by Marina Adair
Brett felt himself flush, and it wasn’t because of the triple-digit temperature. “Whenever I come home, if it falls on the eighteenth, Ms. Wilkes has a grand opening. She says it doubles her profits and helps get the locals to vaccinate their animals.”
“The eighteenth?”
Brett blew out a breath, hating that what he was about to say made him sound like a tool. “She calls it her ‘eighteen hole-in-one’. For eighteen dollars you can have your pet vaccinated, clipped, and groomed.”
Brett watched to see the reaction that would cross Joie’s face. To his surprise, she didn’t look at him as if he were either some hero or a tool. Instead her eyes went soft and she placed her hand on his shoulder, gently tracing a finger down his arm, leaving behind more than just the need to have her naked and moaning his name.
“By none other than Mr. Hometown Hero.” She shook her head, her ponytail brushing from side to side, reminding him of the girl he’d rescued from Letty’s old oak tree. “That must be exhausting.”
“Grooming animals all day?” He lifted a shoulder, trying to play off how tired he was.
“No. Always trying to manage everyone’s expectations.”
Brett didn’t know how to respond, because managing expectations had become so second nature, he didn’t even recognize when he was doing it anymore. But instead of explaining that letting down the town that had rallied behind his family after his parents’ death felt like a betrayal of their memory, he stood there like an idiot, staring into her eyes and nodding, hoping he met her expectations.
“Look, about the other night.”
Joie placed a finger against his lips and stepped closer. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she tucked herself firmly against him and just held on.
Brett closed his eyes and melted into her, loving how grounded he felt. These days, most of his time was spent in flux, balancing his needs against the needs of those he was responsible for. Yet this little pixie of a woman stood there, offering him something nobody in his world usually took the time to give—support.
A minute or fifteen might have passed before she gave him a final squeeze and stepped back. Her face was open and unguarded, and he wondered what she saw that made her lips turn up into a sweet smile. Before he could get any answers or even wish her luck on her appointment, she slid her hands up to cup his face and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, then silently headed down Main Street toward Spenser’s garage—her dog strutting behind her.
Brett watched until she disappeared into the open bay of the shop.
Heart beating too fast, appetite nonexistent, Brett tossed the chicken in the Dumpster and headed back to help Ms. Wilkes close out the day. Washing pets was a perfect distraction from what had just happened and gave him time to put the past few weeks into perspective.
Time he’d no doubt spend obsessing over what the hell he was going to do with the neighbor girl who drove him to distraction. He hadn’t even tried to get her into bed. And that scared him more than the sight of Mrs. Winslow and her pet alligator.
* * *
Brett was exactly where he wanted to be—sitting on Joie’s front porch swing with Joie sitting on him in nothing but her blonde curls and tanned skin. Her legs tangled around him, pulling him closer as she arched back, sending that wild mass of hers sliding across his thighs.
Oh, my! she moaned, rising up only to slowly slide back down. She felt incredible, the way she wrapped her body tightly around his as if she never wanted to let him go. Couldn’t let him go.
Her mouth worked his before heading south, down his chest, until she untwined their bodies and dropped to her knees on the weathered wooden porch. She took him in her hands, her eyes huge with appreciation, and licked her lips. Her gaze flew to his, heated and full of wonder.
Would y’all look at that?
That didn’t sound right. Brett opened his eyes and…
“Jesus Christ!”
“Watch that mouth, there are ladies present,” Grandma Hattie snapped, her voice crackling with outrage.
Brett opened his mouth to say—what? He had no idea, because standing next to Hattie were her poker buddies. With cameras. Their arthritis-riddled fingers and walkers having no effect on how fast they could snap off shots.
“Dottie, you hold him down while Jelly-Lou gets that Stetson on him,” Etta Jayne said, reaching into her fanny pack and pulling out a professional-grade lens.
“I bet it’ll get triple the money,” Hattie said, her sausage fingers rubbing together in the universal sign for “pay up or shut up.”
A flash went off. When the green and yellow spots finally stopped dancing, Brett saw a smiling Etta Jayne, wiggling her pudgy little fingers at him.
He looked down. Nothing but underwear. Great. He adjusted the afghan over his waist and stood up.
“Little late to pretend modesty now, don’t you think?” Etta Jayne looked her fill, and Brett could feel the heat creeping up his neck and inflaming his ears under the intense scrutiny. “You used to run naked through my sprinklers. You ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“I was a kid.”
