Sugar on Top (23 page)

Six words and she was a goner. Falling so incredibly hard, she felt the impact on her body, felt the air whoosh out of her lungs, felt everything change, become brighter, warmer…better.

“They’ll be red,” she whispered, rising up on her tiptoes and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

He lifted a brow. “The boots or the panties?”

“Both.”

He kissed her hard, and when he pulled back, they were both panting. “Is that a yes, please say it’s a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.” He kissed her again and then lifted his head. With one last searing look, which had her toes curling, he was gone.

Glory slumped against her car and blew out a ragged breath. It wasn’t the flowers or the pageant that had her giddy; it was the man himself. Cal made her feel special and happy and like she had a place. And for a girl like her, that was a potent combination.

Thursday night, Glory got off work late, which meant that she didn’t have time to change out of her scrubs before rushing over to the Country Club. Tonight was the final run-through for the pageant, and even though Joie and Anna were responsible for orchestrating the event, Glory wanted to be on-site in case anything went wrong.

In the end, it was her freedom on the line.

She arrived and was relieved to discover that all of the girls had shown up prepared and they were in the middle of running the talent segment, which due to the number of entries, was to be held Saturday morning in the grand ballroom before the Sugar Pull.

Currently, Mrs. Ferguson’s grand-niece was center stage dressed like a St. Polly’s Girl and clogging to a techno remix of “Georgia on My Mind” while ringing cowbells. Glory grabbed her clipboard and slipped backstage to check on the props, and make sure that the fire extinguisher was on hand for Jenni Lynn’s flaming hula hoop rendition of “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk.”

“Miss Glory,” Payton whispered from behind the curtain.

“Where’s your costume?” Glory asked, a little panicked. Because instead of the pink and white gingham chef’s costume with a spatula, Payton was sporting a pair of cleats, a softball jersey, and wielding a well-worn glove. “You’re on in two acts.”

“I know, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Payton looked at the other girls all dressed in glitter and glam and took a breath. “I want to change my talent.”

“Now?” Payton was scheduled to do a cooking demonstration, making a batch of her mother’s rise-and-shine cake and then presenting it to the judges. A lot of difficulty went into securing the equipment she needed. “The oven should be here any minute.”

“But I’m not a cook. I suck at cooking,” she said desperately, and Glory wisely remained silent. “I don’t play an instrument or juggle or mime, and I have no idea how I’m going to walk in the heels my mom bought me, but I hold the league records for the fastest underhand pitch. It’s faster than most college girls. And it’s my talent.”

Glory was torn between hugging Payton and strangling her. The rules clearly stated that once their talent was submitted, it was final. Not only would she have to bend the rules; she would have to find a way to make throwing a ball a talent that the judges could easily weigh and score.

“Before you say no, I already called Sheriff Jackson and asked him if we could use his radar gun to track the time. And here.” She handed over a professional-looking handout on the history of softball, complete with some of the fastest pitches on record. “My dad and I put it together this morning.”

“I have to clear this with the Sugar Peaches; it’s up to them if they will accept a talent change this late in the week.” She looked at her clipboard and then at the time. “But for today, why don’t you do your pitch, and if the Sugar Peaches reject your request, we will figure it out then.”

“Thank you,” Payton said, giving her a hug, and Glory felt awkward. Not about the hug, but about the fact that she was dating the girl’s father and didn’t know what to say. “And thank you for telling me to come clean. My dad only kind of flipped out.”

“He loves you very much and deserves your honesty.” And Payton deserved Glory’s honesty, but she wasn’t sure how to do that without stepping over Cal’s clearly drawn line.

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool.” The music stopped and the cowbells gave their final ring. “Thanks for keeping my secret, though, and for extending the application date so I could enter.”

Glory really hadn’t extended the deadline for Payton; it had just worked out that way. Glory opened her moth to explain, but Payton said, “I better go warm up my arm,” and then was gone.

