Gimme Some Sugar

by Juliette Poe

  I blink, a mixture of anger and amusement warring within me. Everything about Larkin Mancinkus is utterly charming, except the last words out of her mouth.

  I stand from the stool, place my palms on the counter, and lean toward her, the only other thing separating us is the tower of sandwiches. Her eyes go big as I’m sure she’s reading my face loud and clear.

  “You just insulted me,” I say in a low voice. “But more than that, you’ve disappointed me.”

  She swallows hard and whispers, “Disappointed?”

  “I thought you had more confidence in yourself than that,” I say straight up. Sure… she’s shy and gets flustered when I flirt, but she’s also an accomplished businesswoman. Achieving the goals she’s reached had to have taken a great deal of inner gumption.

  Larkin doesn’t say anything, but I can see the slight shame in her eyes that I just called her on it. It touches a soft spot in my heart, and I lighten up on her a bit. “I’m going to forgive you this one time for not understanding how hot you are, and I’m sure as hell going to ignore your chubby comment—which is ludicrous, by the way—but I’m not going to let it pass that you think my end game is just to get you in bed. That was just downright rude, Miss Mancinkus.”

  Her face turns red—a deeper shade than I’ve managed to pull from her yet—but to her credit… she doesn’t look away this time.

  I take that to be a good sign.

  I push away from the counter, but not before grabbing three of the little sandwiches. “I’ll be waiting for your apology.”

  She starts to open her mouth, but I hold up a hand to stop her from talking.

  “Tomorrow night,” I say. “Central Cafe at six. Dinner. You can apologize, then I’ll buy you a meal.”

  The shock on her face is priceless and I turn toward the swinging door before I laugh out loud. She doesn’t say a word though, and I walk away from her, knowing only one thing as I leave.

  I have no clue if she’ll show up tomorrow, but I like I’m going to be guessing.

  CHAPTER 3

  Larkin

  “As if I’d fall for that crap and meet him at Central Cafe tonight,” I mutter as I start placing the little mini pies I’d baked a few hours ago onto tiered serving trays.

  Morri nods at me sympathetically, then takes a sip of his coffee. “Preach, girlfriend.”

  I glare at him, sitting there all comfy at the kitchen table here at Millie’s, and it’s obvious he doesn’t have one ounce of empathy for me. After I filled him in on what happened yesterday afternoon with Deacon Locke, he spent almost an hour browbeating me into accepting Deacon’s dinner invitation. I told Morri it was preposterous, stupid, and I didn’t have time for Deacon’s games. Morri then shrugged and has since been commiserating with me, which I can tell is not genuine. He’s just tired of trying to convince me, and has decided to let me work it out myself.

  Glancing at my watch, I curse inwardly as I realize time is getting short. “Morri… will you pour the hot water in the teapots?”

  “Sure,” he says, then gracefully rises from the table. He’s dressed today in a pair of skinny black dress pants, a pressed pink button-down shirt, and black loafers. The entire outfit is topped off with a black wool newsboy cap with pink rhinestones along the border of the short bill. He’s the most impeccably put-together person I’ve ever known. He’s my sister-in-law, Mely’s, best friend from New York, but we’ve gotten close over the last few weeks as he comes to visit often.

  Morri D is the stage name for Morris Dwight. He’s a drag queen who makes pretty decent money as a paid performer in New York. He’s also gay. Surprisingly, he has fit in extremely well in our small Southern town of Whynot.

  I silently finish placing scones and homemade blackberry jam on the serving plates while Morri gets the tea going. I’ve got six tables reserved for high tea, which starts in twenty minutes. It’s something we instituted when Millie’s opened as a means to draw in long weekend customers. It’s held every Thursday at four, and it has become quite the event around town. Out of the six tables I have reserved for the tea today, half are filled by locals and not guests. I can assure you that Deacon Locke is not one of those guests participating today. In fact, the lobby receptionist on duty said he left around seven this morning, long before I arrived, and he hasn’t been back since.

