by Marina Adair
“It’s a petting zoo.” Josephina laughed, placing a hand on her mother’s to stop the clacking of pearls, which had started the moment she’d arrived. Josephina bet that when the lamb, ducks, and two goats were delivered tomorrow, and the final coat of paint went on the mini–Fairchild House—new home to Mrs. Pearl and her opossum brood—her mother would bypass the gin and tonic she was sipping and go for straight gin. No tonic, no ice.
“The kids will love it,” Charlotte chimed in. “A perfect distraction from days at the center.”
The music slowed to a halt and the mayor made his way onstage. With The Sugar Ladies Baptist Choir taking positions behind him with their church robes swaying in time to the town anthem, he thanked the people of Sugar for pulling together and gave a heartfelt speech that brought out a hearty “Hallelujah” from the choir and made Josephina proud to call herself a resident of Sugar. Opening the envelope with the winning name, which had been selected by silent poll, the mayor chuckled, turned his gaze on Josephina, and spoke.
“Well, I’ll be. By an overwhelming show of support, the name for the new wing at the Sugar Medical Center will be the Fairchild Pediatric Ward.”
Josephina turned to Brett, his face blurring behind all her tears. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
“No, ma’am.” He cupped her face, tracing her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “This mess has you and your aunt written all over it. It started when you waltzed into town in those shoes and that Yankee pride and ended when you refused to give up. That kind of strength and determination says Fairchild through and through. And what better name to give a children’s ward than one that stands for living life balls-to-the-wall.”
“You do like my shoes.” Josephina wrapped her arms around Brett’s neck.
“I love your shoes.” He kissed her good and hard. “And I love you.”
“I love you,” she whispered back, sinking into him.
“I still say it was rigged,” Hattie snapped.
Hattie made her way to the front porch, three gray heads bobbing in unison behind her, with the poor mayor in tow. “We raised more money than those Peaches! And you’re gonna tell everybody.” Hattie pointed to Charlotte, who blanched.
“Grandma,” Cal sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t matter who raised the most. It was raised, the town is happy, and the new wing will break ground next month.”
“It matters when Darleen is claiming that the Peaches were the biggest donor.”
“Well, Darleen was responsible for a large portion of the funds,” Charlotte politely informed Hattie. “If you hadn’t forced her to hand over the check she got from the tabloids for selling that story, I wouldn’t have the money to hire the extra nursing students.”
“Yeah, well now she’s claiming that since she raised more, the Peaches get to head up this year’s Miss Peach Pageant. She’s even talking about lowering the age limit so her niece can participate.”
“The more the merrier,” Cal sighed.
“Glad you feel that way, seeing as Payton was talking about going out for it herself. Heard her gabbing to that yahoo football player with the pansy-ass tattoo down by the dock. He was particularly interested in the bathing-suit portion.”
“Like hell!” In one fluid motion, Cal was over the deck’s railing and hightailing it down toward the lake.
“Grandma, you know as well as I do that Miss Peach doesn’t have a bathing-suit portion,” Brett chided.
“How would you know?” Josephina smacked his chest lightly.
“Dated a few.” He dropped a kiss on her nose and whispered, “But it’s false advertising.”
“How’s that,” she kissed him back.
“None of those Miss Peaches are as sweet as you.”
The last thing Cal McGraw wants is for his daughter to win the Miss Sugar Peach Pageant. Swimsuit category? Over his dead body. So when he is drafted to join the committee, he hatches a plan to change the rules from the inside. But he never counted on co-chairing the committee with the wild and sensual Glory Mann . . .
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Chapter 1
Glory Gloria Mann had never been arrested before, just as she’d never had to spend the night in jail, so she wasn’t sure of the exact protocol, but she knew bullshit when she heard it. And Deputy Gunther’s excuses were starting to smell worse than her manure-crusted pants.
“I bet if you called over to the Sugar Country Club, they’d tell you Judge Holden is somewhere between the third and fourth hole,” Glory said, pinning Deputy Gunther with a glare.