Glory tried not to get in the middle of Cal and Payton, but somehow she had. Then again she’d also tried to keep her panties on, and look how that had ended up.

Cal stood on the edge of the driving range, hammering a brace into the bleachers that had been delivered for the Sugar Pull, when Jackson walked up, tool belt and a frosty six-pack in hand. The sheriff had been calling him all week, and Cal was pretty sure what he wanted to talk about so he’d ignored him.

Jackson set the beer on the bottom bleacher and pulled out his phone. Two seconds later Cal’s rang. Without looking, he sent it to voice mail and went back to hammering. The sun was setting and he’d promised Glory that the bleachers would be finished so that the decoration committee could work their magic first thing tomorrow morning.

“You don’t return my calls, you don’t text,” Jackson said dryly. “And here I thought what we had was special.”

“Maybe I’m just not that into you.” Cal picked up his discarded shirt off the grass and wiped the sweat from his face. The early evening temperatures still hung in the mid-eighties, but the humidity made it feel much higher.

“Yeah, well, I need to talk to you.”

“If it’s about taking Glory to Cotillion, I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal said, not sure why he was being a dick, except that he didn’t feel like explaining him and Glory to anyone until he knew exactly what him and Glory actually meant.

Jackson went still. “You’re taking Glory to Cotillion?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Would it matter if I did?” Jackson asked quietly.

Cal thought about this for a moment, surprised that, no, it didn’t matter what anyone thought. Glory was funny, smart, real, and hot as hell, and he didn’t know where they’d lead, but he was open to exploring just how hot things could get.

Jackson picked up a beer and popped the top, handing it to Cal. The condensation on the side of the bottle was too tempting to resist. “Just because our first time around we picked wrong doesn’t mean that all relationships are a heartache waiting to happen.”

“You’ve been watching
Dr. Phil
again?” Cal asked before raising the bottle to his lips and taking a long pull.

“Nah, too busy watching my friend be happy for the first time since his wife took off.” Jackson opened another beer and then saluted.

“What about Damon?”

Jackson’s eyes laughed at him over the bottom of his bottle. “Didn’t know you were interested in my brother. I could get you his number.”

“You know what I mean. He won’t be too excited about me dating Glory. But you being okay with it might ruffle a few Duncan feathers.”

“You were right, Damon made his own drama,” Jackson said. “It just took me a long time to realize it, and losing one of my best friends over his mistake doesn’t sit well with me.”

“That means a lot.” And it gave him the courage he needed to talk to Payton about his date when he got home.

“I’m not all that excited about the particular lady who managed to finally light you up,” Jackson admitted. “But then who am I to judge? I married the sexiest peach in town and she left me for another woman.”

Cal choked on his beer. “I thought Sadie left you for a rodeo guy?”

“So did I.” Jackson laughed. “Turns out Alex is a five-foot-three barrel racer from Tuscaloosa, whose tits are even bigger than Sadie’s. And if you ever tell a soul, I will deny it then show everyone that picture of you pissed drunk and crying over Tawny’s wedding announcement. Now”—Jackson picked up a steel brace—“you want to stand here all night talking about your feelings or get this knocked out so we can catch the end of the Falcons’ game?”

F
lanked by her head of security and the current Miss Peach, Glory took the stage, aware that a few thousands sets of eyes were on her. The midafternoon sun reflected off the shiny podium, cooking her shoulders and face. At least her sundress was lightweight and cool, giving off a playful but elegant flair. Her orange cowgirl boots, however, screamed confident and kick ass.

She desperately needed a little kick ass in her day.

The Sugar Pull turnout was more than anyone had anticipated, spectators overflowing the stands and lining the track, making this the largest—and most lucrative—turnout in recent Harvest Fest history. Not a soul in the county was about to miss the big showdown between the Pitter and the Prowler, which was scheduled to start as soon as the current Miss Peach, Magnolia Rose, gave the go-ahead so Spencer could fire the gun. A stipulation for her agreeing to be the on-site mechanic.

