Sugar on Top (6 page)

“No, I think you’re suffering from panic attacks, which can seem a lot like having a heart attack,” Glory explained, proud of her quick assessment. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

“It’s that damned Harvest Fest,” Peg said and—
whoa
—the mere mention of the annual festival sent Peg’s heart rate bordering on dangerous and her breathing became jerky. “I tried to retire from the Harvest Council last year, and the year before that, but every time I do, Ms. Kitty and that Hattie McGraw start flapping their gums and scare off anyone thinking about running. No council means no festival.”

Which would mean a lot of lost income for the people of Sugar.

Between the Miss Peach Pageant and the tractor pull, the festival usually generated enough money to float the town’s economy until the next harvest. That it was hosted by the Harvest Council, a board constructed of the ever so entitled Sugar Peaches and other social-climbing ladies of peach country, meant finding a willing participant to take over as committee chair would be impossible.

Glory was the least involved woman in town with regard to the harvest—peaches gave her hives—but even she knew how much time, patience, and referee skills it took to organize the town’s biggest event. Peg was the only person in Sugar who had brass peaches big enough to put themselves in the middle of one of the longest-standing feuds in Sugar. And since she’d been doing it for over two decades, the woman deserved a break.

“You know what I think you need,” Glory asked.

“One of those fighting cages to lock Kitty and Hattie in?”

“Nope. You need to go fishing.”

Confident that the situation was not life threatening, Glory helped Mrs. Brass get comfortable on the exam table and left her with the latest edition of the
Saltwater Sportsman
and a promise that the doctor would be in momentarily. Grabbing the bulb syringe, she hurried back to Exam Room 9 and little Cole Andrew’s obstructed left nostril.

Twenty minutes and a successful retrieval later, Cole was on his way home with his Lego toys safely stored in a plastic bag and an “Unencumbered Sniffer Is a Happy Sniffer” pamphlet in his backpack, and Glory made her way to the break room. She grabbed her snack from the fridge and was about to take a seat when she noticed the big, pink box of doughnuts on the counter. Convincing herself that it would be empty by now, she took a long detour on her way to the table and—

Damn it!

She looked at her yogurt parfait, healthy and sensible, then at the maple doughnut with pink sprinkles looking ever so lonely in the near empty box. Glory leaned down and took a big sniff, closing her eyes as the sweet scent drifted past, then remembered the old-fashioned doughnut she’d inhaled
before
her shift and the fact that she’d hadn’t run since last week, and plopped down at a table with her yogurt.

“Nasal obstruction and Mrs. Brass all before noon?” Mouthful of yogurt and granola, Glory looked up to find the woman she’d spent her morning avoiding. “I would have gone for something stronger.”

“Dr. Holden.” Glory forced an innocent smile.

Poised, sophisticated, and with a grace that rivaled Princess Kate’s, Dr. Charlotte Holden was the epitome of Southern belle. Her blond hair was pulled up into a complicated up-do as always, but her cool as a cucumber exterior was replaced with amusement. “Your Ken doll frequented my Barbie’s dream house in the third grade; I think that puts us on a first-name basis.”

Glory laughed. “Even back then you made me call you Dr. Holden.”

“Yes, well I’m not so uptight anymore,” Charlotte said with a smile and took a seat—and the last doughnut. Charlotte and Glory hadn’t run in the same circles as teens, but they’d played some as kids and that small connection had grown since Glory started at the hospital. “So what was it this time? One of his matchbox cars or a Tater Tot?”

“R2-D2 and Luke Skywalker,” Glory said, eyeing the doughnut while she swallowed her nutritious snack. “I guess someone at school told him he had bats in the cave so he thought Luke Skywalker and his light saber could help. He took one look at the syringe and sneezed, the droids were liberated, problem solved.”

“Until next week,” Charlotte said, breaking off a chunk of doughnut and popping it in her mouth, moaning in ecstasy as she licked icing off her fingers. Glory ate a huge spoonful of her yogurt and moaned just as loud.

“Now, you want to tell me why I signed a prescription for fishing?” Charlotte lifted a brow and in a teasing tone whispered, “I don’t remember them teaching that in medical school.”

“A little unorthodox, I know, but Mrs. Brass needs a little R&R and I figured the only way she’d get some was by doctor’s orders.”

