Sugar's Twice as Sweet: Sugar, Georgia: Book 1 (4 page)

“Rat bastard!”

She pulled the phone back, wound up, and let her fly. They watched the pink metal glisten in the sun before shrinking into the horizon to finally disappear.

“Nice arm.”

Ignoring his comment, her eyes went to his truck again. “How tough is your truck?”

 “Chevy tough.”

“Uh-huh.” She gave his tire a swift kick. Not impressed. “Tough enough to withstand a head-on with a Bentley?”

“It’s American.” He meant it as a testament to how badass his truck was. But she mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “figures.”

“You promise to take me to my car so I can get the rest of my things—”

“There’s more?”

“And get me to where I’m going, untouched?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She still didn’t look convinced, which made her a lot smarter than he was. This trip home was about lying low, playing it safe. Not picking up designer women with purse-sized pets. Sighing, he ushered her toward the passenger door, her fuzzy companion letting loose sounds that were about as intimidating as a Christmas carol. He reached around to help her inside, but paused, content to watch her struggle with her dog, purse, and bag of clubs. Finally realizing that they wouldn’t all fit, she thrust her clubs in his face and went back to tending to the dog.

“Listen, Barbie, Toto here isn’t going to pee in my truck, is she?”

“My name is Josephina. This is Boo. And
she
is male, which means he’s predisposed to making public statements whenever he feels his masculinity threatened.” She eyed his truck again and smiled.

Brett looked down at the tiny dog covered in white fluff that was teased, sculpted, and pinned back with a pink bow. Two wet black eyes looked up at him and Brett actually pitied the fuzzball. Until it leaped over the center console, made himself at home in Brett’s seat, and started gnawing on the steering wheel.

His mistress, on the other hand, climbed into the passenger seat, while Brett took a minute to admire the view before hoisting her clubs to toss them into the back.

“Wait,” she said, grabbing at the strap.

“It won’t fit. Besides, already got my own set, Jo. Nicer than,” he looked at the label and mumbled, “those Stone clubs.”

“Josephina,” she corrected. “And how do I know those aren’t from your last victim?”

“Same way I don’t know if you used those clubs to emasculate Rat Bastard.”

She nibbled her lower lip for a long minute and then let go of the bag. But not before she snagged one first—a nine-iron.

“Good girl. Now promise me you don’t have him locked in that trunk of yours.”

This time she smiled—and man, what a smile. Who knew that a smiling blonde wielding golf clubs could mess with his mind like that?

Clearing his throat, he tossed her bag, sans the nine-iron, in the back and climbed behind the wheel, looking to see if he managed to crush her dog in the process. No such luck.
Boo
sat happily on her lap, tail wagging as she stroked his head. Lucky dog.

“What’s that for?” Brett nodded to the nine-iron, clenched in her hand like a billy club. “We already established you know of my commercials and I have the sheriff’s support.”

“I never got to call, remember? Plus, you’re male, which means 50 percent of what comes out of your mouth is a lie. I’m not taking any chances.”

D
on’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

“Hey, you okay?”

Josephina’s eyes flew open and landed on the infuriating golf pro—oh, she knew exactly who Brett McGraw was. She’d thought he’d drop her off, she’d say thank you, and he’d leave. Unfortunately, he felt the need to see her safely inside.

Only they weren’t inside. He was squatting in front of her, looking concerned, while she sat in the middle of Fairchild House’s crumbling walkway with her head jammed between her knees, breathing like a woman in labor.

Okay, maybe she was breathing hard because she found herself eye level with his I-hit-a-thousand-golf-balls-a-day pecs and I-don’t-use-a-caddy abs. Even the scruff on his face added to the whole sexy cowboy image.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her eyes going back to what was supposed to be her do-over, just as it had been for her great-aunt when her fiancé died in a blaze of D-Day glory.

One look at the dilapidated old boardinghouse and she saw not one sign of paradise.

Instead, there sat waist-high mustard weed, an impressive collection of washing machines—no dryers—a rusted-out tractor and…was that an outhouse?

Good God, what had she been thinking?

She hadn’t
, she admitted. She’d been caught up in the lemon meringue memories of a little girl that had never wilted—but the house certainly had. Transforming the peeling paint, ramshackle porch, and what appeared to be a small posse of opossums burrowing in the heating duct into a boutique inn specializing in five-star luxury, highly personalized elegance, and southern hospitality for the city dweller was far beyond her bank account’s capacity.

“Jo?” He placed his hand on her back and—great, vibes. The kind that started in the belly and if nurtured would quickly move lower.

She was homeless, carless, phoneless, fiancéless, and unwillingly attracted to a man who was too smooth, too pretty, and smelled like sex.

Josephina Harrington didn’t do sex. Not anymore. Post-lingerie-landing debacle, she had decided to give up on the penis-carrying members of society indefinitely. Unless they wore a tool belt and knew something about indoor plumbing.

“I’ll take that scowl as a, ‘Why yes, Brett. I’m just fine. Thanks for asking.’” Brett rose to his feet, extending a hand and a slow, sexy smile that had the ability to melt panties off women everywhere.

