Sugar's Twice as Sweet: Sugar, Georgia: Book 1 Read Online Free PDF Page A

pronounced her delicate cheekbones became, and the farther she stuck out that full, glossy lower lip of hers—and the harder he got.
    “You a rapist?”
    “Nope.”
    He hadn’t considered how he must look to her in lived-in jeans, worn-out shitkickers, and a John Deere–embroidered polo that had seen better days. He had skipped shaving this morning—actually he’d skipped it yesterday, too—and his hair, in desperate need of a trim, was curling out from beneath his hat. The look screamed uneducated hick, but he’d been trying to get in a few holes without being recognized.
    Not that it had worked. The beer cart girl, Lindsey—or was it Lena—gave him a cold long neck and tried for a hot kiss, scribbling her number on his scorecard when she failed.
    He’d just finished his hole, a birdie no less, when people started gathering around, wanting to talk about the season, get tips on their swing, play a round with him. So he’d packed up, resigning himself to heading back toward the ranch, and maybe having a slice of Grandma Hattie’s peach pie.
    Opening the truck door, he stepped out of the cab, around Mrs. Madison Avenue, and her little dog, too, stretching his cramped muscles and flexing a bit in case she decided to look his way. She didn’t. She was back to inspecting the truck.
    He reached out his hand. “Name’s Brett McGraw.” When she just looked at his outstretched offering as though it was a snake about to bite, he stuffed it in his pocket and leaned back against his rig, which was conveniently parked next to a highway sign boasting his name. Crossing his ankles, he gifted her with his cover-of- Sports-Illustrated grin—and waited.
    It didn’t take long. Her eyes went wide with recognition. Two cute pink spots appeared on her cheeks and she gasped. In just about three seconds, she was going to be batting those lashes in his direction, telling him how sorry she was for treating him like he was some kind of perv, and asking—no, begging—him for a ride. And not just in his truck. At least that’s what his lower half was hoping. His upper half was telling him to get back in the cab and get the hell out of there.
    “Ohmigod.” Her hand, the one holding the leash, came up to flutter in front of her stunned, dangling jaw. In the process, she yanked the little rat, which had its leg poised to piss all over his truck, out of firing distance. “Oh. My. God.”
    And here it comes… “You’re that tractor salesman?”
    “Excuse me?” Brett blinked. Then choked a little, remembering the ad he had done a few years back for John Deere.
    Holy shit. She had no idea who he was. Meaning she had zero expectations. The notion made the hollow pit in Brett’s chest, the one that he’d been carrying around for over a decade, fade a little.
    “I’m right, right?” She looked back at his truck, two tons of steel testosterone with enough power to haul whatever the hell he wanted to haul. “You’re the cowboy from that television commercial who sings that song while the cow pulls him around.”
     “Something like that,” Brett said, picking up one of her suitcases and dropping it in the bed of his truck. She was the first person all day who hadn’t wanted anything from him, which was probably why he was set on helping her. Finished with her suitcases, he reached for her bag of clubs, the back of his hand grazing the curve of her neck where the strap rested.
    God, she was soft. She smelled like a lingerie store and some kind of flower. All he could think of when he looked at her was sex. She seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, because she shifted those two pissed-off slits back in his direction.
    “What are you doing?” She clutched the bag to her chest.
    “Being neighborly.”
    He waited for her to let go. All he got was silence. Uneasy, mistrust-filled silence.
    “Good lord, Yankee, you are the most suspicious person I’ve ever met.”
    “Says the man in the creepy truck offering women rides.