Sugar on Top (Sugar, Georgia Book 2) Read online

  “Oh my God, this is so good,” she said around bits of bun. “So much better than my energy bar.”

  “Glad to hear it. Here.” He cracked the cola open with a sizzle and slid it her way. “Wash it down with this.”

  “I don’t want to take your drink.” But she so did and he knew it because he smiled—and man, what a smile. It supported number seventeen on PROJECT GRANNY PANTIES: ABLE TO SPIKE CORE BODY TEMPERATURE WITH A SINGLE QUIRK.

  “I have another.” He pulled out another cola, equally cold but no Diet on the front, along with a second bag of chips and—be still, her heart—a second chocolate chip cookie.

  Either he had the appetite of a horse or this was a preplanned, quiet lunch for two—and she wasn’t really sure what that meant or how she felt about it. “Why are you really here, Cal?”

  “I had a meeting with the planning department down the hall earlier and heard you having it out with your poor laptop there. Since you were still here, and still screaming up a storm, when I headed out for lunch, I called the Gravy Train and changed my order from one to two and staged an intervention.” His gaze met hers. “Skeeter said the mo shu meatloaf sandwich was your favorite.” He took a gulp of soda. “Funny thing about that, boots, is it’s mine, too.”

  That he took the time to find out what her favorite dish was caught her completely off guard. That his ridiculous nickname made her feel all girly and breathless did not bode well for PROJECT GRANNY PANTIES.

  “I meant what I said last night.” Last night being the key components of that statement. In the light of day, with him looking like sex with a tool belt, she wasn’t so sure.

  She wanted to be more, so much more it scared her. So did he; she could see it in the way he watched her. Too bad their ideas of more didn’t match up.

  “So did I.” He smiled but it wasn’t full of charming or nefarious intent; it was soft and warm. “Now tell me, what seems to be the problem?”

  “I think Excel and I are breaking up,” she admitted, popping a chip in her mouth. “He doesn’t listen, constantly points out my shortcomings, and refuses to give me what I need.”

  “That’s a pretty big problem.” Cal’s grin widened until Glory was certain her core body temperature was well in the danger zone. “You’re in luck since your needs are a constant concern of mine.” Just when Glory’s heartbeat was becoming totally erratic, Cal gave a sly grin and whispered, “We’re co-chairs after all. Best to help each other however we can.”

  His gaze slid down her body, then made a lazy trail back to settle on her eyes once more, Glory was ready to toss her sense, and her PROJECT GRANNY PANTIES list, out the door.

  “I also happen to be an Excel ninja with a black belt in Gantt charts.” Cal laced his fingers and cracked his knuckles over his head. “Now, do you already have a spreadsheet?”

  And there it was, the ice water of reality Cal seemed to throw right after he made her entire body buzz with heat.

  With a deep breath, she worked to refocus on the matter at hand: her proposal. Not Cal. Tell that to her “granny panties,” which were now a bit damp.

  Cal used the trackpad to move the cursor down to the spreadsheet tab, which had taken her all morning to create, and Glory smacked his hand away. “Yes, I have a spreadsheet. I’m not an idiot.”

  “Spreadsheet formatted, got it.”

  “Well, kind of. It keeps giving me a circular error, which isn’t a big deal since I can’t figure out what the steps are to put them in order yet,” she said in a rush because she hated admitting she wasn’t competent in something. It was almost as bad as admitting she was wrong.

  Cal took her legal pad and tore off the front sheet, exposing her secret list below. All he had to do was glance down and he’d see every embarrassing detail of her crush.

  “That’s for school.” She reached for the list but he held it over his head. “Give it back.”

  He looked up and read, “‘Project Granny Panties: ACM’? What class would that be?”

  She leveled him with a look, one that displayed just how serious she was as she lied her granny panties right off. “It’s for my geriatric theory class.”

  “So ‘buns of steel’ would refer to?”

  “The importance of glute strength in the aging.” She leapt out of her chair, snatched the pad back, zipped it up in her backpack, and stuffed it under her chair to be safe.

