Sugar's Twice as Sweet: Sugar, Georgia: Book 1 (19 page)

“
That woman
is your late friend’s niece and rightful owner of that house.”

“Wasn’t how it was supposed to happen and you know it,” Jelly-Lou said gently, rolling forward until she was right at Brett’s toes.

He looked down into her soft eyes and knew that something else was going on. These ladies were stubborn and a pain in his ass, but they weren’t outright mean.

“Only one of us belongs there,” Dottie said, and the others “Amen-ed” and “God’s truth-ed” but Brett was too tired to point out that there were four of them, not one.

“And it ain’t her,” Etta Jayne spat, and okay,
she
had a mean streak as wide as the Gulf, but it was usually backed by pure intentions.

 “Not like she has the money to pay him anyhow, seeing as she was turned down for the loan,” Dottie added.

“The loan she wanted to make Letty’s dreams come true? And the loan that
your bank
turned down? What were you all thinking?”

This time they all had the decency to look ashamed.

His heart hurt for Joie. He knew how much she was counting on that loan.

Why hadn’t she told him? Because she was stubborn and proud and one hell of a strong woman who would see admission as a sign of failure.

It had been four days since her second meeting with Bill Ryan. Brett wondered when Rooster had stopped showing up at the site. How long it took her to realize she was in this all alone. Then cringed at the idea of Joie forty feet up, swapping out roof shingles and cleaning gutters.

Brett dropped to the couch and took Hattie’s hands, noticing how fragile they felt. “What’s really going on, Grandma?”

With a sigh, Hattie dropped her gaze to focus on her lap. When she looked up, all of the stubborn bluster was gone and in its place was a deep sadness that Brett felt clear to his bones.

“We’re not ready to let go, son. That house—” Hattie stopped and took in a shaky breath. “It’s all we’ve got left of her. It’s not that her girl isn’t a proper southern lady, or even that she’s a Yankee. She’s just got all these ideas and plans and we need a little while longer with our Letty, just as she is.”

Letty had only passed last summer, and he knew his grandma was struggling with moving on. All of the ladies were close, but Letty and Hattie had bonded over losing their husbands the same year. And even though it didn’t excuse the way they’d treated Joie, Brett understood what it felt like to let go of someone you love when you weren’t ready.

“How long do you need?” Brett asked, rubbing a hand down his face.

The ladies shared a look.

“You can’t have it forever,” Brett added, reading their minds. “But maybe I can make it so that everyone walks away with what they need.”

“Letty’s birthday is the end of next month, and we wanted to do right by her memory—you know have a party in the salon, like we do every year.”

“Why don’t you just tell Joie? I bet if she knew what you were planning she’d let you use the house,” Brett said, knowing it was true.

“That girl would hear party and want to help, but we need to do this the southern way.” Which Brett assumed consisted of cigars, poker, and copious amounts of moonshine. “Meaning no Yankee to ruin our traditional mock apple pie contest and moonshine shoot-off.”

He wasn’t sure if the shoot-off portion of their tradition referred to how they got the moonshine into their mouths, or mixing target practice with drinking. But he did know one thing. “Mock apple pie was invented by the Pilgrims.” All four ladies looked at him blankly. “
Meaning
it would be a Yankee tradition.”

“Hogwash,” Etta Jayne snapped, all a-bluster. “Doesn’t matter anyway, this here tradition started with just the five of us in that salon and it needs to end with just the five of us.”

Brett felt his heart give a little. He wanted his grandma to have her good-bye, wanted Joie to realize her dream of opening the inn, and—
Lord help him
—he did not mind the idea of watching Joie traipse around in coveralls with paint in her hair and dirt under her nails.

Man, his body was already humming. And since all he did around here was watch his competition gain on him or have his every move documented by Hattie, Brett formed a plan. One that would make everyone happy—and his life a whole hell of a lot easier.

 “All right, here’s my offer. I’ll help her with the house, make sure that she leaves the salon alone until Letty’s birthday. But then you’ve got to find a new place to hold your poker game, and no more causing trouble for Joie. She’s had it rough enough without the Hatfield-McCoy welcome you all rolled out. No more talk about her dog having rabies. That Ms. Longwood’s missing geese are now in her down comforter. Or that she blew Letty’s estate on enhancing her…peaches.”

Although he knew enough to assume the other rumors were false, he had firsthand knowledge to discount the last one. Firsthand knowledge that had him grabbing his keys and trying to remember where he put that tool belt.

