Ain’t He Precious? Read online

  Ain’t He Precious?

  A Sex and Sweet Tea Novel

  SAWYER BENNETT WRITING AS

  Juliette Poe

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2017 by Juliette Poe

  EPUB Edition

  Published by Big Dog Books

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  ISBN: 978-1-940883-76-2

  Find Juliette on the web!

  Twitter: twitter.com/juliette_poe

  Facebook: facebook.com/AuthorJuliettePoe

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Connect with Juliette

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Pap Mancinkus

  Non-native of Whynot, North Carolina; Yankee transplant; former Marine Corps drill instructor; wise-cracking smartass.

  There’s an old Lithuanian saying—Sena meilė nerūdyja.

  It means—An old love does not rust.

  My granddaughter, Trixie Mancinkus, is a North Carolina girl through and through. Born here, lived here most of her life, currently living here because it’s where she wants to be. Southern to the bone, despite my best attempts to knock some Yankee sense into her at times.

  Please don’t think that when I say she’s “southern” that she’s all polite gentility with a soft voice, a knack for baking scratch biscuits, and plays bridge with her girlfriends on Thursday nights.

  No, my girl Trixie has just enough of my Yankee blood in her to do me proud. She curses like a marine—thanks to her dad and me being marines—drinks moonshine in her sweet tea, and roots for my beloved Pittsburgh Steelers rather than the Carolina Panthers, much to the displeasure of her large southern family.

  With all that said though, she’s southern because she chooses to live in her small-ass hometown of Whynot, North Carolina—population 3,872. That choice was made at the expense of a potentially lucrative career and, more importantly, a great love. She chose her family instead and while I hate to admit it, that’s the hallmark of a true southerner.

  Family bonds.

  My daughter-in-law Catherine—and that would be Trixie’s mom—is the epitome of a southern woman and has said on more than one occasion that blood is thicker than water. I’ve found that to be true. Otherwise, nothing can really explain my insane decision to move from Pittsburgh to Whynot at my son’s urging a little over twenty years ago. He’s a transplanted Yankee himself, but I digress…

  Trixie is a lawyer—Harvard educated—but she returned to her hometown just over eleven years ago to set up her own shop and become Whynot’s only recourse for legal representation. Her firm sits right beside my bar, which is named Chesty’s after one of the greatest marine generals of all time, and right across the street from the county courthouse where she spends a good chunk of her workdays representing the good citizens of Whynot.

  Trixie is devoted to her job, her clients, her family, and her hometown. She’ll tell you she doesn’t have time for anything else, and that includes frivolities such as love.

  Which is why I find it beyond hilarious that she called on an old law-school classmate, Ryland Powers—stupid, ostentatious name by the way—to help her with a perplexing case. The big-city boy from Boston should be arriving today in Whynot, and I expect some sparks will be flying.

  These two have a history.

  A passionate one.

  It did not end well for either one as the division occurred over who they were at their core—the big-city man and the small-town girl.

  It’s the North versus the South all over again, but my money is on Trixie to win this time.

  CHAPTER 2

  Ryland

  Damn… I feel like I’ve stepped back into an old re-run of Andy Griffith or something. I pull my rental car into a parallel parking spot just a few down from Trixie’s law firm. In fact, right in front of what looks like a bar called Chesty’s.

  Weird name.

  I also think it’s weird to find a bar in the middle of this little southern town of Whynot, North Carolina. I thought most southerners were teetotalers or something. I know Trixie wasn’t, and I have fond memories of she and I getting stinking drunk after exams in law school. That usually led to some amazing drunk sex, not that either of us really needed any help in lowering our inhibitions. Trixie was a crazy girl, and I was only too happy to get swept up in that kind of crazy. It would be foolish to ever get charmed by that sweet southern accent of hers, thinking she’d be shy, withdrawn, and content to take a backseat to others. Quite the contrary… Trixie was born to be a shooting star that would sizzle, pop, and burn brightly on any given day, and that’s what I remember best about her.

  It’s the reason I fell in love with her all those years ago. I’d never met anyone like her then or since.

  I had to rent a car to drive to Whynot, which is about forty-five minutes from the closest major airport in Raleigh. Trixie hadn’t offered to pick me up when I told her I’d come, but that doesn’t bother me in the slightest as I didn’t want to be beholden to someone for transportation. I have no clue what the next few days will be like as I try to help Trixie with a legal case, but if it goes badly, I want the ability to jet out of here fast.