“The sheriff’s on it, Miss Glory,” Gunther said, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. He was built like a bull, only with puppy-dog eyes, a gentle smile, and a soft center. Glory had always liked him; he was one of the few football players who hadn’t made her time at Sugar High miserable.
“So you said. Three hours ago.” When he silently lowered his eyes to the floor, she added, “Come on, Gunther, I’m freezing and tired and you and I both know that the sheriff is just trying to mess with me.”
His ploy was working. She was about two minutes from tears. The ugly kind.
She’d been arrested, booked, and locked in a concrete square. She hadn’t eaten since her second break yesterday, or slept in over forty-eight hours, and her midterm, which she’d busted her butt studying for, had started over an hour ago—meaning the only way she was going to pass that class in time to apply for the Community Outreach Manager at Sugar Medical Center was if she aced her final.
Gunther looked from the empty front office back to her and the tips of his ears went pink. “I guess I could let you have another call. Just one, though. And you have to use this.”
He dug through his pocket, handed her his cell, and Glory felt her heart tighten painfully.
“And call who,” she mumbled softly. Not that it mattered. It was already too late.
Gunther’s eyes darted to the floor again.
They both knew that the sheriff wanted to milk the situation, just as they both knew that whatever obscene bail he convinced the judge to set, neither Glory nor her grandma could afford it.
Her best friend, Brett, could afford it, and he’d pay it in a heartbeat, which was why, in her moment of desperation, she’d called him.
Too bad she remembered after she’d left a voice message that he was in California and that she’d promised herself never to put him in a position to choose between his best friends again. She was trying to keep her distance, give Brett and his new wife, Joie, the space they deserved as newlyweds.
Last year he’d added Sex-Stud YouTube sensation to his impressive credentials, a title that almost cost him his career as a professional golfer. The last thing he needed was more people whispering. And any time Glory so much as smiled at a man, people whispered.
“That’s all right, Gunther.” Glory tightened her arms around her bent legs and dropped her head to her knees. Her body ached to be back at home, in her own bed, with the covers pulled securely over her head—fast asleep.
“Can I at least get you a blanket? Maybe some hot coffee?”
“That’d be nice.”
“All right, then. Sit tight.”
An aching sadness tore through her chest and Glory didn’t answer—couldn’t—afraid of what might come out. She felt her tears coming closer to the surface and the last thing she needed to add to her night was a public pity party. But she was locked in a cell, facing a possible F on a test she was more than ready for. Her only crime being—she was too damn nice.
“I didn’t steal the stupid tractor,” she whispered to herself.
“I know you didn’t, Miss Glory.”
She slowly lifted her head, startled to see Gunther still standing there. And damn it if the tears didn’t spill.
“Ah, don’t cry.” Gunther fumbled for his handkerchief. “The sheriff’s not a bad guy. He, well, some people don’t know how to let go
.”
Ain’t that the truth?
Glory made her way to the cell door, took the offered hankie—a difficult task since Sheriff A-hole had insisted on keeping her cuffed—and wiped her eyes.
“Thanks. It’s just been a really shitty night.”
With a solemn nod he made his way toward the end of the corridor—toward freedom. Only he stopped in the doorway and turned back to face her.
“For the record, I never believed what everyone said about you and Coach Duncan. I was even planning on asking you to Homecoming back then. But then you transferred schools.”
“I decided to homeschool,” she corrected.
Actually, she’d made such a mess of her life that she’d quit. Not her education, just the school part.
Gunther shrugged. “Yeah, well, I would have still asked you.”
Glory watched silently as he disappeared around the corner. What was she supposed to say? The guy who caught a seventy-yard pass in the middle of a thunderstorm but couldn’t manage to pass basic algebra without cheat notes; the same guy whose only shot at getting out of Sugar was a football scholarship—which never happened because Damon Duncan resigned the week before playoffs—hadn’t blamed her. Or at least thought enough of her to risk social annihilation so he could escort her to a stupid dance.