 “Now hand over the cameras and we have a deal,” he said.

They all crossed their arms at once, their stubborn chins raised in defiance.

“This is the only offer you ladies are going to get. Understand?”

The women remained tight-lipped. So did Brett. He could outwait them all—and he did.

“Fine,” Hattie caved, her tone letting him know that she wasn’t happy about it.

Brett was scared they’d all want to spit and shake on it, but Etta Jayne finally held out the camera and Brett allowed himself to breathe. Until he opened it.

“Where’s the memory card?” he asked, checking and rechecking the card slot.

“What kind of grandma would let someone take indecent photos of her grandson?” Hattie tutted, giving Brett a little pat on the cheek before standing and making her way to the door, her cronies waddling in her wake.

“Oh,” he said, feeling a little grouchy that he’d been played—by a bunch of old ladies, no less. “And stop stealing her damn car.”

Hattie turned and feigned shocked horror at his accusation.

“I’ve seen that ugly tank parked behind the shed, so don’t look at me like you are all Sister Maria. Walking into town in those shoes can’t be good for her back.”

Although it did wonders for his fantasies.

J
osephina had spent the past few days trying not to cry. The day after Rooster quit, she’d gotten word from the bank that she wasn’t a “solid investment,” but if her father were to cosign they might be able to reach a deal. To which she said, thanks, but no thanks.

Knowing she wasn’t a contractor or even a decent do-it-yourselfer—something she intended to take up with the author of
Remodeling for Dummies
as soon as she figured out how to change the blown fuse so she could get the electricity back on and email them—she was determined to plunge ahead.

Yes, it was unfortunate Rooster had quit and that she’d been denied that loan. Those things would make it harder, but not impossible. Neither Josephina nor Boo was willing to give up. For the first time in her life, Josephina was going to finish. Even if it meant remodeling every inch of the inn herself.

She pulled on a pair of boots, lace-up, with steel toes, in an adorable shade of fawn—her latest online find—grabbed her tools, and started knocking out a door-sized hole in the partition between the kitchen and the dining room. When finished, the open archway would bridge the gap between food preparation and food appreciation, making the meal a complete experience. It was also a great way to blow off some seriously pissed-off steam.

By ten Josephina had worked herself into a sweaty mess with a major bone to pick. That those ladies had been coming to her aunt’s house all those years didn’t give them the right to dictate what happened to the inn or destroy people’s dreams. She had assumed the position of doormat for most of her life. No more.

She jumped up and swung, her makeshift sledgehammer failing to make contact with the wall. Her arms were burning and her back screamed, but she had to finish this before she’d take a break.

Josephina took another swing, finally admitting that she wasn’t tall enough. So she jumped.

“Damn it all to hell.” Swinging in midair wasn’t giving her enough leverage to break through the sheetrock. Plus there was a framed photo hanging on the kitchen wall of Letty and her poker buddies, grinning down on her as if amused.

Stomping into the kitchen, past the ladder and a tempting pitcher of sweet tea, Josephina grabbed a napkin, then a chair. Placing the napkin over the photo and the chair directly under the still-square arch, she climbed up and went to work. She would beat that wall until it was the perfect arch, then soak in a nice bath while sipping her sweet tea and locating the chapter on framing. Followed closely by the chapter on drywalling and finishing.

“Afternoon, neighbor.”

The sexy greeting came from nowhere. Josephina spun around, sending the chair teetering on its legs. Her arms flailed as she tried to regain her footing. But she was too far from any sound wall. The chair’s legs went left, hers went right, and then she was sailing through the air in the camel pose, a position she had been working to achieve in yoga for three years and suddenly mastered midair while plowing into Brett.

His chest slammed into her cheek, her knee clocking him between the legs. He gasped as they tangled, stumbling back a few feet before crashing to the floor.

Josephina lay on hardwood, her body sprawled across his, her right eye twitching erratically, when a pair of capable hands ran down her body to settle on her ass. And squeeze.

She smacked Brett on the chest but didn’t move. After two weeks of looking at Rooster’s belly, followed by six days of only Boo and the opossum family for company, Brett was a welcomed sight. Boo, on the other hand, felt the need to bare his teeth and growl.

“What?” Brett asked Boo, who merely snarled in his teal track suit and collar. “Just checking to make sure the lady’s all right.” His blue eyes met Josephina’s, and she might have involuntarily moaned.

“I’m fine. And you’ve only checked my butt.”

“I know.” Another squeeze. “You took a pretty hard fall.”