Glory tapped the mic, a bead of perspiration dripping between her cleavage. “The times have been calculated and we have our two finalists.”

The stadium went silent with anticipation. Glory looked at Spencer. Dressed in head to toe black with steel-toed combat boots, and
SECURITY
plastered across her chest—just in case someone missed the Taser and riot baton strapped to her hip, she stood poised, gun ready to fire.

Glory stepped back and Magnolia Rose approached the mic, giving the crowd a dignified wave. “If the Peach Prowler and the Pitter could please make their way to the starting line, we can get our race on.”

The crowd went wild, jumping to their feet and hollering as the two final tractors revved their engines, creeping forward until their front tires were at the line.

“Hang on,” Frank, the owner of the Frank Brothers’ Taxidermy, Ammo, and Fine Jewelry, said, weaving his way toward the podium, his generous spare tire slowing him down a little, and making him wheeze. “We’ve got a problem.”

Glory sighed. They’d managed to make it through the talent portion of the pageant without any hysterics or fire scares, twenty Sugar Pull qualifier races without bloodshed, and now,
now
that Kitty and Jelly Lou were within spitting distance of each other, with only three minutes left in the event, they were having a problem.

“What kind of problem?” Cal asked firmly from behind, stepping forward and placing one hand over the open mic and the other at Glory’s back in a show of support.

Glory smiled up at him, a shiver racing through her when he smiled back—right there in front of the whole town.

“It seems we got ourselves a tie for second,” Frank said from beneath the shadow of his fishing hat, the tip of his nose already peeling from the day’s rays.

Limited by track width, only two tractors could race safely at the same time. So the Sugar Pull held a series of qualifiers throughout the day to whittle down the competitors. The fastest time in each race went on to compete in the next round, and so on until it was narrowed down to the top six tractors. Then the two tractors with the best combined overall times went head to head in the title run. A tie was within the realm of possibilities, but had never happened.

Until now.

“Let me guess, our two favorite grannies,” Glory ventured, looking at Jelly Lou sitting atop the Pitter in her racing jumpsuit with
NED’S PEACHES
bedazzled on the front. She was shooting Ms. Kitty the eye, and Ms. Kitty, who was standing next to the Peach Prowler, piloted by a former NASCAR champion, was shooting her the finger.

Never fond of kitties, Road Kill peeked his head out from his copilot basket attached to the back of the tractor and bared his teeth.

Frank took off his hat, his white hair plastered to his head. “Actually, Kitty’s in first by a whopping six seconds.” Which seemed nearly impossible since first and second place usually fell within a hundredths of a second difference. “Jelly Lou and Skeeter are tied for second.”

“Are you sure?” Glory asked because, although this was the race everyone had come out to see, it was the situation the judges had been trying to prevent. With Jackson, Cal, and the mayor all sitting on the judges panel, Jelly Lou and Kitty going head to head couldn’t end pretty for anyone. Placing an innocent man in the middle of it was downright negligent.

“Retallied the times three different ways, still got the same results,” Frank said. “We got ourselves a three-tractor race.”

Cal smiled, as though this were good news. “Well, then I guess we’d better call Skeeter to the line so we can get this race on.”

Glory nodded and Magnolia Rose leaned into the mic. “Ladies and gentleman, we have a last-minute addition to the lineup. For the first time in Sugar County history, we have a third qualified tractor. If the Rust Bucket could please head to the loading zone so they can load the trailer.”

A gasp of shock ignited through the crowd, since everyone knew Skeeter hadn’t raced a day in his life. As far as Glory knew, he hadn’t even owned a tractor until last week when he won the Rust Bucket off Mr. Ferguson in a game of high-stakes bunko. They’d all assumed his streak today was beginner’s luck.