  “Ah-huh.” He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was busy taking her proposal task list, which she’d spend the better part of a day on, and tearing it into little strips.

  “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer, just continued to make paper ribbons out of her hard work. Then with confidence, and a surprising amount of grace for a man with hands his size, he fanned out the strips and organized them into an efficient line. Minus a few gaps, which appeared to be intentionally placed, it created a perfect timeline. “How did you do that?”

  “I have to do this all the time for projects.” He was leaning back now, proud of his handiwork. “Think of it like building a house.”

  “Which would be a brilliant suggestion,” she deadpanned. “If I had ever built a house.”

  “Well, lucky you that you know someone who has. And he’s good. Better than good.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “That’s the attitude.” He reached into his Marry Poppins lunchbox and pulled out a stack of three-by-five cards and took her pen. “Pretend we’re decorating a room. Your room.” He snapped his fingers. “Your bedroom.”

  “How did we go from charts to discussing my bedroom?”

  His dimples flashed and he said, “Sweetheart, any conversation with you always ends up with me thinking about your bedroom.”

  “Do you spend a lot of time thinking about your friends’ bedrooms?”

  “Nope, just yours.” He clicked the pen. “What would your dream room look like?” She eyed him skeptically. “Well, I can tell you what my dream bedroom of yours would look like, but this is your dream, not mine.”

  She decided to play along. “I would want it to feel relaxing, like the day spa at Joie’s inn. So green walls.” He scribbled down something on a flash card and then looked at her to go on. “Dark furniture with orange and white accents, and a comfy bed with a big wooden slatted headboard—”

  “I imagined a big headboard, too, but mine would have bedposts to attach—”

  “Curtains.” She tapped the next flash card and he got back to writing. “Sheer gauzy curtains, lots of plants, and maybe some pretty artwork to hang over the bed…are you writing this down?”

  “Sorry, you said bed again. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to seduce me.” He went back to his cards. “Vegetation and artwork, got it.” He scribbled down a few thoughts of his own and then made quick work of fanning them out. “I like to start at the end and work backward. So the last card is?”

  “Hang artwork over four-poster bed,” she read.

  He smiled. “I took some artistic license since I am the professional here.”

  Didn’t she know it.

  “We can’t hang the artwork until the bed is centered and the rest of the furniture is arranged, right?”

  She nodded; this was actually making since. “And I couldn’t arrange the furniture until it is delivered, which means I need to add a task to go shopping and buy new furniture and the artwork.”

  “Right. And green paint. You have to tape, primer, and paint the walls so they can dry before the four-poster bed is delivered and placed against the wall.” He sat back, hands laced behind his head, his big, long legs stretched out, looking awfully smug.

  “And here I wasted all that time with Professor Paperclip.”

  “Boots, when showing your spreadsheet to a man, make sure he’s got more in his tool belt than a cane and top hat. You want a guy who comes equipped to get the job done.”

  Glory has seen Cal’s tool belt, and she had no doubt that he not only came properly equipped, but kne
w how to use each and every tool in his belt to get the job done.

  “So what is the end goal?”

  “What?” Glory’s eyes flew to his face, and she realized that she’d been trying to get a glimpse of his equipment. Cal knew, too, because he smiled.

  “Of your project? Where do you want it to lead?”

  “Right.” Glory cleared her throat. This was the easy part. Glory knew exactly what kind of program she wanted to run, the kind of kids she wanted to reach out to, and the opportunities she could facilitate.

  “I want to create a volunteer program that connects high school kids looking for a place to make a difference with children who need a champion in their corner. Which, I know, sounds like every other candy-striper program. But I want this to be a kind of internship, where students can earn school credits toward their senior project and an hourly wage that will accrue over their time at the hospital and can be applied toward their college fees.”

  Mr. Excel ninja didn’t so much as bat an eye, didn’t interrupt or point out that it was too big of a project for her to take on. He just leaned in and gave her all of his attention. And being on the receiving end of that kind of intensity, and what she thought looked a lot like respect, made her heart do this funny little flutter in her chest.