“Hey, Gunther.”
He poked his head around the corner. “Yeah?”
“I would have gone.” Glory cleared her throat. “To Homecoming. If you had asked, I would’ve gone with you.” She gave him her sincerest smile. “Your wife is a lucky lady.”
With a sheepish nod he was gone, the security door shutting with a resounding thud behind him. And Glory was alone. Really alone. Something she’d had thirty years to master, but never quite gotten the hang of.
She paced in front of the bars, feeling a little caged and a lot scared. She had been cuffed, fingerprinted, photographed, and processed, for God’s sake. Glory Gloria Mann was a criminal with a record.
At least she and her mama had something more in common now. Not that she planned on seeing her mama anytime soon. If Julie-Marie Mann hadn’t bothered to come see her daughter when she’d been suspended for “inappropriate relations” with an older man, she didn’t think that a grand theft auto charge would do it either.
No matter how hard her life got, and senior year had been hell, her mama had never shown up. Not even to stand by her daughter’s side when she was wrongly accused of having sex with a faculty member—when in reality all they’d ever done was kiss. She hadn’t shown up when Glory had been bullied or teased or chose not to walk the stage with her classmates even though she graduated with honors. Nope, not once in the entire time that Glory’s life was falling apart did her mama even call to see if she was all right.
A sniffle escaped as she walked back to the lone steel bunk at the far side of the cell and plopped down, the mattress expelling enough dust bunnies to give her acute asthma. Exhausted, she leaned against the concrete wall and closed her eyes, but her entire body shook as a cold chill seeped through her thin tank top and right into her soul. Glory was still soaked straight through from the summer storm. And wet undergarments and catnaps did not coexist. Not in Glory’s world.
She had just given up hope of Gunther finding that blanket when the heavy metal door unlocked, startling Glory to semialert and bringing her to her feet. With a gracious smile, she walked to the front of the cell—and stopped short.
The door swung open and in walked Sheriff Duncan. He strode down the corridor, a ring of keys in one hand, a gun strapped to his hip, with a smile so smug it made her heart die a little.
She’d learned senior year that if she wanted to live peacefully in Sugar, avoiding people with the last name Duncan was crucial—especially ones that had Sheriff in their title. It was scandalous when Damon Duncan, home town hero and Sugar’s favorite football coach, lost his job for being involved with an underage student. That the offence happened at the Duncan Plantation during the Miss Peach Pageant, with a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, made it downright blasphemy.
Walking the school hallways after that was humiliating and terrifying. The nasty looks and even nastier comments were bad enough, and some of the students started the De-Peaching of a Miss Peach campaign, posting doctored photos of Glory around the hallways. Guys started giving Glory the wrong kind of attention. And one day while walking home she was propositioned by a truck full of pissed off jocks, who blamed her for the football team not making it to State, and Glory broke.
She wanted to graduate like everyone else, wear a cap and gown and make her grandmother proud, especially since Jelly-Lou had sacrificed so much to see that Glory got a good education and had choices in life. But the thought of walking across that stage, having her classmates shout cruel or embarrassing things in front of the one person who believed in her, was too much, so she quit. She let the Duncan’s and the bullies take away something that she was proud of.
She glanced down at the cuffs cutting into her wrists and sighed. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d miss another chance to prove that she was more than her last name. She only had a month left before she’d graduate nursing school and fulfill her dream of working as a registered nurse. And to do that she needed to get out of there and call her professor.
But that wasn’t what inspired her sudden urge to make a noose out of shoestrings and be done with it. No, what made her chest lodge itself painfully in her throat was that Jackson wasn’t alone. He’d brought friends. Two of them, to be exact. Deputy Gunther and—she swallowed.
Oh, God! It couldn’t be.