“I’m already loaded and ready to go,” Skeeter hollered over the roar of the engines. With all three fingers on his right hand, he pulled himself up in his seat. “Was just waiting for you yahoos to figure out you made a mistake and call my name so I can win me my Peach.”

Hand clutching her sash, the reigning Miss Peach looked at Glory with utter horror. “He doesn’t get to win me, right?”

“You just have to ride in the winner’s tractor for the victory lap,” Cal assured her.

It took two minutes to get Skeeter in place, another seven for Jelly Lou and Kitty to stop arguing on whether or not one had an inch more advantage over the other, and finally Spencer lifted the gun and the shot rang out.

Engines gave their final rev that vibrated the ground and grandstands and Road Kill hunched low in his basket as the line of tractors jerked forward. The Prowler shot into the lead at such a velocity that several crates slid off the back of the trailer and crashed to the ground, sending peaches spilling across the track.

Jelly Lou dropped it into second and picked up speed, laying on the horn as she came up on the Prowler’s tail, blasting Mr. NASCAR with a rendition of “Dixie” that was loud enough to make his ears bleed. But it wasn’t nearly enough; there was no way she could close the gap the Prowler’s blast-out-of-the-gates had created.

Glory’s heart sank farther when they passed the midway marker. The Rust Bucket and the Pitter were fighting for second, both falling a disappointing three whole seconds behind the lead tractor. There was such a difference in position they could call the race right then, and Ms. Kitty was going to come out the winner.

Cal moved in a little closer, leaning down to whisper, “Win or lose, Jelly Lou still got to race her final lap with Ned.”

Glory felt the backs of her eyes burn because Cal was right—this wasn’t about getting there first; it was about Jelly Lou going on a journey with the man she loved. Having her one last stroll in public with her soul mate. That he’d listened to her story and paid attention to how important it was to her touched her deeply.

“Thank you for that,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes and feeling a rush of emotion. It was as though they were racing toward something, too, something wonderful and real and special, and for the first time in her life, Glory believed she could come out on top.

A loud bang cut through the air and the crowd gasped. By the time Glory turned, everyone was on their feet, waiting to see how this would all play out.

“Ho-ly shit,” Spencer said loud enough for the mic to transmit it to the crowd. “Kitty’s choking up a hair ball.”

Because there on the track, five feet from the finish line, with smoke piling out of the hood, was the Peach Prowler and one very pissed off NASCAR champion. The tractor sputtered and jerked, fighting for its last few feet and losing.

Skeeter gunned it, black smoke exploding out of his exhaust pipe as the Rust Bucket pulled ahead of the competition in time to cross the finish line a fraction of a second before the Pitter.

No one breathed. No one said a word. They all silently watched the Prowler sputter to a stop a few inches shy of finish. Astonishment thick in the air, it took a moment to absorb what had just happened.

Jelly Lou flew by the finish line in second place and came to a stop, turning around to find Glory in the crowd. Their eyes met and Glory smiled because her grandma was hugging Road Kill and looking like she’d just seen her Ned again.

Mr. NASCAR hopped off the tractor and pried open the hood. It took a few seconds for the steam to clear, and when it did, the crowd fell silent. Because in one lift of the hood, Mr. NASCAR exposed a mighty fancy—and highly illegal—engine and Ms. Kitty as a cheat.

The crowd stared at Ms. Kitty in shocked horror, and Ms. Kitty looked a million years old. Devastation was so engrained in her expression it was hard to watch. She stood alone at the edge of the bleachers—face drawn, both hands pulled in toward her chest, her head slowly shifting back and forth as though the movement alone would undo what had just transpired.

Kitty Duncan’s decisions had finally caught up with her and no amount of money or spin-control could make this go away; that was obvious by the way not one Sugar Peach came to her side in a show of support.

Strangely, instead of feeling vindicated, all Glory felt was genuine sorrow—and a strange sense of kinship. Ms. Kitty hadn’t just lost the Sugar Pull; she’d just lost her place in the community. Even worse, it had been obliterated in front of the entire town.

