Sugar on Top (28 page)

Babette stood at the counter in a cream pants suit and enough pearls to accessorize the entire Miss Peach court, staring down Charlotte’s coffeemaker as though waiting for it to make her a cappuccino—irritated that she’d had to wait. “I hit the red button and nothing happened.”

“You have to put water in it first.” And since Charlotte knew
that
wouldn’t happen in her lifetime, she moved into the kitchen, filled up the pot, and hit the red button.

“I prefer mine nonfat. Double shot, please.”

“It comes in black, with cream or sugar. That’s it.”

Her mouth tightened. “If you had chosen to stay at home, where all good single Southern women belong, Mavis could have whipped us up a lovely peppermint latte, and delivered it to you in bed.”

“Along with my clothes, which you’d pick out and have neatly pressed and laid at the foot of my bed, while you sat next to them staring me awake.”

That was the main reason Charlotte had purchased her own home last month. She’d taken one look at the stately antebellum house with its pristine white stone structure, original leaded windows, and ornate wrought-iron enclosed balconies overlooking Sugar Lake and had fallen in love. That it was on the opposite side of the lake from her mother’s only made it that much more appealing.

The lake house was the exact kind of home she imagined raising a family in. Not that she had a family or even a potential husband, but she still had hope. And for now, that was enough.

“You make it sound as though I smothered you,” Babette said dramatically and Charlotte wisely chose not to comment. Then her mother carefully inspected Charlotte’s outfit, a yellow pencil skirt, flirty pink heels with a matching skinny belt synching her white cap-sleeved top, and sighed. “Yes, well, you really should invest in an iron, dear. And more pastels. They do glorious things for your complexion.”

It was said as though Charlotte needed all the help she could get. And maybe she did.

Charlotte had spent a good portion of the weekend fine-tuning what she was going to say to Mr. Neil. The other part, when she wasn’t pulling long shifts at the hospital and should have been sleeping, had been spent staring at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to come up, thinking about things she had no business thinking about.

Sitting there with Woolamena the other day had been like sitting with herself four years ago. And even though the pain had dulled and her heart had healed, the emptiness still remained, and Charlotte was tired of feeling empty. Tired of playing life safe.

Tired of watching everyone else around her move on, find happiness, while she stayed in the same place.

In fact, she was tired of being tired. So this morning, instead of staring at the ceiling, she’d gotten impatient and decided to fix her life. She was a master fixer; it was what made her such a good doctor. Only instead of fixing her patients, she was going to start with herself and act like the woman she wanted to be, not the woman she had become.

Last year, she’d set out to find living arrangements that didn’t include sharing a zoning line with her parents and prove to the hospital board—and her father—that she was ready to head up the Grow Center. She accomplished the first, and was almost there with the second. Now she was determined to get the rest of her life in order. And that included really living again. Taking chances.

So she’d riffled through the endless supply of cardigans and pastels, past the tea-length and cashmere forest, to locate the one outfit hiding in the back. It was sleek, sophisticated, and said grown-up sexy instead of Sunday tea. And was something she’d been waiting until she gathered the courage to wear.

Not that she had the courage now, but she was willing to fake it for a while. Which was why she’d slipped on her naughtiest pair of panties, mile-high heels, and left the top button of her blouse undone, then marched downstairs—to find her mother in the kitchen.

Babette clapped her hands. “You know what you need?”

A new lock? A good night’s sleep?
Once again, Charlotte’s mind circled back to that orgasm and suddenly she felt like unbuttoning her blouse two more buttons, but resisted. She had a full workload, with the average patient being in diapers or with dentures, and her “need list” was about four thousand pages long.

Yet based on the way her mother was smiling, Charlotte didn’t think her mother’s idea would even make her extended list. “I need to leave for work.”

Babette’s face puckered, as well as a face could pucker when the forehead didn’t move. “It’s Sunday. Who works on Sunday?”

“Sickness doesn’t recognize the Sabbath.” Apparently neither did her father since he’d decided to take a “personal day,” choosing to finish up his hunting trip with Mr. Neil rather than work the urgent care unit like he was scheduled, leaving a huge gap in patient load coverage. And since the hospital was perpetually short-staffed on the weekends, especially in urgent care, it was up to Charlotte to pick up the slack.

