weight of his gaze on her. “Now, since you called this meeting, I assume you have information about the stolen tractor that isn’t in this report. I’d love to hear it so we can drop all of this nonsense and I can get on to my next appointment.”
Which, based on the cleats peeking out under the bench and his golf bag resting against the back wall, was at the Sugar Country Club. Not that Glory pointed that out.
Holden was tough on crime, unwavering when it came to justice, and he was the only judge in the South still on record in support of public lynching as a form of capital punishment. And anything that kept him from his tee time was considered a criminal act.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said.
Cal shifted in his seat, cleared his throat a few times, and sent her enough silent gestures to make up the Sugar High Play Book. Glory sent him a hard look in return.
“Sorry that you’re holding information pertinent to the stealing of the mayor’s tractor? Or sorry that you called this meeting and yet you aren’t going to make this any easier?”
“Sorry, that I can neither confirm nor deny how the tractor ended up in my garage. And thank you for agreeing to meet with us.” She looked at the crowd. “Informally.”
The honorable judge made a dignified raspberry sound and then looked at Cal. “How about you, son?”
And there went the silent signals again. Cal’s eyes met Glory’s and she sent him a few gestures of her own. For Jelly Lou, driving her tractor in the Sugar Pull this year meant so much more than a race. It was the end of an era for her grandmother, her last stroll in public with her Ned. And the last shot she’d probably get to do this. So it meant everything to Glory that she got that chance.
Jelly Lou had stood by her through so much, sacrificed her relationship with her son to make sure Glory had a home growing up, loved her like she was her own—even though she wasn’t. So there wasn’t much Glory wouldn’t do for her grandmother—and Cal had to know that, so she gave him one final signal that she hoped he understood.
Please
, she mouthed feeling a rush of warm fuzzies when he nodded. She’d kissed Cal only forty-eight hours ago and now there he was, just a few feet away, offering her his support.
“Nothing to add,” Cal mumbled, irritation tightening the corners of his lips. “I just posted bail, your honor. As a favor to my brother.”
“Uh-huh,” Holden mumbled, not believing a word.
Glory, on the other hand, believed every word he’d said. Knew that Cal bailed her out because Brett asked him to, and understood that was why he had shown up there today. So then why, instead of feeling relieved that he didn’t rat out the grannies, did his words cause every one of those warm fuzzies to fade into confusion?
Holden took off his glasses and rested them on the desktop and then leaned in—way in so everyone knew just how serious he was. “I’ve been dealing with your grandmothers’ antics and feuding for most of my career. I bet if I added up all the time they spent in my courtroom hollering and pointing fingers, it would account for a good third of my docketed time.”
Glory would bet it was more, but wisely kept silent.
“What I should do is toss all three of you out of my court so I can get to my tee-time.” If only Glory could be so lucky. “Unfortunately, there is still the matter of a damaged patrol car. And since no one has anything else to add and replacing the bumper, crumpled hood, and leaking coolant system is going to cost the good taxpaying people of this county a pretty penny, it looks as though I’m not going to make that tee-time after all.”
And just like that, Glory felt her heart fall to the floor. Any hope she’d had that Holden would let her go with a stern warning vanished when he held up a statement from Kiss My Glass Tow and Tires.
“Because we still have the issue of twenty-three hundred dollars to resolve.”
“Twenty-three hundred dollars?”
“And a seven-hundred-dollar fine.”
Okay, time to panic. Glory didn’t have that kind of money. Nursing school had maxed out her credit cards, and she’d cut back her hours at the bar because of how intense summer classes had been. It would take months of waiting tables and tending bar to make enough tips to pay for that.
“Is there a way I can set up a payment plan?” Glory asked because if he said no then she was completely screwed.
“The system doesn’t work that way,” he explained and Glory felt the sting of tears. “Which is why I’m sentencing you to two hundred hours community service.”
He rapped the gavel—even though this was an
un
official sentencing.
“Community service? Does that go on one’s record?”
“Not if you meet the required time by the end of the year.”
Glory released a sigh of relief. Between organizing Senior Night at the Fabric Farm and her hours volunteering at the medical center, she could accrue two hundred hours by the end of the year, no problem. More important, her record wouldn’t be tarnished. “I think that is fair, your honor.”
“Well, I am so glad that you are in agreement.” He looked at Jackson. “Sheriff?”
“I think that is fair, your honor,” Jackson mumbled.
“I’m glad you both agree,” he said, not glad at all. “I was starting to think this was some kind of history repeating itself with a new generation and I’d just as well throw you all in jail for contempt of court. But the paperwork”—he waved a hand—“I’d never get on the green today.”