“You know what?” Ignoring his hand, and that smile, she pushed to her feet, making her way up the porch to peer in the window. “I’m fine.”

Fairchild House might be one strong breeze away from falling apart, but at least it wasn’t hiding anything. Josephina bounced on her toes, trying to get a better look inside. All she could see was sheet-covered furniture and cobwebs. Lots of cobwebs.

“Really? ’Cuz you look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” she said reassuringly, wanting to punch him but settling on searching the front porch for the table with the key, which was where Letty hid it. If she found the key, Brett could leave and she could settle in for a good cry.

“I have a headache.” She briefly eyed him. “Probably from the music. All that twang made my ears bleed.” She went around one side of the wraparound porch. No table. “Or maybe the cologne. It’s a bit strong.” The other side. Nope again. “Maybe a combo.” She stopped by the front door, Boo slamming into her ankle with a yip. “Where the hell is that key?”

Josephina realized she was about to cry and spun to look out at the scenery. She needed a distraction, and an oak tree surrounded by rusty appliances seemed about as good as it was going to get. Her aunt Letty’s hollow promises somehow hurt worse than Wilson’s betrayal. Any hope of reconnecting with that
something
she’d lost faded about as quickly as the girl who’d snorted when she laughed, baked cookies in sneakers and pearls, and woke up every morning loving her life.

She had been looking to renovate Fairchild House as a way of getting back to that magical place—rediscovering her inner awesomeness. Too bad she was so busy looking she didn’t see what was really in front of her: a condemned life with a rodent problem.

Swallowing back panic, she looked at the money-pit in front of her and considered doing something irrational. Like setting Wilson’s car on fire. Then demanding that her parents explain how they forgot to tell her that her fiancé accidentally slipped and fell into bed with another woman, so they could call her overdramatic and somehow blame her for the failed nuptials.

A small little whimper sounded, followed by a wet tongue laved at her ankle. Apparently Boo was panicked, too. She didn’t blame him. She had ripped him out of his plush Manhattan high-rise and forced him to drive cross-country, only to find out that home was a two-story litter box.

But it was
her
two-story litter box. More important, it was eight hundred miles from Manhattan. Eight hundred miles from friends calling to say that Wilson was a jerk; that they never liked Babette; which meant they knew about Babette. Even Mr. Wang’s delivery guy had known, which made her idiot
numero uno.

Made—past tense.

She straightened her shoulders. “You guys get takeout way out here?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good,” she said, ignoring the “ma’am” and making her way down the front steps.

Rounding the passenger-side door, she extracted the nine-iron from inside and went back up to face the window to the right of the front door, club swinging dangerously.

“Hold up, sugar,” Brett said, snagging the club a second before impact.

“Give it back.”

“You’re thinking too much like a city girl.” Brett raised the nine-iron above his head, palming hers like a basketball and holding her immobile when she began jumping up to steal her makeshift house key back.

With one last, failed attempt, she settled on slanting him a really hard look. “It would’ve gotten me in.”

“Along with every mosquito and critter in the county.”
Damn.
She hadn’t thought of that. “Seems to me, you need someone to show you how things are done here in the South.”

“Oh, and let me guess. You’re just the man to show me.”

“All right, I’ll show you, since I hate to hear a lady beg. But my expertise doesn’t come cheap.”

“I am not sleeping with you.”

“Sugar, sleeping is the last thing we’d be doing.” He slid her a wink. “But seeing as I barely know you, and I’m not
that
kind of guy, I’ll grant you one kiss.”

Josephina looked at the door and knew she was going to cave. Because if a kiss was the only thing standing between her and getting inside that house, then she’d pucker up and take it like a woman. She wasn’t sure what was on the other side of that door, didn’t even know what to expect, except that if she failed to get inside, this moment would mirror the last fifteen years of her life. And she was tired of failing.

“Fine. Get me that key and I will give you a kiss guaranteed to rock your hillbilly world.”

Big words for a woman who had rocked the world of exactly zero men in her life. Whereas Mr. McGraw was not only reported to leave members of her sex panting his name in ecstasy, he had a video with fifteen million downloads to prove it.

Grinning, Brett reached around her, grabbed the knob of the door, twisted, and there, sitting on the entry table, dangling from a life-sized bust of Kenny Rogers, was the house key.

“Kenny Rogers?”

“Letty loved her some gambler,” she mumbled, staring at the key, and purposely averting her eyes from the white envelope with her name on it. “And who puts a key inside an unlocked house?”

“Better than putting a key inside a locked house,” Brett said, walking closer, each click of his boots on the wood porch making her quiver. He deliberately invaded her space, forcing her to step backward, until she came flush with the door frame.

“You keep forgetting, you aren’t in New York anymore, Jo,” he drawled, purposely dragging out the O. “Round here people respect their neighbors.”

“Josephina,” she clarified, swallowing hard when he slid an arm around her lower back, his fingers grazing the skin at the waistband of her skirt.

 Finally he whispered, “Now about that kiss.”

