Sugar on Top (Sugar, Georgia Book 2) Page 7

  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.

  She walked over to rest a pudgy hand on his arm, giving him a little pat. “Why don’t you let me take her to school?”

  “Thanks, Grandma. But this is our thing. Not to mention—” He snatched the keys out of her meaty little hands, but not before delivering a kiss to her puckered brow, to soften the blow. Last thing he needed was another pissed-off female. “You can’t drive.”

  “Sure, I can. Just did as a matter of fact.” She snatched the keys back and stuck them in her pocket, then went about making his lunch. “And before you go hemming on, my reflexes are just fine.”

  “Not according to Jackson, who last I heard tore up your license.”r />
  “Man’s a moron.”

  Cal ran a hand over his face. “You drove through the side of Kiss My Glass Tow and Tires.” Thankfully the owner, Lavender Spencer, was a family friend and didn’t press charges—or sue for damages.

  “Actually, I was aiming for Kitty Duncan and her cart full of enough high-performance air filters to power the entire NASCAR fleet. Seeing as how I made that turn on a whim and smashed her cart while missing her entirely is a testament to just how good my reflexes are. Damn fine eyesight, too, if that was what you were going after next.”

  Cal took a seat. In ten minutes his entire day had turned to shit. He had a hormonal daughter, five separate construction permits to file at three separate county offices, and a crew on the clock that couldn’t start running plumbing and electrical for the hospital’s new pediatrics ward until he got the inspector to sign off on the footings.

  And if that wasn’t enough, now his grandma was justifying nearly taking out the mayor’s mother because of a damn tractor pull. Although the feud between Jelly Lou Mann and Kitty Duncan was legendary in Sugar County, it had been pretty quiet for the past few years—the two women agreeing to coexist in the same town without bloodshed. But if there was one woman who could rile everything back up again, it was his grandma.

  Oh, she wouldn’t do it on purpose. She would go into it with the intent of protecting her friend. But Hattie’s best intentions usually ended with him negotiating her bail. And he’d already bailed one woman out of jail this week; he was hoping to avoid the sheriff’s station for a while.

  “Nothing’s illegal about buying car parts.”

  Her eyes went hard. “It is if you’re soupin’ up a tractor for the Sugar Pull. Which I know that cheat of a woman, Kitty Duncan, is doing. It goes against every bylaw of the competition, and because her son is the mayor and her grandson the sheriff, she would have gotten away with it, too.”

  “So you want to talk about what you did the other night?” Cal asked. He’d put off talking to her about the stolen tractor and big-ass dent in his truck until he’d calmed down.

  “Me? It’s that woman.” Hattie snapped open his lunch pail. “She cheats every year and every year she wins, then she rubs it in Jelly Lou’s face. Well, this year, if she wants the Prowler to be the lead tractor for the Peach Day Parade, then she’s going to have to win that spot, and win it fair! And that means no high-octane fuel.”

  Cal pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t put this off any longer. Hattie was a danger to Sugar’s residents, not to mention his peace of mind. She belonged behind a wheel about as much as he did cooking up pancakes at a mommy-daughter potluck. “We need to talk about your driving.”

  “No. We don’t.” She stopped mid-slice into last night’s leftovers, shoving a chunk of Payton’s cake in his lunch pail instead of that tri-tip sandwich she was ready to make. Snapping the lid shut with force, she leveled him with a practiced glare. “And I don’t want to talk about the dent on the back of your truck either.”

  His phone buzzed and a photo of Brett giving the camera the finger appeared on his phone. The way his luck was going, it would wind up being his sister-in-law, Joie, with another blind date for him. A date who would be prim, proper, perfect wife material—and boring as hell.

  “Fine. But just know that until we talk, you aren’t going anywhere.”

  “You can’t ground me,” Hattie harrumphed, dangling his keys.

  “Watch me.” Cal shot up and, after wrestling his grandma for the keys and taking a few cheap shots to the ribs, he finally managed to snag them away and make his way to the front room.

  His phone vibrated again. He sat on the couch, rested his head against the back, and answered, “McGraw.”

  “Morning.” His kid brother’s greeting came through the phone, low and muffled. The rasp in his voice told Cal that he’d either just woken up or was still half asleep.

  “How’s California?” he asked, wondering why Brett was up so early the day after his golf tournament, and thanking God that it wasn’t Joie.

  “Smoggy, crowded, and beer comes in a damn mug. What kind of man drinks beer from a mug?”

  Cal smiled. “So, I take it you’re still pissed that you ended up somewhere other than first?”

  “Nah. It’s just a charity event,” Brett said with casualness that Cal knew was bullshit. He could almost hear him force out a shrug. “The new children’s ward will still get their money.”

  Cal had to smile. Even though his kid brother drove him crazy, it was good to hear his voice. Good to talk with another guy. Because guys didn’t include the words feelings, hair, or dating—ever. Plus it might help alleviate the permanent twitch forming behind his right eye.