  Of course, come six, he’ll hypothetically be over at Central Cafe waiting for me to meet him for dinner.

  I huff internally. Where I’m supposedly going to apologize for insulting him.

  And I did insult him.

  I think.

  “Did I really insult him?” I ask suddenly, whirling to Morri as he pours the last of the boiling water into the individual porcelain teapots I’d set out and stocked with Darjeeling Black Tea.

  “Who?” he asks lazily, but it’s evident by the smile on his face he’s enjoying my angst over this whole situation.

  “You know who,” I snap.

  He glances up after setting the large kettle on the stove. Crossing his arms, he leans against the counter and says, “Yes. You insulted him. To automatically assume he was trying to get in your pants is stereotyping of an entire gender.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I say sulkily. “He just… there’s just no good reason a man who looks like that would be interested in someone like me.”

  “I agree with Deacon,” Morri drawls with a flourishing wave of his hand. “It’s very disappointing to see you so lacking confidence in yourself. Not attractive at all.”

  I flush with guilt and shame, because it’s not typical of me to doubt myself. The last six years I’ve been a force to be reckoned with in the small business world. I make a damn good living in a small town, and now I’m partnering up in a new business venture. It’s positively shameful I would doubt myself.

  Except…

  I haven’t been in the dating realm in a really long time, and I have no clue what the hell I’m doing. It’s been—well, crap—six years since I’ve had a relationship, and ain’t it funny how that coincides with the time I went into business for myself. I work sixty, seventy, and sometimes eighty hours a week, and no freaking wonder I’m so out of practice at this. I’ve forgotten how to be a fun, single woman who enjoys dating.

  “What’s that look on your face?” Morri asks as he moves toward me with concern on his face.

  “I just realized I turned into an old maid at the age of thirty, and I’ve forgotten how to be a young, vibrant, single woman.”

  Morri snickers, but he instantly brightens. “I’ll help you get it back, girl. Let’s get tea served to your guests, then I’m going with you to your house to help you get ready for your dinner date.”

  “But… but—”

  “No ‘buts,’” Morri admonishes. “You’re taking advantage of that fine piece of biker, and you’re going to do it by getting all dolled up before you apologize to him.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “You can,” he asserts, then snaps his fingers a few times before pointing at the serving platters. “Now no more talking about it. Let’s get tea served.”

  ♦

  I’m fairly sure I’m going to throw up.

  I swing my legs—bare under a skirt Morri insisted I wear tonight—out of my car and stand. I parked on the opposite side of courthouse square from Central Cafe because parking is always tight on meatloaf night. Everyone loves Muriel’s meatloaf, but truth be told… it’s her jalapeno mac and cheese that has my heart.

  And my thighs and butt, but I shake my head and push that thought away. It doesn’t seem to matter to Deacon, so I’m not going to let it matter to me. I spent the last hour while Morri primped me up repeating that mantra to myself.

  Slamming my car door shut and aiming my fob over my shoulder, I press the button to lock it and start a confident walk across the courthouse lawn toward Central Cafe. It’s brisk out tonight, but my wool peacoat is more than enough to keep me warm for the short trip.

  The town proper of Whyn
ot is centered around a rectangular city block upon which Scuppernong County’s courthouse sits. It’s surrounded by a lush lawn of Kentucky fescue—which is still vibrantly green even though we’re less than a week away from Christmas. Averaging temperatures in the high forties to low fifties throughout a Carolina winter allows us to keep color throughout the cold months. The oak trees on the property are bare of all leaves, but there are several pines growing throughout that retain their green needles all year long.

  I walk around the large gazebo on the south side of the red brick courthouse. As my view clears of Central Cafe across the street, my heart skips a beat when I see Deacon waiting under a streetlamp. He’s leaned against the white-painted cinderblock exterior of the restaurant, one foot planted on the ground, the other leg bent with his foot resting against the wall. A hand is tucked deep into a front pocket while the other one hangs loose and relaxed as he scans along Walker Street for me.