“You figured right. I have been after her to slow down for years, but she is too stubborn to listen.” Charlotte broke off a piece of doughnut and offered it up. Glory admitted defeat and, caving like a cheap suitcase, snatched the iced goodness. “And here I thought you’d been avoiding me on account of yesterday’s arrest.”

The doughnut hit Glory’s stomach with a thud. “You know?”

“Honey, this is Sugar. News about your tussle with the Duncan family reached town before you even got off the tractor.” Charlotte’s expression went giddy as she leaned in and waggled a manicured brow. “Having a McGraw post bail, now that took it from teatime gossip to
the
topic on every lady’s agenda. It even had an honorable mention at Sugar Peach’s meeting.”

And wasn’t that just great. Glory knew it wouldn’t take long for people to start talking—especially since it involved her and the Duncan family. She’d just hadn’t anticipated Cal would have gotten caught up in the gossip.

“I was going to find you on my lunch break, so I could explain,” Glory began.

“Explain what?” Charlotte waved a dismissive hand. “That you threw cow pies at Jackson’s car and bruised his ever so delicate man-feelings?”

“Actually, I threw one at him,” Glory admitted, smiling when Charlotte laughed but quickly sobered when she remembered just how serious Jackson had been about pressing assault charges. “I think I screwed up this time. And I’m afraid of what the hospital’s board will think when they hear.”

She was more afraid of what they would do, which made what she was about say next so hard.

Charlotte had not only approved Glory’s proposal to head up a new teen volunteer program for the pediatric center, but believed in her idea so much she’d given it the Holden stamp of approval with the board—which went a long way since her family founded the hospital. Ever since then, chatting over doughnuts and coffee in the break room had become a habit, and as of late it had become the best part of Glory’s day. Charlotte was quickly becoming her biggest cheerleader and, more important, a good friend. And Glory didn’t want to mess that up.

“I would understand if you wanted to pull your support from my proposal and back one of the other candidates,” she said honestly, even though the words burned her throat coming out.

Charlotte’s face softened. “You have worked so hard on creating this program. I thought it was what you wanted.”

More than anything.

Outside of Brett, Glory didn’t have many friends after the scandal. Homeschooling only made her feel more secluded and alone. So when her grandmother’s doctor mentioned that the hospital was in desperate need of a junior aide to help with the long-term patients, Glory applied. It was better than the alternative—sitting at home all day. Plus, it gave her the chance to show a different side of herself, the kind that people could be proud of.

Later she learned there was no such program, just an astute doctor who saw Glory’s need to belong. Dr. Blair changed Glory’s world because what started out as a way to earn a few extra bucks a week ended up becoming the thing that changed her life.

“It is,” she admitted. “But I missed yesterday’s midterm, which means I’ll have to ace my final if I have any chance of passing. The board is already skeptical about a nursing student heading up an internal program.” Especially since the other three candidates were already hospital employees with stellar résumés and experience under their belts. “When they hear about the Great Tractor Heist, it will give them one more reason to go with a more experienced candidate.”

“Glory,” Charlotte said, her Southern lilt thick with emotion, “I believe in your idea. Not only is it the best use of the grant money, it is the perfect solution for this hospital and this community. But I agreed to put my name on the proposal because I believe that
you
are the perfect person to head the program.” Charlotte rested her hand on Glory’s. “You’re driven, amazing with kids, and have a huge heart. More importantly, you understand how powerful this kind of program can be for the patients as well as the volunteers. This hospital would be lucky to have you, not the other way around.”

Glory swallowed, uncertain what to do with the praise. Those words coming from someone as accomplished as Charlotte were humbling.

“So, if you still want this, and I think that you do, then all that matters is if you ace that final and make sure your proposal is ready for presenting at the end of the month.”

“It will be.” She would make sure of it. “But—”

Charlotte squeezed her hand. “Let me worry about the board and don’t give Jackson a second thought. He’s a good guy, Glory, he’ll come around. You’ll see.”

Glory wasn’t so sure. She’d been waiting for that good guy everyone spewed on and on about to show himself for over a decade with no luck. “And if he doesn’t? Because he’s so pissed that he can’t get me on tractor theft he’s threatening assault charges.”