She shoved off his chest and stood.

Brett got to his feet in one fluid motion and turned around, showing her his butt. It looked spectacular in worn denim that was faded in all the right spots. “Mind checking mine, then?”

Josephina stuck her hands behind her back to keep from taking him up on his offer. “What are you doing here?”

Now that his mistress was off the enemy, Boo pranced over to the front door and sat, as if telling their guest it was time to hit the road. Brett ignored Boo and inspected the piles of broken sheetrock, the sketches and magazine tearouts she had taped to the china hutch—and the big unfinished hole in the wall.

“I guess I could ask you the same thing.”

Embarrassment hit hard. She was aware of how ridiculous she must look. Standing in the middle of a ground zero wearing cutoffs and an old college tank with a pink bandana tied around her head.

“Making a walk-through from the dining room to the kitchen. Letty wanted it to have rounded edges with scalloped molding.” Josephina nodded toward the hanging sketch that Letty had sent her years ago. “But it’s looking more square than arch-shaped.”

 “Ah, sugar, say it ain’t so.” He spoke as if actually in pain while he looked at the hole in the wall, then back at the golf club. The one Josephina was using as a sledgehammer. “With a driver?”

She picked up the golf club and swung it at the wall, taking out a good-sized chunk of plaster and sheetrock. “Who knew how handy these things were?”

She pulled back and, midswing, stopped. Her eyes slid closed as the bitter and earthy aroma teased her nose.

“Ohmigod. Is that…” Sniff. Sniff. “French roast?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Glad I set it down in the entryway before coming in here.”

She walked right past him, dragging the club as she went. “I haven’t had fresh-brewed coffee since my car started disappearing.”

He turned and looked out the window. She followed his gaze and rushed out the front door. “You found my car!”

Brett joined her on the porch, iced coffees in hand, and sat on the top step. Extending her coffee, he patted the boards next to him. “It was having a sleepover with mine.”

Josephina rolled her eyes, but took the caffeinated gift and sat. Inhaling deeply, she took her first sip. “Mmmm…this tastes so good.”

She licked her lips and found Brett staring at her mouth. He was even sexier than she remembered. The wide, strong shoulders, those big blue eyes, and that just-rolled-out-of-bed hair. He was luscious.

He tugged on one of her braids. “If it makes you feel better, my grandma and her thugs called off the feud.”

“Then why did I wake up to a bathtub full of bullfrogs this morning?”

Brett grimaced. “Yeah, sorry about that. The truce flag was raised just a couple hours ago.”

Josephina hugged her legs to her chest and rested her cheek on her bent knees. “Why are you really here?”

“Thought you could use a handyman. One with more than a bag of clubs for tools.”

With a heavy sigh she leaned into Brett, resting her head against his shoulder. Tenderness washed through her when he dropped his head on top of hers. They sat like that, in comfortable silence, staring out over the lake and sharing space. The air was warm, and aside from the water gently lapping at the dock, the lake was surprisingly calm. No wind. No clouds. Just stillness. And a strong shoulder to lean on.

Usually she had the need to entertain when people were around, but with Brett she felt she could just be.

 How long they sat there, Brett didn’t know. It was as if the rest of the world went away. No scandal, no impending interview, not a single celebrity favor. Joie seemed to make everything fade into the background. Here, at Fairchild House, with her soft body leaning into his, only the two of them existed.

Until a cold and moist nose wedged itself between them, digging its way into Brett’s side. Small little needle teeth sank into his hip. Brett elbowed the dog with all the force of a gentle breeze and the thing let out a sorry-ass yelp as if Brett had backed over him with his pickup.

“Oh, Boo,” Joie cried, easing away from him to pick up the dog, who sent Brett a shit-eating grin and then snuggled into Joie’s glorious breasts. “Are you okay?”

Brett had built houses with his bare hands, could last eight seconds in the pen, and had made enough money in professional sports to buy a small country. There was no way a five-pound ball of fur was going to one-up him.

“I bet he got his paw stuck in one of these loose boards. Didn’t you, boy?” Brett scooped up the rat and dropped him inside the house, making sure to secure the screen door.

Boo lunged at him. His nose slammed against the screen and he bared his teeth. Brett bared his back.

“He should be safe now,” he said, glancing inside to assess the damage.

The piles of sheetrock and debris weren’t going to be a problem, but getting the rest of that wallpaper down was going to be a pain in the ass. The entryway ceiling was at least thirty feet up.