  There are just a few unfettered moments where I have the freedom to take him in. The dark jeans with a thick black leather belt and biker boots seem almost quintessential on a man like that. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a black leather jacket, and it’s almost too much black broken only by the flashes of silver.

  His jacket zipper.

  The chain connected from a belt loop to the wallet in his back pocket.

  A thick silver ring in the shape of a skull on his middle finger.

  It’s all utterly perfect to me.

  Deacon’s gaze sweeps past me a moment before snapping back my way. I get a confident smile as he pushes away from the wall and doesn’t wait for me to cross the street. Instead, he checks for traffic and trots across Walker Street to meet me on the sidewalk that borders Courthouse Square.

  “You knew I’d come,” I accuse as I take in the smug smirk he levels at me.

  “I hoped,” he counters as he turns and offers his arm to me. It’s a gallant move and not something I expected.

  My hand so very easily slides into the crook of his elbow. After Deacon assures the traffic is clear, he escorts me across the street to Central Cafe.

  I swear my inside voice keeps saying, “Don’t do it, don’t do it” but my hand reflexively squeezes so I can cop a feel of his bicep, which is quite definitive even through the thick leather of his jacket.

  Oh, wow!

  “You surprise me, Larkin,” Deacon’s deep voice penetrates my thoughts.

  I jerk, squeeze his bicep even harder, and ask with a squeak of guilt to my voice. “Why? I wasn’t thinking anything.”

  Deacon chuckles, puts his warm hand over mine, which still grasps to the interior of his arm. “Didn’t think you were. I’m merely surprised you got all dolled up for me.”

  I gasp, outraged and indignant, then I realize… damn, that’s exactly what I’d done. Because Morri insisted on it. I’d still been feeling a little insecure, so I allowed it.

  As we step onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street, I catch a brief glimpse of our reflection in the window of Central Cafe. The glass is framed along the edges by white curtains with scalloped eyelets along the edge, and Eustace Roop and Doc Galloway share a meal at the table right there. I don’t miss what a striking but unusual couple Deacon and I make standing side by side. Deacon, tall and towering, dressed all in black and looking dangerous. And then me, short, prim, and proper but I have to admit fairly pretty in my plaid wool skirt in taupe and burgundy, along with my deep brown peacoat over it and a pair of chocolate-colored boots.

  Before reaching for the door, Deacon turns to face me, dislodging my arm from his elbow. His blue eyes are bright and sparkling with something I can’t quite name, but it’s not humor. “Let me say, Larkin Mancinkus, you look incredibly beautiful tonight. I’m glad you dolled up for me.”

  Ducking my head, I nervously tug at the hair at the nape of my neck before glancing up to give him a smile. “Thank you.”

  He smiles back, but he doesn’t make a move for the door.

  Leaning to the side, I nod at it. “Shall we?”

  Deacon shakes his head, a slow, sly grin spreading across his face. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “An apology,” he prods. “It’s going to be my pleasure to treat you to dinner tonight, but… only after you apologize.”

  My mind is absolute dead space, and I just blink.

  “For judging my motives so harshly yesterday,” he provides as a reminder. “You owe me an apology.”

  “Oh, my God,” I exclaim as it all comes flooding back to me. I emerge from the haze of euphoria I had been under when he said I was beautiful, placing my hand on his forearm. “Yes, I remember, and you are correct. I do owe you an apology for jumping to conclusions. So, I’m sorry and I hope we can put that behind us.”

  Triumph flashes across his face, and I let him have his moment. He inclines his head in a silent acceptance of my apology, then reaches for the door to Central Cafe. With a flourishing motion, he beckons me to precede him in.

  I take a deep breath, let it out, and walk into the warm interior of the restaurant. The smell of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, collards, and jalapeno mac and cheese hit me hard, and my stomach rumbles. I suddenly realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning.