  “I want to start with seniors, but over the next few years open it up to sophomores so that they can work their way up into positions with more responsibility. Also, it would help with turnover so patients who are here for longer stays will have a buddy to go through the entire process with.”

  When he still didn’t say a word, just kept staring at her, she felt a rush of insecurity come back. She knew that convincing the board to hire teenagers was going to be tough; getting them insured as employees was going to be even harder. But giving kids the chance to experience a life outside Sugar, a life that might not be possible without additional funding like the one her program could provide, was the heart of her mission.

  “You know, give them something stable in the middle of all the craziness.”

  To everyone, her mission statement would come off like a way to help and inspire local teens. But the kids she was hoping to help were kids like her. This proposal was her life in a series of charts and spreadsheets, right there for anyone to see if they knew what to look for. And Cal was looking and suddenly she was terrified of what he’d see.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  “That the hospital would be lucky to have you,” he said with a quiet smile, and her heart gave a soft bump. “And that Brett’s right. You, Glory Mann, are amazing.”

  Then a not so soft bump. And because Cal was looking at her as though she were amazing, she began to feel amazing…more than amazing. He made her feel adored.

  Then his smile faded, and so did hers, because she was aware of just how close they sat, and how badly she wanted him to lean over and kiss her. Cal’s eyes seemed to say he was on board.

  “Is that why you came?” she asked, hating how much his answer mattered. “Because Brett asked you to?”

  “I came because I wanted to be a good friend.” Cal looked at her lips and released a breath before sitting back. “Which is what I’m going to do.”

  Chapter 13

  The Falcon’s Nest won’t work, because the location has already been decided,” Ms. Kitty said, marching toward the easel at the front of the room with every intention of placing her presentation right over Glory’s. “The pageant, its Cotillion, and the Sugar Pull will be held at the Duncan Plantation.”

  “Actually, the Duncan Plantation is one option on the table,” Glory said, positioning herself between the easel and the older woman. When Kitty just stood there, poster board in hand, Glory pointed to the other side of the room. “Which you can set on that easel. Over there. And if you’d like to present your option to the room, you’ll need to consult with Spencer, our new, uh, operations specialist, so she can put you on the agenda.”

  “Agenda?”

  Spencer held up a clipboard from the back of the room, and Kitty’s face puckered as though she’d just sucked on a lemon.

  “This is a trick. You knew your idea would be shot down so you’re abusing your power to get your own way, to the detriment of this community and all of those young girls.”

  “I think the girls will benefit from a new, more neutral location,” Glory said confidently.

  “Harder to cheat when you’re not drawing the racing lines, isn’t it, Kitty?” Etta Jayne said, and the rest of the Pitt Crew Mafia applauded. They took up the entire front row, their matching TIME TO CLEAN OUT THE LITTERBOX T-shirts proudly on display.

  “Neutral location?” Kitty scoffed as though no one else in the room was concerned with the reigning Sugar Pull champ using the official racing track as her practice grounds. “I have been a respected member of this committee for over fifty years, so you and your grandmother’s little stunt won’t work. We will not be kowtowed.”

  Cal wasn’t so sure. Not a single strand of pearls clacked in Kitty’s support. In fact, it didn’t appear as though Kitty was going to get her usual grandstand from the Sugar Peaches. It could have been the way Charlotte had taken a strategic seat next to Glory when she’d waltzed through the doors, or because Spencer was shooting daggers at anyone who looked ready to stand in opposition of Glory, while sharpening her pocket knife. But Cal had a feeling that everyone was waiting to see who would come out on top before aligning themselves—and so far it was Glory, one, Kitty, zip.

  “Actually, I am just following the bylaws,” Glory countered, and Cal grinned.

  Kitty had come here with an agenda, and she wasn’t ashamed to bulldoze right over Glory to do it. But Glory wasn’t backing down.

  “Since when do I have to be put on an agenda to speak on behalf of the Sugar Peaches?”