Being stuck in the slammer all alone was terrible. But this? This was so much worse. At least alone, there was no one to witness her humiliating moment. No one to pass judgment and suddenly wonder if she really was just like her mama. No one to shake his head and say, “What have you gotten yourself into this time, Glory?”
And when she said no one she specifically meant Cal McGraw.
Glory’s heart pounded against her chest, so hard and fast she was afraid she might just pass out. As far as everyone else knew, her connection to Cal was nothing more than his being her best friend’s older brother. Which was sadly true. But to Glory, Cal was much more. Always had been. Not that he knew that—or even if he did, that it would change things. She’d long ago given up hope that he would see in her what she saw in him.
Forever.
Panic welled up and she was mentally struggling to keep it together when his intense blue eyes locked with hers. She wasn’t sure if it was a low-blood-sugar thing, since she hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty hours, or if the huge lump in her stomach had slowly expanded its way to her throat, cutting off her air supply. But Glory knew that if this was karma, he packed one hell of a punch.
One look at the six-foot-plus wall of sexy contractor-for-hire encased in butt-hugging denim and high-octane testosterone making his way toward her cell and Glory knew that her day, which was already smothered in cow patties, was about to turn into a gigantic pile of 100 percent, grade-A shit.
* * *
“Looks like you made bail.” Jackson sniffed the air and grimaced.
Brett owed Cal big-time. When his kid brother had called earlier that morning, asking him to post bail, Cal had no idea how it would screw with his day.
Glory was the last woman he wanted to see. She was a walking wet dream, and Cal wasn’t interested in going there—ever. At least that’s what his head said; his dick, on the other hand, gave up listening the second he saw her in that thin tank top that showed off every womanly curve she owned. Which was why he’d always kept his distance.
A hard thing to do when Gunther was huddling protectively at the cell door, making Cal wonder just how badly Glory had been treated. Jackson was all but smiling, and Glory looked as if she was one smart-mouthed comment shy of bursting into tears. Something he figured she’d done earlier, since she was sporting two faint tear tracks down her pale cheeks.
It
was obvious from the way she was doing her best to ignore him that she wanted him there about as much as he did. Brett had his loyalties, but so did Cal. Another reason he should head out. He’d posted her bail, she was alive, and—
What else did Brett expect him to do?
But instead of excusing himself, he stood there, staring and wondering if A) she was wearing a bra, B) if so, what color it was, and C) how the hell a woman who looked like she’d been bathing in manure could look so damn good.
God, he needed help.
“What the sheriff was trying to say is that you’re free to go, Miss Glory,” Gunther corrected with a glower.
“Why don’t you go make sure the paperwork is all filed properly, Deputy?” Jackson said.
“Seeing as how you forgot to mention that your daddy called, I figured I’d come in and tell her the good news myself,” Gunther said to Jackson, before turning to face Glory and lowering his voice. “Mayor Duncan is dropping all charges. And I hope that you will accept our apology for the oversight in telling you. I know that last night was pretty awful.”
Apparently not as awful as his statement, because Glory didn’t move. Those big mossy green eyes of hers zeroed in on Gunther, wide and expectant, waiting—for what, Cal didn’t know. From the way the deputy stood silently shifting his weight, he was as confused. Jackson just looked pissed.
“So, that means you’re free,” Jackson grumbled, turning the key. “For today anyway.”
The cell door slid open and the clanging of metal echoed in the silent corridor, but Glory didn’t move.
“How long?” she whispered, and that small catch in her voice did something to Cal’s chest that had him sweating. She cleared her throat, threw her shoulders back, narrowed her gaze at Jackson, and tried again. “How long ago did he call to have me released?”
“About three hours ago,” Jackson said.
“Three hours?” Glory tucked her arms under her chest and glared.
The movement pushed her breasts slightly up, answering questions A and B—no, and he was fucking toast—and proving what Cal had long suspected but diligently ignored: Glory Gloria Mann had one spectacular body. She had legs to her neck, a surplus of curves, and enough sex appeal to make Cal forget why he stayed away from women like her.