  Back in our law school days when Trixie and I were together, I’d heard a lot about her hometown. She never invited me to visit, which didn’t hurt my feelings because Trixie never visited herself except for a very brief visit home during Christmas breaks. I was the same… didn’t make visits home except at Christmas, and I thought that’s because we shared the same independent spirit. I also foolishly thought that we were enough for each other and content to stay in our small apartment in Cambridge year-round while at Harvard Law. In the summers, we clerked at a prestigious Boston firm—Hayes Lockamy—across the river. Our grand plan was to move to Boston together once we were offered permanent jobs. We were in love, on an upward trajectory, and I sort of figured we’d get married soon after our careers took off. We’d live in an expensive apartment and dine at all the best restaurants the city had to offer.

  At least, those were the loose plans.

  Needless to say, it was a surprise to me when Trixie decided to return home to Whynot rather than stay in Boston with me. As the years have gone by, I still can’t say I ever really could reason out what the hell happened. I mean… I know the basic gist of her reasoning, but it was so far contrary to the plans we had laid out that it just didn’t ring quite true with me.

  But I’m not here to get closure on that. She’s in the past, which is where she’ll stay… despite the fact I’m getting ready to see her for the first time in eleven years. She needs help on a case, a good case from the sound of it, so here I am.

  I exit the rented sedan,
lock it although I think that’s probably a wasted effort in this sleepy-looking town, and pocket the keys. For about two seconds, I think about taking my suit jacket off, but I’m an attorney here to see another attorney on legal business. I’ve been trained to look the part no matter where I go, despite the fact it feels like a thousand degrees outside. I can actually feel my deodorant start to surrender the battle. As I shuffle my hand in the front pocket of my pants, I pull out three quarters to place in the parking meter, assuming it will cover the short time I should be here this afternoon.

  Stepping onto the sidewalk outside of Chesty’s, I give a quick glance at the tinted windows obscuring what’s inside. All I can see is the neon “Open” sign hanging just on the other side of the glass. I can faintly hear classic rock music coming from inside. Since Trixie’s firm abuts to this establishment, I wonder if the music can be heard from inside her office.

  My gaze sweeps what is clearly a town square, the inside block housing a massive red brick and white columned courthouse that’s three stories high. I remember Trixie saying that Whynot is the county seat, so even though the town is miniscule, it makes sense it would have a large courthouse to accommodate an entire county’s legal needs.

  There’s a big, white gazebo on one end of the green lawn. It takes up the center square sitting opposite the courthouse. Massive oak trees dot the property, throwing shade over most of the grass. There are small, homey-looking businesses on the four streets bordering the courthouse square. They’re mostly done in worn brick ranging from dark red to pale pink—some with black shutters, others with awnings sporting charming names like Floyd’s Hardware Emporium or Crump’s Grocery. Ironically, there’s a huge baptist church that sits across a side street from Chesty’s and scattered among the small businesses are old-fashioned homes done in white siding with large porches and green-shingled roofs. It’s midafternoon and there’s not a lot of foot activity on the sidewalks, although a group of three young boys race by me on their bikes heading to God knows where in a small town such as this on a summer day.

  I walk the ten paces or so from the front of Chesty’s to Trixie’s law firm. It has a glossy white wooden door with a brass push handle and large, glass windows to either side with white wooden grids, giving it an old-fashioned sort of feel. There’s a rotund burgundy awning across the top that says Mancinkus Law in gold lettering with the scales of justice between the two words.

  When I open the door, I hear a chiming sound and immediately notice the small lobby is empty. There’s an L-shaped desk that’s completely bare of any computer or accessories, along with two small guest chairs that border one wall with a small table in between that holds a silk plant. On the other wall sits an antique padded bench with an oval coffee table in front of it that holds several issues of Southern Living Magazine.

  I don’t hear anything or see anyone. Assuming she doesn’t have a receptionist, I tentatively call out, “Hello?”

  I get nothing in return, but I can hear some scuffling noises coming from a back hallway that leads off the lobby, so I decide to check it out. The hallway is short with two doors to the left, two on the right, and one at the end with a red exit sign above it.

  The first door on the left is open, and I hit pay dirt with a living human being when I glance in. It’s Trixie’s office, and I know this because I immediately take in a battered wooden desk with a nameplate that says “Patricia Mancinkus” facing front and center. Said living human being is standing on top of the desk, back to me, and I’m at a brief loss as to what to make of said person.

  It’s a she.

  And what a “she”.

  Long legs and short shorts made of white denim with frayed hems. The legs are tanned and toned, and I know this because I can see the calf muscles as the woman stands on her tiptoes—which are clad only in a pair of brown flip-flops—but have sexy bright red nail polish on them. As my gaze travels up, I note she’s wearing a cotton baseball t-shirt that’s white with navy sleeves. It’s riding high so I can see the tanned expanse of her lower back as she reaches one arm up toward the ceiling.

  My eyes travel higher, note the long hair in a ponytail the color of chocolate and cinnamon. The tiny grunt of frustration I hear as the woman tries to screw a bulb into a recessed lighting slot has me recognizing her right away.

  I should have known Trixie’s ass from memory, but that little sound gives her away.