“This isn’t history repeating itself,” Glory promised, sending Jackson what she hoped was a friendly look. He did not look back—friendly or otherwise.
“You have no idea how pleased I am to hear you say that,” Holden said with a smile that had Glory shifting in her seat. “Since you will be serving all of those two hundred hours as the new harvest commissioner.”
Shocked gasps filled the room. And Glory did a little gasping of her own. Just hearing her name in reference to the harvest commissioner made her stomach get all tight.
“I can’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, that doesn’t work for me. Being harvest commissioner doesn’t work for me.”
Glory didn’t have time to take on something as comprehensive as the Harvest Fest. If she intended to finish the Community Outreach Program proposal in time to present to the hospital board, on top of studying for her finals—which she did because not passing her classes was not an option—then Glory would need every spare second to prepare. Not to mention, the harvest commissioner crowned Miss Peach, and the thought of walking into that ballroom alone brought back way too many emotions she’d worked hard to overcome.
“Yes, well, you’ll need to make it work since our former commissioner is currently fishing in the Gulf at the request of her treating nurse.” Holden skewered Glory with a glare and she sank farther into her chair. “To make matters worse. Yes, if you can believe it, they do get worse. The only two willing candidates I have are Kitty Duncan and Hattie McGraw, both of whom have been calling my office, my home, my cell, my wife, the country club. Each accusing the other of unsavory practices, which doesn’t work for
me
, Miss Mann. So unless you have the funds to pay off the damages today then you will step in as acting harvest commissioner until you have fulfilled your two hundred hours of service or the current commissioner returns to reclaim her seat, whichever happens first.”
Glory hadn’t even accepted the position and already she felt her heart slamming against her rib cage and the walls around her closing in.
Peg was right. This is what dying feels like.
It was hard enough to overcome your past and move forward, especially when people kept reminding you where you’d been. And in a town with two blinking lights, two restaurants, and two specialties—growing peaches and harvesting prattle—reinventing oneself was difficult. Especially if you were at the heart of the biggest scandal in Sugar’s history. Which was why Glory kept her head down, went to school, and did her best to avoid attention—and the Miss Peach Pageant.
There was no position more high-profile than the harvest commissioner—not to mention important to the town. If she screwed this up, and Ms. Kitty would see to it that she would, then all her years of hard work would have been for nothing, and the hospital board might deem her an unfit candidate for the position. So returning to the scene of the crime was not an option. Preferably never, but most certainly not until
after
the board read her proposal.
Judge Holden looked at his watch and stood. “Then there is nothing left to say other than congratulations, Miss Mann.”
“Wait.” She stood, too, praying to the luck fairies to sway him. Although he didn’t look very swayable. “This position means a lot to a lot of people, I’m just not one of them. I don’t know a thing about how to run a pageant or a tractor pull and well…” Desperate, Glory admitted the one thing that was sure to change the judge’s mind, “I don’t even like peaches, your honor.”
She heard Cal laugh at her admission, but the rest of the courthouse was silent. Nope, the people of Sugar responded as though she’d admitted she didn’t bleed Atlanta Falcons red—which she didn’t. Glory might don the red jersey when she tended bar on game nights, but that was just for tips. She hated football. Almost as much as she hated peaches.
“They give me hives,” she added right as the courthouse doors blew open and the sudden rustling of fabric on wood benches filled the room as everyone turned—and sucked in an excited breath. Glory, however, nearly passed out.
There in the doorway, dressed in a Jackie O–inspired shift dress, white gloves, and a hat big enough to grace the Kentucky Derby, was Ms. Kitty Duncan with a briefcase in one hand and her bloodhound, The General, leashed to the other.
The sheer level of awe wafting off the audience was enough to make Glory roll her eyes. But the confident gleam in the older woman’s eyes made her nervous. Very nervous.
“A peach hater in power. We can’t have that, now can we?” Ms. Kitty asked, her pearls clacking together with every step as she strode down the aisle, eyes locked and loaded on the judge as though silently dismissing everyone else. “Which is why, with Peg on leave until fishing season ends, I am more than willing to step up and take charge. I already secured us a new Sugar Pull location and have compiled a list of changes that are long overdue, including rezoning of committee responsibilities, updating Sugar Pull entry qualifications, and I’d like to get some opinions of the menu and design theme I had drawn up for Cotillion.”
“Last I checked, this was still my courtroom and my meeting, Kitty,” Judge Holden barked. “Not a damn town hall discussion.”
Ms. Kitty didn’t stop moving until she hit the bench and handed over her new manifesto. One which, Glory was sure, would send Hattie over the edge. Not to mention, somehow exclude Jelly Lou from racing. “Then maybe you should have answered your phone and saved us all some time.”