“Well, it should.”

Amen
to that. “I’m covering a shift.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

Not professional, not ambitious, but
sweet
. As though all of the sacrifice and hard work Charlotte had put into her career was merely a way to pass time until she found herself a proper Southern man and set up a proper Southern home.

“I heard you had lunch with Benjamin.”

And there’s the reason for her visit
, Charlotte thought while pouring coffee into a mug. She slid it across the countertop toward her mother, who looked offended, then shook her head.

“I had lunch with a patient,” Charlotte said. And then not to give her mother false hope, clarified, “A female patient. Ben and I are just friends.”

A car horn honked out front. Babette didn’t move and Charlotte got a nagging feeling in her stomach that her mother was up to no good. She walked to the window and looked out to find a silver Lexus idling in the drive. Ben smiled through the windshield and waved.

“Mother, why is Ben here?”

“Maybe he wanted to ask you to lunch.”

“It’s seven a.m. on Sunday.”

“Love does crazy things to a person.” Babette glided to the window and gave a regal wave, a wave that could only come from Miss Peach 1977 since the pearl bracelets she wore flashed in the rising sun, yet didn’t make a single sound.

Ben waved back and then opened his car door to walk over to Charlotte’s to—look at her tires?

“Why are my tires flat?”

“A handsome man is out fixing your tires at this god-awful hour, and you are worried about how they got flat. Honestly, dear, you wonder why you’re single.”

Charlotte had never wondered about that. She knew exactly why she was single. Love hurt too much.

“My, he is handsome, isn’t he?” Babette fanned herself as Ben fished his phone out of his pocket—most likely to call the local tow truck. “He will bless his wife with such beautiful children.”

“I’ll be sure to tell his girlfriend that,” Charlotte said.

Babette deflated at the news, which was good. Because when her mom sank her teeth into something, she was like a pit bull—a pit bull with a diamond-studded collar. And although a good Southern woman needed a good Southern gentleman, no lady poaches on marked territory—regardless of how blue his family’s blood ran. So rather than clarifying that Ben’s girlfriend was Scarlett Johansson, she let her mother come to her own conclusion.

“Well, it seems as though you have managed to scare off another one.” Babette picked up her clutch and strode toward the front door. “What a waste of a morning. And to think I set my alarm for this.” Since it was undignified to holler, Babette paused under the threshold. “Don’t forget dinner tonight. Your father invited some big-city doctor over. Lionel is a Yankee, mid-forties, a bit on the pudgy side, but single.”

“He is also the new podiatrist on staff at the hospital.” But if her dad was bringing a guest to dinner, it meant he’d be at dinner, too, with his new hunting buddy. And although Charlotte wanted to secure the endowment, doing it while her mother passed around her baby photos was not how she envisioned her pitch going. “And has a habit of staring at ladies’ shoes.”

Babette eyed Charlotte’s shoes, then her skirt. “Yes, well, we’ll work with what we have since we can’t afford to be choosy, now can we?” And then she was gone.

“Love you, too, Mom. We should do this more often,” Charlotte said to the empty kitchen.

T
he sun was setting and Charlotte was still trying to figure a way out of going to dinner at her mother’s. Although she knew Mr. Neil was indeed on the guest list, if she wanted to be seen as a professional, she needed to present her case at the clinic. Not down the hall from her childhood bedroom.

And after ten hours on her feet—she was seriously rethinking the heels—a surprising case of chicken pox, and a conversation with Danny Mathews about how eating glue was a bad idea, all she wanted to do was go home, draw a hot bath, and eat ice cream while watching highbrow reality television, and be in bed before nine.

But that’s what Charlotte did. Boring, ordinary, responsible Charlotte. There was an ache that suddenly raced through her chest, and for a moment, she thought perhaps she was on the brink of a minor attack. Placing a hand over her heart, she realized that no, it was still beating, the same sluggish beat it had for the past four years. It was the realization that nothing had made Charlotte hot, bothered, or even a little giddy in all that time. And that needed to stop.