Yes, that kiss,
she thought, her eyes sliding shut. If this was the southern way of respecting one’s neighbor, then she might legally change her name to Joie-Beth-Marie and get herself some big hair and a gun rack, because his lips looked amazing.

Scratch that. Was she seriously considering kissing a stranger just three weeks after ending a four-year relationship? Nope. Definitely not. Even if the only recent tears she’d shed had been over a bruised ego, Josephina Harrington did not go around locking lips with random guys.

“Yes, about that kiss,” she whispered, resting her palms on his incredible pecs and pressing him back against the other side of the door frame. “You have to close your eyes if you want to see the fireworks.”

Brett’s eyes went heavy, the side of his mouth hitching up into a crooked grin, but he followed orders. Making sure his eyes were shut tight, she bent down and picked up Boo, who delivered a hot, wet, doggie kiss guaranteed to rock his world.

“What the…” Brett spat.

Boo growled.

Josephina made her way back down to the truck, giggling to herself the whole way. Ignoring the two males glaring at each other on the porch, she pulled a suitcase out of the truck. Then another.

After making a big show out of wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, Brett stormed after her. “What in the hell was that?”

Boo, equally offended, snapped at his heels the entire way, barking him out.

“Come on, you didn’t really expect me to kiss a complete stranger?” He looked dumbfounded, as though he’d expected just that. “I don’t know what kind of women you’ve been dating.” His right eye twitched at her comment. “But where I’m from, a kiss usually follows dinner and a night of dancing under the stars.”

“Under the stars, huh?”

He was making fun of her for sounding like some naive schoolgirl. A reaction she was used to. But for some reason, this time, it made her smile.

“Yup, the stars and the moon and the city lights.”

“Okay.” Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the bed of the truck. “How about dinner then? You, me, and a million fireflies?”

“You want to go on a date? With me?”

“A date? Why, Jo, I’d love to.”

“Sorry, I don’t date bald guys.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Tearing off his hat, he smacked it across his thigh. Boo barked hostilely. Josephina rolled her eyes at the pathetic display of bruised egos and—

Sweet mother of God.
Her mouth went dry. Which was the exact opposite of what was going on in her panties.

Brett McGraw had thick, dark waves that her fingers itched to dive into and explore, especially the unruly curls that were slightly damp and licked at the base of his neck. And those eyes, no longer hidden beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, caught in the sun and were the most intense shade of blue. It was unnerving.

Slipping his hat back on, he smiled, a small dimple dotting his right cheek, and Josephina felt her happy parts stand up and cheer.

This is how it starts, she warned herself. They charm you, use your family connections, and then
bang
. Yup, they
bang
their head of business development, who ends up wearing the bracelet
you
picked out last spring in Italy. Then they come home tired and ready for bed, making you feel about as appetizing as a can of Spam.

“Little curly for my taste.” She set her last bag on the ground. “But, hey, thanks for the ride.”

He blinked. Several times, and it took everything she had not to laugh or give herself a much-deserved high-five. Apparently, Brett McGraw didn’t get turned down—ever.

His brows furrowed. Then he grabbed one of her bags, holding it hostage while examining the house. “Okay, you’ve seen the house. It’s a heap. Where am I taking you? The closest motel is two towns over, so I’m guessing—”

“What makes you think I’m not staying here?”

He gave an amused snort and tossed the bag in the back of the truck, grabbing for another.

“What are you doing? Let go of my bag.” She yanked the suitcase free and slammed it on the ground, narrowly missing his foot. Boo barked his support.

Brett took off his hat and looked at the sky as if asking for divine intervention. Her dad did that a lot around her, too.

“Look, you don’t have a phone or a car, and I doubt this place even has electricity.” Facts she was well aware of. “If you give me a minute to stop by my grandmother’s, I can take you to Atlanta.”

Josephina’s stomach fisted into a painful ball. She didn’t want to go to Atlanta, or anywhere else for that matter. She wanted to stay here, in Sugar, and forget everything that had happened.

“Just think, in two hours I can get you checked into a fancy room with a view of the city. A nice bubble bath, a little room service. Then tomorrow you can book yourself a flight—”

“I don’t need room service. And I’m not going back!”

“Who knows what’s crawling around inside?”

“I can deal with a few rats.”

That seemed to amuse Brett. “You know, everything’s bigger in the South.”

“Are you referring to your penis?”

“No, I was referring to the size of our rats, which could carry your kissy-boo dog to their lair. But since you brought it up—”

She held up a hand. “No. And I believe it’s Texas.”

“Texas?”

“Yes. The saying, it’s everything’s bigger in
Texas.
Georgia is the peach state.”

Brett’s grin widened and a wicked twinkle flashed in his eyes. “Now who’s talking dirty?” When she didn’t laugh, Brett seemed to soften. “I’m just saying that you need to be realistic.”

“What I need is for you to get the hell off my property.”

“Christ, I’ve never met such a stubborn woman.” Brett rubbed at the back of his neck. “Wait? Your property?”

“Yes, my aunt Letty left Fairchild House and all of its giant-rat glory to me.”

“Holy shit. Joie?” No one had called her that since, well, him.