  Deacon barely steps in, the swinging door closing behind us, when I’m feeling the weight of stares from every person in this establishment. One of the joys of living in a small town is the close camaraderie among the residents. One of the downfalls, however, is everyone believes that camaraderie extends to getting all up in people’s business.

  Right now, with me showing up with a mysterious stranger who rode into town yesterday, every single person in here is dying to know the inside details.

  Doesn’t matter what they observe, though. By the time Deacon and I leave, a story will be created that will spread akin to a wildfire. I bet there will even be a voice mail from at least one family member by the time I get home, wanting to know what in the hell I’m doing with such a man.

  I can only laugh about it.

  Welcome to my town, Deacon.

  CHAPTER 4

  Deacon

  I have traveled all over the world, and extensively throughout the United States. Whynot isn’t my first small town. I’m well prepared for all the curious looks Larkin and I get as we walk into Central Cafe.

  I’m even prepared for Muriel, the owner of Central Cafe, to call out to me from across the restaurant, beckoning us with a furious wave of her hand. “Over here, Locke. Got the best table in the house for you.”

  Larkin twists slightly to glance at me over her shoulder with one eyebrow cocked. “You’ve been busy making friends.”

  I wink, putting my hand to the small of her back. Leaning down, I murmur, “What can I say? I’m a friendly guy.”

  Larkin snorts and I put pressure to her back, using my hand to guide her among the tables as we make our way to a small corner table Muriel had indeed reserved for me.

  Central Cafe is by no means a high-end dining establishment. It’s actually a diner—totally charming with chrome stools with bright red leather seats, a long Formica lunch counter, and mismatched chairs and tables with gingham tablecloths spread around. The table set aside for us even has a white folded placard in the center next to a tiny vase filled with plastic flowers. It reads: Reserved – Deacon Locke.

  I ate dinner here yesterday, and I struck up a conversation with Muriel while she served me at the counter. Within twenty minutes, I had her entire story. Lifelong resident of Whynot, divorced mom of two adult children, and a dedicated Southern Baptist. She had no qualms about telling me her oldest son, Scott, got a driving while impaired ticket last week when riding his horse across town square while drunk, and her other son, Seth, has “a touch of the bipolar”. I’m a good listener and I don’t pass judgment on anyone, so in her book, I’m good people.

  While I didn’t tell her who I would be bringing to dinner tonight, she was more than de
lighted to reserve a table for me—“a right proper welcome to Whynot,” as she had said.

  As her gaze locks on Larkin, I can see her almost vibrating with the need to rush off and discuss this tasty piece of news with someone. I know just enough about Larkin to realize the gossip headline will read something like, “Town’s shy baker in deep with biker gang member”.

  God, I love small towns.

  “Well, look at the two of you, out on a date together,” Muriel gushes as we reach the table.

  “Hi, Muriel,” Larkin says as she starts to shrug out of her coat as I pull a chair out for her.

  Muriel beams at Larkin, then brings her eyes to me. “Deacon. Great to have you here again. You didn’t tell me you were bringing Larkin on a date.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if she’d stand me up or not, so I kept it a secret,” I drawl as Larkin sits and I help scoot her chair in a bit.

  Muriel scoops up the “reserved” card from the table and asks, “What would you like to drink, Deacon? I already know Larkin wants sweet tea.”

  “I’ll take a sweet tea too,” I say. It’s definitely one of the things I look forward to when I travel through the South.

  Muriel bobs her head. “I’ll get those and bring back two menus.”

  “I think we already know what we want,” I say, tilting my head at Larkin for confirmation. She smiles and nods, so I turn back to Muriel. “Two of the meatloaf specials.”

  Muriel nods, addressing only me. “Larkin is a creature of habit. That means she wants some jalapeno mac and cheese and collards for her sides, plus a biscuit. How about you honey?”

  I give Larkin a slight glance to see if she disagrees with Muriel’s assumption, but she just shrugs in return. So I tell Muriel, “I’ll have the same then.”

  “Coming right up,” she chirps before pivoting away from us.