Between eating ice cream with a depressed sheep, which was now in better spirits than Charlotte, and being set up on a blind date with a balding middle-aged man while her mother mapped out all the reasons she was still single, she’d hit her limit.

What she needed was a fresh dose of life. A sense of this new and improved Charlotte. And tonight, that’s what she’d chase. Set on living a life outside of pastels—and other people’s expectations—she grabbed her purse, undid the next two buttons, and strutted her way down Maple Street to Kiss My Glass Tow and Tires.

With the busy week looming ahead, she needed her car back, almost as much as she needed a drink. A strong one. And who better to help Charlotte celebrate breaking the mold than the town’s own tough girl turned mechanic. Lavender Spencer was a ballbuster who took life by the horns and kneed it in the nuts when it pissed her off—something Charlotte needed to embrace if she had any hope of checking things off her list.

The back bay of the garage was still open and the lights were on. A big engine sat on a workstation; there were spare parts strewn across the floor like a puzzle that was yet to be put back together. Some kind of redneck rap was coming from the radio sitting in the back of the garage near a rusted-out shell of a muscle car that was missing all the windows and the passenger door.

Charlotte stepped over an open toolbox and around the engine, careful not to get grease on her shoes, stopping at the front of the car.

“You know what I’m in the mood for?” she addressed the only part of her friend that was visible, a grease-stained ball cap peeking out from beneath the underbelly. “A drink, maybe some dancing, and definitely horrifying my mom. You interested?”

“Depends,” a low masculine voice said from beneath the car. “Is that a panties optional kind of offer?”

It wasn’t the voice that had her heart racing. Nope, it was the bulging bicep with a familiar tribal tattoo spanning its length, which snaked out from beneath the car, that had her pulse bordering on dangerous levels.

Recognition hit hard and she went completely still.

Jace McGraw.

The dolly slid all the way out, stopping at her feet, and right next to her heart, which had plummeted to her toes when she saw those dark blue eyes zero in on her. Eyes she’d done her best over the years to forget. They locked on her face and held for a long, weighted second, then slid down to her undone buttons, over her hips, pausing at the hem of her skirt.

The dolly inched closer and his lips curled up wickedly on one side, releasing that lethal dimple. “Actually, I’m partial to the ones you have on.”

She jerked back and pressed her hands to her skirt to avoid giving him more of a show. Because the only thing he was going to get from her was a piece of her mind. And maybe the finger. She’d never given someone the finger before, but for Jace she’d make an exception.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Working,” he said, pulling himself up to his full height, surprisingly agile for a man his size.

Because,
Lord have mercy
, at six-foot-four, Jace was all rippling muscle and testosterone. And tattoos, lots of tattoos. Only two were visible, but she knew what lay beneath that low-slung button fly and fitted
ARMY STRONG
tee. The memory alone was enough to make her thighs quiver.

He was built like a tank, with buzzed hair and a killer smile, and had the confidence of a guy who could handle anything that came his way. A fact that had her good parts fluttering.

And wasn’t that just wonderful. Her good parts decided that now was the perfect time to come out of retirement. If she’d hadn’t known him, she would have welcomed the flutters, even allowed herself an extra minute to appreciate all that fine male yumminess.

But she did know him, and all of those warm tingles disappeared, replaced by tension. And a little panic. And a whole lot of something that she didn’t want to acknowledge.

“You can’t work here,” she said, angry that he hadn’t called to warn her he was coming home. He at least owed her that.

“Can and do.” He grabbed a rag off the hood of the car and wiped off his hand, then stuck it out. “Jace McGraw, Sugar’s newest resident mechanic.”

She swatted his hand away. “Since when?” Because Jace didn’t do home visits. And he didn’t stick around one place long enough to be a resident of anywhere.

“Since yesterday.” He cupped the bill of his hat and pulled it lower on his head. “Let me guess, you’re here as the official Sugar welcoming committee. Where’s my pie?”

“What pie?”

“Pie? Something in a covered dish? You know, all those neighborly things people are supposed to do when someone comes to town.” He looked at her empty hands, and then without a word his eyes dropped to her skirt and there went the other dimple—and her good parts. “Unless, there’s something I can do for you,
Charlie
?”