And Glory knew exactly what that felt like.

“Where’s my Peach?” Skeeter hollered, oblivious to what was happening in the stands. He hopped up on the hood of his tractor and took off his trucker’s hat, scanning the crowd. “I want some sugar from my Peach.”

“You said I only had to ride with him,” Magnolia Rose cried, and before Glory could calm her down, Skeeter shocked everyone by pointing at Etta Jayne, who stood in the pit area in an equally bedazzled jumpsuit. Only hers was smudged with grease and said,
GEORGIA’S FINEST
.

“You got two minutes to get yourself up here so I can take you for a ride,” Skeeter hollered.

“You old fool, the rules say you have to take her.” Etta Jayne pointed to Magnolia Rose with a meaty finger.

Miss Peach blanched.

“They say nothing of the kind,” Skeeter countered. “I know ’cuz I spent the last two weeks poring over every bylaw in that manual you tote around, and nowhere in there does it say the winner has to take the current Miss Peach on their tractor. It just says Miss Peach, and the one I want happens to be a Ms., not a Miss.”

Skeeter hopped down and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “Now you going to climb up on my tractor and let me take your for a spin, or am I going to have to put you there myself? Either way this ride is happening.”

Etta Jayne opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again, but nothing came out. She looked just like the Prowler, sputtering and steaming with no hope of winning.

“That’s what I thought.” Skeeter gave a little bow and offered his hand like a gentleman. “Now, hop on up and be ready, ’cause when this ride is over, I’m going to get some of that sugar I’ve been waiting twenty years to experience. And I’m going to experience it here, in front of God and witnesses, to make sure you don’t mistake my intentions.”

“And what intentions are those?” Etta Jayne spat, but even from a distance Glory could see the older woman blushing.

“That I’m staking my claim, and it’s you, Etta Jayne. So be ready for the ride of your life, ’cuz I’m going to make you mine before this night is out.”

And with that, Skeeter hopped up on the one-time champion, the Rust Bucket, and with one arm on the wheel and the other around his Ms. Peach, he took the woman he loved on a victory lap around the stadium.

It was nearly seven, Cotillion was about to begin, and instead of standing under the twinkle lights of the Miss Peach arbor with her super-hot date, Glory found herself staring up at Duncan Plantation. It looked the same as it had back in high school, like one of those fancy homes they showcased in
Architectural Digest
’s “Southern Splendor” segments.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hand to knock, but felt her inner strength deflate like a popped balloon. Ten minutes ago she had been bubbling with confidence and forgiveness, ready to be the bigger person and put this mess behind her, so she could move on and claim her fresh start. Only to remember that a million years ago, her seventeen-year-old self had stood in this same spot and told herself the same exact thing.

You’re not seventeen anymore.

She also wasn’t naive enough to think that one night of mingling with high society would change her life. She finally understood that if she wanted a new and improved life here in Sugar, she had to stop waiting for permission and just go for it.

Shoulders back, she rapped boldly on the door. Glory hadn’t even dropped her hand when it swung open.

Ms. Kitty stood there, backlit by a massive chandelier and dressed in a silky, sapphire blue, floor-length robe with feathers lining the collar, matching kitten heels—also accented with feathers—and pearls.

“I figured you’d given up and scampered away by now,” Ms. Kitty said, once again in lemon-sucking mode. Glory seemed to have that effect on her. “But you leave me no choice; I’ll just have to call the sheriff.”

Phone already in hand, her finger hovered with threat over what Glory assumed was the speed dial button for Jackson.

“No need, I’ll be gone before you even hang up,” she assured. “I just came to say I’m sorry about…a lot. I didn’t understand until today what this festival meant to you and I apologize that I haven’t always considered your feelings.”

“Huh,” the older woman said, crossing her arms and not making this any easier.

“I didn’t want this position, but I know that you did.” Glory reached in her handbag and pulled out an envelope.