From what he could tell, she’d had the roof and plumbing fixed. The wood on the porch and dock still needed to be replaced. Large water spots covered the ceiling, continuing down parts of the west wall and giving him reason for worry. A few of the light fixtures needed to be refurbished and, based on the lack of light, the electrical was still shoddy.

She needed that loan. No amount of do-it-yourself was going to make up for the lack of funding. But maybe a heavy-hitter endorsement could make up for her lack of credit with the bank.

 Joie was leaning into the railing, staring out at the lake. He took a second to appreciate the way the denim rode up, exposing more of those amazing legs and pulling the fabric taut across her perfect ass.

“I heard about the loan.” No point in dancing around it. Even if his grandma hadn’t told him, all it took was five minutes on the Internet. Between Hattie’s blog and the
Sugar Sentinel
, there wasn’t a person in Georgia who didn’t know that Fairchild House was in dire straits with no chance of funding.

“Going back home isn’t an option.”

“Because of Rat Bastard?” he asked, joining her at the rail.

“Because my father would take it as a white flag that I was giving up.”

“You could always ask him for a loan.”

Her body stiffened for a moment before she took another sip. “I have to do this myself. Letty said magic comes from the journey, and
this
is my journey. Taking money from people who expect me to fail would be worse than failing.”

“We can’t win everything.”

“Says the four-time Masters champion.”

“I thought you didn’t have time to read up on me.” She blushed. God, he loved that blush.

 “I read about how, because of you, the Memaw’s groom-a-thon made three times their projected goal, putting the Medical Center that much closer to getting their children’s ward.”

Now it was his turn to blush.

“It gave me an idea,” Joie said, her fingers brushing his knuckles, so absently that Brett didn’t think she was aware that she was touching him. His body manned up all the same. “I could host some kind of event here, like Mrs. Wilkes did. Only with food instead of livestock. An evening of wine and friends.”

“I’d come.”

“As long as you were only a guest,” she clarified, and he felt something in his chest turn over. “I could invite all my friends from New York, the town, a big everyone-get-to-know-each-other and see the new-and-improved Fairchild House. I’m not Brett McGraw, Golf God, but I have a pretty impressive black book.”

He smiled. “I bet you do.”

“I don’t want to be the person who loses Letty’s house. When I was little we would spend hours talking about renovating the place and making it new again. She told me this place was magical, healed the spirit.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Yes.” She smiled and everything seemed to brighten. “This was the only place I felt free as a kid. I want to share what I found here, and I have to make it happen on my own. Prove to myself that I can stand on my feet.”

“You don’t need to prove anything, Joie.”

“I don’t?” she whispered.

“No.”

For her this wasn’t about a broken heart or bruised pride. Rebuilding the inn was about finishing her aunt’s dream and finding one of her own. Some might claim she was being unrealistic about the odds of success, but not him. He admired her for turning down her parents’ money.

“But you do need a contractor. And I know just the guy.”

“I don’t have any money, Brett.”

“That’s not a problem, sugar. You couldn’t afford me anyway.” He waggled a brow. “But I’m willing to work it out in trade.”

Instead of walking away, as he expected, she placed her hands on his chest in invitation. “Oh, yeah?”

The heat from her touch shot through his body. It would be so easy to take what she was offering. Brett almost did, until she slid her hands down to intertwine with his. He watched the way she unconsciously knotted their fingers, her thumb brushing over his knuckles before tightening her grip. His eyes flew to hers, locking, and everything inside him softened.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Glory was right. He didn’t just want sex with Josephina. Okay, he wanted sex and he wanted her, but he also wanted more. He wanted to feel like that guy who’d helped a crying girl out of the old oak tree. He wanted her to kiss him because she thought he was decent and a good guy.

Besides his family and Glory, Brett didn’t have a lot of experience with relationships. Oh, he had sponsors and fans and the people of Sugar and women—lots of women—but ever since the fire he had avoided relationships, purposely seeking out women who, like himself, weren’t interested in anything other than sex without strings. Because no strings meant he didn’t have to put his heart on the line. Not that his heart was on the line now, but there was definitely something more at risk than a few nights of fun.

Which was why he lifted her hand to gently kiss her fingers and found himself saying, “Not that kind of trade. Unless you’re ready to go on a date; then we can talk.”

She released a frustrated sigh and pulled her hand back.

“As for my fees, I’m willing to work every day after I get done with my campers and full days on the weekends. In return I get a dinner that isn’t fried and a room to keep my things.”