The way he said her name in that low, husky timbre, almost whispering it while flattening the vowels, reminded her of a different time, a time when she naively thought he’d meant it. But she wasn’t that wide-eyed woman anymore. She knew what he was offering, and what he wasn’t capable of giving.

After all, once upon a time she’d been married to him. Yup, Charlotte Holden had fallen in love with and married the town’s biggest hothead and bad boy. Not that anybody except the two of them knew, since it had ended as fast and it had begun. But those three weeks as Ms. Jace McGraw had been the most amazing of her life—and what had followed had nearly broken her.

“Yes,” she said. “You need to leave.” Because wasn’t that what he did best?

The briefest frown flashed across his face, and he grabbed some kind of wrench doohickey and busied himself with tinkering under the hood. “Wish I could, but it seems like my services are needed in Sugar for a bit.”

Charlotte didn’t know what hurt more—that he wanted to leave as much as she wanted him gone, which was ridiculous since him being here, during the most important time in her career, was a disaster waiting to happen—or that after all the time she’d prayed that he’d come back to Sugar, he finally had. Only it wasn’t for her.

“That doesn’t work for me,” she said.

“Well, this isn’t about you. Now is it.” He wasn’t even looking at her but tightening some bolt inside the engine. Which was a good thing since she was pretty sure her eyes went glassy at his comment, because at one time he’d made her believe that everything he did was for her. Including walking away from her. “Can you hand me that wrench over there?”

Was he kidding? “No, it’s all greasy and I don’t want to get dirty.”

He looked at her over his shoulder and cracked a small smile. “Too bad, I always preferred you a little dirty.”

She felt herself flush because she knew he wasn’t just talking about rumpling her up.

“Well, I’ve changed. And I need to go. So if you could just point me in the direction of my keys.”

He ran a hand down his face. “About that. Seems someone chewed off your valve stems. So it wasn’t as easy as patching a hole.”

“Chewed them off?” Was her mother really that desperate to marry her off?

“See here.” Jace walked over to her car and squatted down. She did her best not to notice the way his jeans cupped his backside—tried and failed. He filled out a pair of Levi’s like nobody’s business. “Teeth marks. Looks like you got yourself a raccoon or possum problem.”

Seemed she had lots of pest problems these days. “So can you just throw some new tires on it and I can be gone?”

“You don’t need new tires; what you need are new valve stems.” And wasn’t that just like a man, telling her what she needed. “Which for your sporty, two-door tiara on wheels is a special order. Imagine that.”

“So what you’re telling me is that I’m stuck here. With you. And my car won’t be ready until—”

“Best-case scenario. End of the week.”

She let out a completely undignified huff and resisted the urge to stomp her feet. She’d begged the universe for a way out of dinner, and apparently whoever was in charge of granting wishes had chosen today to listen.

She looked at her phone, considered calling Ben, and then realized she could handle only one man from her past at a time. Plus, he was on a date with the new nurse from radiology, which meant Charlotte was stranded. Something must have shown on her face because Jace set the tool down and stepped closer—so close he was all up in her personal space, which did crazy things to her emotional space.

“I can take you home.” He looked at her buttons and back into her eyes. “Or I can take you across the street to the Saddle Rack and buy you a drink.”

Then he did something he hadn’t done in over four years—he cupped his palms around her hips and drew her to him—and damn it if she didn’t shuffle closer.

“Why would I let you buy me a drink?” she asked quietly, although her brain kicked off a hundred and one reasons on its own. The first being that was how their relationship had begun in the first place.

Charlotte had been a stressed-out resident in Atlanta, lonely and so homesick it hurt, when she’d walked into a bar and saw a friendly face. Jace had bought her a drink, and another, and before she knew it, he had sweet-talked her into his bed, then down to the justice of the peace.

“Because I think you could use a shot of something strong right now,” he said. “And we need to talk.”

“You lost the right to tell me what I need a long time ago. As for that talk you want, you’re about four years too late.”

“Not according to the great state of Georgia,” he said and her stomach dropped. “Since legally we’re still married.”