  “Since it’s time to scoop out the poop,” Hattie said and a loud whoop sounded from the front row.

  Glory silenced them with a single look. It was impressive. “Since the current regent of the Sugar Peaches is here to speak on their behalf.”

  Charlotte stood and smoothed down her skirt, and it was as though the entire room held its breath, waiting to see how the reigning queen would weigh in.

  “When Glory called me last week, asking for my input on the pageant, I knew that she had the best interest of the community and the Sugar Peaches in mind. I was so impressed with her willingness to listen and learn about our traditions, and her desire to introduce a new group of girls to the pageant, I immediately signed on.”

  “Just the rumor of a location change has doubled the entries for the pageant,” Etta Jayne pointed out.

  “Doubled,” Jelly Lou repeated loud enough for the room to hear, her cheeks two full circles of pride. “Did you hear that, Kitty? My girl doubled the entries in her first week in office.”

  Glory toed the floor with the tip of her boots at the praise, something she seemed to do when she was flustered.

  Which was why, in his best co-chair voice, he tore his eyes off the tan skin peeking out of those sexy boots and explained, “In order to give every girl who is interested the opportunity to go out for Miss Peach and the scholarship, we decided to extend the deadline until next Wednesday.”

  Kitty looked at Cal, and for the first time in his life, the woman looked nervous. “But double the girls means double the people and I’ve already ordered the doilies.”

  “Well, you may need to unorder them because according to the book here”—Cal held up the Harvest Fest Bylaws—“any and all decisions about the Harvest Fest, including location and decorations for the events, have to be presented to the council by the chair.”

  “Or co-chair, as it may be, and then approved by a majority vote,” Glory said and smiled. Cal smiled back. How could he not? She was looking at him like he’d just made her day—and he wanted to make her day.

  “You have my vote,” Charlotte said. “Not only do I move that we relocate the Harvest Fest to the Sugar Country Club and exte
nd the deadline for the Miss Peach applications, but I would be honored to head up the Harvest Decoration Committee.”

  “We already have a Harvest Decoration Committee. I have the list right here,” Kitty said, flapping a sheet of paper wildly. “And you’re on it!”

  “Well, if we’re all sharing our lists, I got one, too,” Jelly Lou said in her best Sunday school voice, angelic smile in place. “Your name’s on the top of it, Kitty.”

  “And it ain’t no decorating committee list,” Etta Jayne added.

  Charlotte ignored this. “Actually, I’m withdrawing my position from your committee and offering to head up Glory’s.”

  Any hope Kitty had of winning by reputation just flew out the window. Kitty’s power came from money and position, Charlotte’s came from money, position, and a good dose of hard-earned respect.

  “It is because of my family’s generosity that there is even a scholarship,” Kitty said, clutching her poster board to her chest and facing the room. “If the group decides to go in another direction, I might just have to pull my support this year.”

  The room fell silent—except for Glory, who sucked in a panicked breath beside Cal. Because by support, every person in that room knew she was talking about money.

  The Duncans’ endowment went a long way toward making the Miss Peach Pageant so successful. In fact, her donation accounted for over half the total budget and scholarship allotment. If she bailed, the pageant could be canceled.

  “We don’t want that,” Glory said gently. “You and your family have done so much for this community so of course we want your input, but we also want to give girls who would never have considered entering the pageant a chance to compete.”

  “Last time we pulled in a different demographic of contestant, well, I’m sure you don’t want to go there.” Only Kitty had gone there—and it was a direct hit.

  Not much got past Glory’s tough girl exterior—at least that was the vibe she gave off.

  Over the years, Cal had witnessed her stare down a group of jack-ass jocks, not to mention break up some of the nastiest bar fights he’d ever seen, never once showing an ounce of fear. But one backhanded comment from Kitty, and just like in the courtroom the other day, Glory’s whole body seemed to sink in on itself. Her smile became strained and her eyes went big, like a deer in the headlights, as she looked around the room to find her grandmother, to make sure that the comment hadn’t upset her. And damn if that didn’t bring out every protective instinct Cal had.