Etta Jayne shrugged.
Brett ran a hand though his hair, which he was sure looked more like sex-ruffled than bed-rumpled. He’d have to sweet-talk his way out of this, because if those photos wound up on the Internet, Cal would kill him. The good news was that, since they were all women, he was pretty confident he’d walk away with all three cameras and his pride.
“Now, ladies.” Brett unleashed his award-winning smile.
“Don’t you flash those dimples at me,” Hattie scolded, stepping forward. “Here’s the deal. We aren’t making the kind of money we used to with your autographed golf balls, and the town is still short for the new wing.”
“And these pictures will be like having our own printing press,” Dottie said.
“Pictures that you will hand over immediately,” he threatened. “Because new wing or not, that”—he eyed the camera—“is not leaving this room or I’ll be too busy cleaning up my career to MC the Sugar Ladies Baptist Choir Summer Concert.”
“We’re counting on that money, and you already agreed,” Jelly-Lou said, panicked, rolling her wheelchair closer.
“He doesn’t look very agreeable right now,” Dottie whispered to Jelly-Lou.
“He’s a McGraw. Man of his word,” Etta Jayne countered, staring Brett down.
“A fact that I hope you all remember and take to heart,” Brett said, glaring at his grandmother. Hattie took a seat on the couch and glared back.
With a sigh, Brett grabbed his jeans off the floor and tugged them on. If he was about to be blackmailed into helping out with whatever harebrained scheme they had going on, he wasn’t going to endure it in his skivvies.
“Here’s the thing, son.” Hattie tossed him a shirt off the floor. He smelled the pits and pulled it over his head. “We’ve played cards at Letty’s place every Monday night since that tornado tore through Sugar in the spring of ’58. The same year I lost my Ray. And no Yankee is going to come into our town and ruin over fifty years of tradition.”
“And drinking,” Dottie added.
“And since Letty’s niece got her knickers in a twist, we’re short a location,” Hattie said.
“What does this have to do with raising money for the medical center?” he asked.
“Well, you want these photos and we need someone on the inside.” Dottie steepled her fingers in front of her mouth, excitement pouring from her. “Feeding us information about Joie’s schedule.”
“So basically, I’m being blackmailed by the Sunday School Mafia?” Not a single lady had the decency to look even a little embarrassed.
“We need someone to keep her busy so we can continue having our Monday nights there until we find a place.” Jelly-Lou said, her eyes big and innocent-looking.
“Or she gives up and goes home,” Etta Jayne mumbled, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“And you were hoping that t
hat someone would be me?” he asked, the throbbing behind his right eye escalating.
All four women nodded vigorously, suddenly looking like quilters instead of extortionists. Not that Brett wouldn’t mind spending every Monday night holding hands and showing Joie just how beautiful Georgia was. Hell, just the thought had him smiling like a damn teenager. But he wasn’t willing to betray her trust like that.
“Look, I know how important Mondays are to you.” He did. Hattie had never missed a one. They’d even invented Re-Run Monday’s at the Saddle Rack during the off-season, knowing that football would attract a crowd and distract folks from noticing that the Bible study ladies never carried Bibles. “But it doesn’t justify spying on Joie.”
“No one will know the truth,” Jelly-Lou said. “The whole town knows she was looking to have relations with you.”
Relations? Yes.
A relationship? Not so much.
“It’s not going to happen, ladies.”
“Well, now, see, I was telling everyone down at the Gravy Train about what a good job you did on building me my ramp,” Jelly-Lou said with a smile that let Brett know he’d just been buttered. “Then Hattie reminded me how you paid your way through college, helping Cal build houses.”
“Rumor around town is that she’s in need of a contractor,” Hattie said.
“She’s already got a contractor.”
The women studied their shoes. Ah, hell. With his thumb and forefinger he pinched the bridge of his nose. The smart thing to do would be to walk away. His gut was telling him that every second he stood there listening to their crazy-ass idea, it became more likely he’d get sucked in.
Then again, as Brett was fast learning, he didn’t always do the smart thing.
“What did you say to Rooster?”
“Seeing as his daddy is interested in being my gentleman friend.” Etta Jayne crossed her arms over her chest, jamming her fists in tight. “And this being a family feud, it would be outright disloyal for Rooster to keep taking a paycheck from that woman.”
“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 s
tealing 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.
Chapter 14
Josephina 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.