“Assault charges?” Charlotte’s tone was one of humorous disbelief, but her expression confirmed Glory’s biggest fears. If Jackson got his way, Glory would lose everything she’d worked for. Because even with a Holden stamp of approval, there was no way any medical board would hire someone who had an assault charge on their police record. Let alone put them in charge of minors.

“Then let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

T
he next morning, Cal stared at the blueprints. Strategizing the build for the new pediatric ward at Sugar Medical Center was a safer alternative than demanding to know what the hell his teenaged daughter was thinking. Because the strips of flimsy fabric and lace held together by spaghetti straps and suction that Payton was sporting as “back to school” wear were enough to make him consider homeschooling.

She was already going elsewhere for advice. He didn’t want to give her more of a reason to shut him out. So he hung his head as Payton fussed over his breakfast, recalculating the dimensions for the foundation. For the third time that morning.

“Thank you, baby,” Cal said when Payton set down a cup of coffee, a decent attempt at a breakfast cake, and the most pathetic-looking omelet he’d ever seen. But the girl was trying to cook and Cal appreciated the effort. Without hesitation, he dug in, prayed for a miracle, and took a bite—freezing mid-chew.

“Well?” Payton asked, pulling her blond hair over one shoulder and twirling it into a single spiral. Cal resumed chewing—and chewing—while she sagged into the chair across from him. “Oh God, it’s awful, isn’t it?”

“No, baby, it isn’t awful,” he assured her, willing the brick-like chunk of cake down his throat and a smile to his lips. Awful was being too generous, but his little girl had been working herself up in the kitchen since last week, trying to perfect this breakfast cake, and she had finally hit critical mass. Payton was primed for a good pout.

Once upon a time, that had meant a cute puckered lip and a few sniffles. Nowadays, it was more a devastated, end-of-the-world explosion with a ninety-percent chance of major tears. Being a single dad to a teenage daughter meant he’d gotten used to tears. Didn’t mean he had to like them, though.

“Yes, it is,” she whispered, sagging ever more and breaking his heart a little. “Everyone is going to laugh.”

Cal swiveled his body sideways and popped out his left leg, making a daddy-sized knee-chair. He gave his thigh a pat. “Come here.”

When she didn’t roll her eyes or scoff, and instead plopped down and wrapped her arms around his waist, Cal felt his world go right. Fashion magazines, hormones, and hair products couldn’t hide the fact that this was his little girl. Although when he pulled her to him in a bear hug and buried her head under his chin, he registered that she didn’t fit like she used to. She was growing again. The long arms and legs to her neck were all McGraw. The other parts—the curvy parts that he didn’t like to acknowledge—those were all his ex-wife’s doing.

“Now, you want to tell me what’s going on, since I am pretty sure this has nothing to do with a breakfast cake?”

Payton took a dramatic breath and snuggled closer, resting her cheek against his chest. “Saturday is the Cleats and Pleats Pep-Luck.” She leaned back, flashing those baby blues his way. “Get it? Potluck meets pep rally?”

“I remember.” Cal already knew he wasn’t going to like this story.
Cleats
and
pep rally
were each a single degree of separation from his least favorite word—
boys
—and the way Payton was smiling, big and broad and not reaching her eyes, he knew that she had been excited about going and somehow his ex-wife had ruined it.

“The football team has been pulling double days all summer, so to pump them up for the scrimmage, the cheer team always hosts a breakfast after their 6 a.m. practice. I was signed up to bring Mom’s rise-and-shine cake, you know the one with the cinnamon and peaches that you used to say was magical?”

Cal nodded. He knew the one. And he knew where this was going.

“Well, Mom called Friday. I guess she can’t come this weekend ’cuz she’s going to Cabo with Randal.” Payton sniffled and Cal wanted to throttle his ex. And good old Randy. “She e-mailed me the recipe but I think it’s missing something because no matter how many times I make it—”

She gave the cake a hopeless glance and shrugged.

“Did you try calling her?” Cal already knew the answer and felt like kicking himself for asking when his daughter’s eyes went misty. As usual, her mom was probably too busy with the new hubby to answer.

“No, and she also told Kendra’s mom that she’d head up the griddle. And I’m going to be the only girl there without a m—mom and the older girls are going to think that I’m not pulling my weight.” And just like that the sniffles took a sad turn.

“Hey, no tears.” He wiped the corners of her eyes with his thumb. “We’re McGraws. We’ve got this. You and me.”