  “Nice double bogie on the eighteenth. I really thought you had it in the bag. Too bad about that kid.” Cal grinned. “What is he, fifteen?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Right, nineteen. He really came out of nowhere and kicked your ass.”

  “One stroke!” Brett said and—yup, definitely pissed. Brett lowered his voice and Cal could hear him press the phone closer to his mouth. “The little prick won by one stroke and he’s pissing himself like he just won the Masters.”

  “Where are you?” Cal asked because it sounded like Brett was standing in the middle of an echo chamber mumbling into his armpit.

  A moment passed. “The john.”

  “You’re calling me from the bathroom?” This would be good. Brett had a knack of getting himself into stupid situations, which used to drive Cal nuts, but right now Cal could use a good laugh. “Crazy night, huh?”

  And Cal could almost imagine it. A bunch of buddies, throwing back beer—from mugs apparently—watching highlights from the tournament, ribbing each other until Brett passed out, only to wake up locked in some poor guy’s bathroom.

  “Crazy doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Brett said and Cal crossed one ankle over the other and found himself relaxing and settling in. “I’m hiding in the hotel bathroom, sitting in the fucking tub because”—his voice dropped two levels—“I don’t want to wake up Joie.”

  Cal felt his smile fall. “Joie?”

  “Yeah, she flew out yesterday to watch the tournament. She was up all night icing her swollen feet from standing all day, poor thing. Can’t even wear those sexy little heels of hers anymore,” Brett said as though it was a national travesty.

  Brett McGraw had more championship titles and bunny-buckles notched in his career belt than any other golfer in the history of the PGA. Then he met Josephina Harrington, socialite turned Sugar’s hospitality specialist, and Brett traded in his playboy swagger for a prissy pooch and domestic goddess. Yeah, his life was as pathetic as Cal’s.

  “Then last night the back aches started again. I swear—” Brett sighed—sighed. “We’re supposed to head out this morning for the Napa Valley, for our babymoon,” he added like Cal knew what the hell a babymoon was. “But between the bloating and the morning sickness—”

  Cal hung up. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t listen to one more womanly problem. It wasn’t that he didn’t like women. He loved women. He was just surrounded by them all the damn time. Hell, couldn’t even remember the last time he’d thrown back a cold one in silence or watched a ballgame without someone asking him what a first down was or if cottage cheese caused cellulite.

  His phone rang. Three rings and a calming breath later, he said, “Yup.”

  “Sorry, the phone must have cut out.”

  “Must have,” Cal lied. “Look, I’ve got to get going. School starts today and we’re finally pouring the concrete in the footings at the hospital.”

  “I’ll make it quick then,” Brett said, giving a big pause that wasn’t quick at all. “I got a favor to ask.”

  “Your last favor ended up with me spending five grand,” Cal said, thinking back to the way Glory’s lips had felt against his. “The one before that landed me on a blind date with a dental hygienist.”

  “She was
sweet.”

  “She spent the entire night looking at my teeth. I flossed obsessively for the next month.”

  Now that his sister-in-law had found love, she was determined to find Cal the perfect woman, not understanding that those two words didn’t belong in the same sentence as far as he was concerned. Not anymore. Not after Tawny walked out with his heart, his savings, and his ability to trust in her rolly suitcase.

  Ignoring his insistence that he was fine being single, and insisting that it was time to get back out there, Joie spent the past few months playing matchmaker. So far she’d set him up with three socialites, a lawyer, and a librarian with a penchant for silk ties who he’d rather forget. All of them nice enough, pretty, smart, interested. Yet not a single one inspired anything other than lukewarm feelings.

  Whatever gene it was that helped McGraw men pick the right one must have skipped Cal, because his picker was so far off center, he somehow managed to mistake trouble in a miniskirt for forever.

  “I guess Glory called Judge Holden to see if there was any way to work this out, and since Gunther refused to sign the arrest report, the judge agreed to an informal meeting in his chambers tomorrow. He wants both parties present to get to the bottom of the assault charges,” Brett said.

  “Well, that’s good for Glory. Holden will take one look at her and drop the charges.”

  “I hope so but Glory’s up for some big position at the hospital that she’s worked her ass off for, which will mean nothing if this gets out of hand. And we both know that Jackson loves to play hardball with her, which is why I’m calling.” Cal got that squirrelly feeling in his gut. The same kind of sick knotting that happened right before Payton asked him about feminine products. “You know I wouldn’t ask you if there was anyone else, and I know that she isn’t your favorite person, but Glory’s my best friend and she needs someone on her side. Hattie’s taking Jelly Lou to a doctor’s appointment and there is no way I can make it back in time.”

  “I don’t want to get involved. Jackson’s my friend and this is already complicated,” Cal said. Not only were the Duncans huge financial backers of the Sugar Medical Center, but they were also a huge part of the reason McGraw Construction won the bid to build the new pediatric ward.