  “Need some help?” I ask as I let my last few seconds of unfettered ogling focus in on her ass and legs once more.

  Most women would have probably yelped, shrieked, or even fallen over backward from the surprise of someone sneaking up on them, but Trixie merely reaches up onto her tiptoes a bit more and grunts out, “Nope… almost… got… it.”

  With a last twist of her wrist, the bulb notches in securely and lights up.

  She turns around with a satisfied smile on her face, looking down at me from on top of her desk. “Well, hello, Ry. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

  Her warm, sweet accent floats through me. A few people call me Ry, but coming from Trixie, it sounds like an endearment, even after all these years. I’m more than a little shocked by the effect it has on me. I told myself before I came here that I was firmly over any sort of feminine wiles Trixie might inadvertently cast my way.

  And if there were wiles thrown, they’d only be inadvertent because as much as I know that I’m over her, there’s no doubt she’s over me. She’s been clear about that from the day she left our little apartment in Cambridge.

  I keep my cool though. “Hello back, Trixie. See you’re still stubbornly doing everything for yourself.”

  She gives me a beautiful, sunny laugh. “You know me well. I only ask for help if I really need it.”

  “Same old Trixie,” I say with a casual smile.

  “Well,” she says with a flirty tilt of her head. “Help a girl down off her desk?”

  I can only oblige as I step closer and hold a hand up to her, assuming she’ll take it and hop down. Again, to my surprise, her hands come to my shoulders instead and without thinking, mine go to her waist so I can lift her down to set her gently on the carpet.

  She stares up at me as we stand there a moment, frozen perhaps in time and memories of what it was like to touch each other in simple yet intimate ways, and I’m ashamed that it feels way too good. Her hazel eyes are bright, welcoming, without a hint of any rancor of the way we parted eleven years ago. I have no clue if my eyes reflect the same to her, but for self-preservation, I reluctantly let her go and take a step back.

  Trixie merely smirks at me in a way that says she sees right through me.

  I also know this trick of hers. It’s how she baits me, but I’m having no part of it. I sweep my gaze around her office and when it comes back to her, I say, “Looks like you’re doing well for yourself.”

  She shrugs and steps behind her desk, flopping down into a battered secretarial chair. She kicks her flip-flopped feet up on her desk and laces her hands over her flat stomach. “I make enough to pay the bills. But nowhere near as well as you’re doing, Mr. Partner-at-Hayes-Lockamy.”

  I pull at my tie, loosening it slightly as I take a seat in one of her guest chairs opposite her desk. They’re mismatched, old, and the one I sit in wobbles slightly. “It’s a good firm.”

  “Keeping you in designer suits,” she says as she nods toward me, making me feel strangely uncomfortable in what I used to feel was my battle armor. In the legal circles I run in, attorneys are judged on how much they pay their tailor.

  I nod right back at her. “Your dress code policy is a little less formal around here.”

  Trixie laughs. “Unless I’m in court, I’m pretty casual.”

  “You always were a casual sort of girl,” I murmur.

  “Nothing’s changed there,” she quips.

  In fact, as I sit here looking across the desk at this beautiful creature I had fashioned myself in love with at one point, I can tell not a damn thing has changed about
her. She’s still the same vibrant, headstrong, confident, elusive, and larger-than-life Trixie Mancinkus.

  Except now, she’s all those things in the little town of Whynot, North Carolina.

  What a waste.

  “So, how about we get down to business and we talk about this case some more?” I say in an effort to keep things on a professional track. “Maybe if you can set me up somewhere, I can start going through the file.”

  Trixie just shakes her head. “No can do right now. Got more important things on the agenda.”

  “Pardon me?” I ask, affronted I just traveled from Boston to help pull her ass out of a bind, and it’s not even at the top of her priorities.

  “We can go over it later tonight,” she says as she pops up from her chair. “But for now, I’ve got to get next door for a pre-birthday party. You’re coming with me.”

  “Next door?” I ask as I stand up from my chair, befuddled and feeling like a puppet on strings. “Pre-birthday?”

  “It’s Pap’s birthday tomorrow,” she says with a wink. “And they’re throwing a little surprise party for him. All the customers think by doing it a day early, it will surprise him, but it never does. We just need to make an appearance, then I’m going to get you settled into your accommodations. I told you I was handling that, right?”

  “Yeah… right,” I say dumbly.

  “Okay, then,” she responds brightly as she rounds the desk and walks out of her office. “Let’s go.”

  I follow her, because… well, I have no choice. Unless we were in the bedroom, Trixie sometimes just steamrolled right over me. So, I make this loss of control bearable by keeping my eyes pinned on her ass the entire time she leads me out of her law firm.

  I can tell by the extra sway she puts in her hips that she’s aware of it too.

  CHAPTER 3

  Trixie