Her face lit up with hope. “You know how to make the rise-and-shine cake magical, like Mom’s?”

“No.” He used to think that just about every damn thing about Tawny was magical, but just like her breakfast cake, Cal never figured out the right ingredients. “But we can figure it out. Plus, I’m killer on the griddle.”

Okay, he was killer on the BBQ but they were pretty much the same thing, right?

“I thought you were going fishing with Uncle Jace this weekend.”

“Are you kidding, and miss the chance to hang with my favorite girl?” Payton came first. Always. Jace would understand. “Plus, your uncle snores and isn’t nearly as cute as you are.”

A small smile tugged at his daughter’s lips. That was more like it. “You’d have to wear pajamas. All the moms are.”

“Do my Sponge Bob boxers count?” He tugged a lock of her hair.

“Gross.” She giggled, shoving playfully at his chest. “Although I bet Kendra’s mom wouldn’t mind. She was hoping you’d take Mom’s place on Saturday. She’s working the bacon station.”

Shit.
Kendra’s mom was tall, stacked, and the kind of blonde that came from a bottle. She was also twice divorced and extremely interested, something she’d made painfully clear the last few times Cal had dropped Kendra off. Not that Cal was. Cal wasn’t interested in anything more than two adults enjoying a few hours of fun. And one-nighters with mothers of his daughter’s friends was a bad daddy move.

Not that kissing Glory yesterday had been a good move. It had been downright stupid, because for the first time since Cal’s ex-wife had walked out on him, there was interest on both sides. And a whole hell of a lot of chemistry.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to have the prettiest girl in all of Sugar on my arm.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Payton’s forehead.

“Oh, and one more thing, no glaring at the boys.” Cal felt his jaw clench. Payton must have noticed, too, because she leveled him an icy glare. “We are supposed to be feeding them for the big scrimmage and no one is going to come over if you’re giving them
the look
.”

“What look?”

“The one you’re wearing right now that says, ‘If anyone so much as looks twice at my baby, I will straighten them out like a piece of wire.’”

Cal was pretty sure his look was more of an “eyes on your own package or lose it” kind of look. In any case,
that
look was the only thing keeping boys from swarming his front porch with flowers and empty promises.

Payton reached up and mushed her fingers into his forehead, pulling and massaging until she ironed out the furrow of his frown. Her other hand tugged Cal’s lips up into a smile. “That’s how you have to look. Promise? For me?”

“You’re killing me.” Cal looked up at the ceiling. “But yes, I promise to
try
, if you promise to go upstairs and find the other half of your outfit so we can head out. Don’t want to be late for the first day of school.”

“I’m not wearing this to school,” Payton said, offering up a sweet smile. “I was just trying it on.”

Thank God.

“For Miss Peach nomination day next week,” she said as though
that
were going to happen. “Varsity girls have to wear our cheer gear to school on the first day.”

He liked the sound of that. Not the cheer part, or the varsity part for that matter, but the uniform part. Ever since Payton hung up her State’s Champion softball mitt for a set of red and blue pom-poms, Cal’s life had gone from manageable single-dad status to full-on panic researching all-girl schools. But her uniform was swishy sweatpants, a T-shirt with the school mascot on it—a giant sheep—and a matching jacket. He should know; she’d pretty much lived in it all summer, telling anyone who would listen how she was the only underclassman on the varsity cheer team.

Payton slid her arms around his neck and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You know, show school spirit.”

“Uh-huh.” What he knew was that his little angel was buttering him up. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling that it was going to cost him a few more gray hairs. And maybe an early-onset heart condition.

“It’s supposed to get people excited for the scrimmage Saturday.” She smiled, her pearly whites making his rise-and-shine cake even harder to digest. “Speaking of Saturday. After the scrimmage a few of the—”

“No.” His tone left zero room for discussion.

When it came to his daughter, Cal had always been a yes man. Part of it was him trying to make up for his poor choice in spouse, but Payton made giving in easy. She was sweet, smart, and one bat of those baby blues always did him in. Until she started growing—

Cal grimaced.

“But I haven’t even asked you anything,” she said, her lower lip sticking out in a well-practiced pout. Another trait she’d inherited from her mother.

When had his baby become a bombshell? And why couldn’t she take after his side of the family? Instead of coming out like his homely great-aunts with bucked teeth and built like ranchers, Payton looked just like his ex-wife—too damn pretty for her own good. At least she got the McGraw sense of direction. And up until last summer it was that sense that had kept her on the straight and narrow and away from boys, although he was pretty sure that the estrogen would somehow screw with that, too.

“Does it involve a boy?”

“He’s really sweet and—”

“No, Payton. We’ve talked about this.” He pinned her with his dad-knows-best glare.

“God.” She stood up, flinging her hands. “All of my friends have boyfriends. I’m going to die the only girl at Sugar High who’s never been kissed.”

Fine with him. Cal forked off another bite of coffee cake and smiled. As far as he was concerned, if he got through the next three years without Payton bringing home some punk-ass kid whose scholarly interest was what lay beneath Payton’s cheer skirt, he’d be a happy man.

“No dating until you can drive,” he reminded her. It was something he’d agreed to when she’d been twelve and he’d caught her batting those lashes at the punk who worked the pump at the gas station. Payton got a free candy bar out of the deal, and the kid got an up-close and personal introduction to Mr. Smith & Wesson.

At the time, sixteen had seemed so far away. Not anymore, which meant he had eighteen months to convince the state of Georgia to change their driving-age laws.

“It’s at Padre Point, and before you say anything, the whole cheer team is going. So, it isn’t just like me and the football team or anything.”

Cal had been a football player. Done the Cleats and Pleats Pep-Luck. Gone to Padre Point. He had even invited the cheerleaders. “No. No. No. And no.”

“I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong. Not all guys are interested in, well…” Her cheeks flushed slightly and her eyes darted away. “Well, you know.”

Yeah, he did know. And the fact that she blushed while avoiding the word
sex
told Cal that she hadn’t gone there. Whoever this kid was could live. For today anyway.

“You’re right, baby.” He stood and pulled her into his arms. God, when had she gotten so tall?

“I am?” she whispered in that sugary Southern drawl of hers while looking at him as though he had all the answers and Cal felt like a fucking superhero. His ex-wife might have put him through hell, but Payton was worth every heartache. Just looking at her made his world right.

“Yes, you are.” He tucked a blond curl behind her ear. “They’re interested in sex
and
sports. Every single one of them. In that order.”

“God, Dad!” She shoved at his chest, but he didn’t move.

“Look,” he said, tightening his arms and smiling down at her. “It’s just that I don’t trust football players.”

She didn’t smile back. In fact, she looked as though she just might cry. “Yeah? Well, I trust
me
. And I thought you did, too.”

Cal looked up at the ceiling—it was easier than looking at her hurt expression.

“I do trust you, Payton.” And he did. But he also knew how persuasive an older, smooth-talking jock could be. And his Payton was so trusting and sensitive—he was just trying to protect her from guys like him. “How about you finish getting dressed? If we get out of here in the next few minutes, we’ll still have time to stop by the Gravy Train.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that you believe in me when you obviously don’t. And you know what? I don’t need a ride. I’ll walk.” And with that, she stormed out of the kitchen.

Cal watched her stomp up the stairs, heard a few dramatic sniffles echo down the hall, finally the slam of her bedroom door—and something in his chest constricted.

I don’t need a ride!

Sometimes she caught a ride with one of her friends or her Uncle Brett. And sometimes she walked.

But today was the first day of school. Cal always drove Payton on her first day of school. It was their thing. They would blast some Taylor Swift, he would sing at the top of his lungs, she would pretend to be all embarrassed, then they’d suck down an extra-large, double-shot hot cocoa from the Gravy Train, polish it off with a burping contest, and all before he saw her off to class.

“Five minutes,” he hollered while doing some stomping and pouting of his own. Right over to the sink, where he slammed his plate down and rinsed it off before jamming it in the dishwasher. When Payton slammed her door again, for added emphasis, Cal dropped his head and took in a deep breath.

“And I’m driving you to school,” he mumbled to no one in particular, but it made him feel better.

“It’s just the hormones,” a weathered and understanding voice came from behind.

Cal turned and saw his grandmother. Dressed in a lime green track suit with matching ball cap, Hattie McGraw stood in the doorway, dangling his truck keys, her gray halo shaking with every nervous tap of her orthopedic shoe.