Second Time Sweeter

  Second Time Sweeter

  Ros Baxter

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  Second Time Sweeter

  Ros Baxter

  From rising star Ros Baxter comes a love story about duty, desire, and dairy products.

  Ten years ago, Genevieve Jenkins let the Love of her Life ride out of town while she settled for The Safe Bet. Turns out Mr Safe Bet wasn’t so safe after all, and life in her small home town of Sweet Pocket got kind of sour. The last thing she needs on top of two kids, a sick mother, a deadbeat ex and a heap of bad debt is for Mr Love of her Life to ride back into town, successful, smart, devastatingly sexy, and all the things that she can no longer be.

  And it doesn’t help that she’s dressed as cheese.

  One-time-bad-boy-now-Crop-King Brodie Brown is back in town on a mission of mercy, but he’s keeping his guard up. He can’t let this town—or the girl who broke his heart ten years before—get under his skin. He’s seen what working the land can do to people, and he built his business, and a whole new life, in the big smoke far away from the pain and despair of a farmer’s life. But he loved this town and he loves the people, so when Sweet Pocket calls, he answers. That’s just the way it is.

  But it’s only temporary and it’s only business. Brodie learned long ago that there is nothing left for him in Sweet Pocket but a broken heart and lost dreams. When the town’s future is secure, he’ll ride away again—back to his life and his future, and away from the girl who could make both worthwhile.

  About the Author

  Ros writes fresh, funny, genre-busting fiction. She digs feisty heroines, quirky families, heroes who make you sigh and tingle, and a dash of fantasy from time to time.

  In her spare time, Ros is a public servant, consultant, mother, and taxi service.

  She also coordinates “Tomorrowgirl”, a short story competition for remote Indigenous girls in Australia. You can find out more at www.tomorrowgirl.com.au.

  Ros lives in Brisbane, Australia, with her husband Blair, four small but very opinionated children, a neurotic dog and nine billion germs.

  You can email Ros at rosbaxterink@gmail.com, find her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/RosBaxterInk, or on twitter @RosBaxter. You can also visit her website http://www.rosbaxterink.com.

  Acknowledgements

  I grew up in country towns, and I’m sure those places burn themselves into your DNA, no matter how far you might travel from them, or how different you might think you’ve become. There are things about me that will always be small town—things like ‘dropping in’, knowing everyone’s back-story, and understanding that someone is sure to see you if you’re doing something you shouldn’t be.

  So my first and biggest thanks for this book goes to everyone who was part of the country towns I grew up in—people who taught me the endless plot possibilities of places where people stay connected to each other, for better or worse.

  Special thanks for this novel also go, as always, to my support crew—my husband, Blair, my sister, Alison, and my babies. Next comes the lovely Kate Cuthbert of Escape Publishing, my editor Lauren, and all the Escape crew.

  Also to my writer friends, who are cool, funny and supportive. You rock.

  And last but very far from least, to the fabulous readers and reviewers who continue to support my work—my ongoing thanks for your enthusiasm.

  To Meredith and Louise—my hometown homies and monthly lunch dates.

  Old habits die hard.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One: Insult to injury

  Chapter Two: Boots and all

  Chapter Three: Compromises

  Chapter Four: Deal with the Devil

  Chapter Five: Slam dunk

  Chapter Six: The high life

  Chapter Seven: Down to business

  Chapter Eight: Seafood and Sydney

  Chapter Nine: The next step

  Chapter Ten: Bad moon rising

  Chapter Eleven: Showdown

  Chapter Twelve: Showtime

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter One

  Insult to injury

  Ten years since she’d seen him, and she had to be wearing cheese.

  Genevieve Jenkins shuffled under the Styrofoam dairy product, and wished she could itch her nose. She tried to block out the sight of the long, lean man standing next to her at the front of the classroom, filling out a pair of old blue jeans as if he’d been stitched into them. She stared steadily down at his muddy brown boots, and tuned in to the voice of her son’s teacher.

  She felt like the two of them had been called in front of the class—show and tell.

  She groaned internally at the thought. Brodie Brown had been showing and telling her things since they’d been six years old. Funny things, interesting things, and even downright dirty things. Well, up until a decade ago at least. She shuffled again, glad at the very least that the cheese hid the hot blush that crept up her chest all the way to her chin.

  ‘And so,’ Mrs Sticklen intoned, taking a deep breath and nudging Genevieve forward a little towards the group of parents sitting around the table, bodies crunched into tiny chairs and looking as if they could use a drink. ‘The theme for this year’s Spring Fair is You Are What You Eat. The organising committee thinks it is especially fitting given the new focus of the region on organic farming. The agricultural show is more important than usual this year, with organic certification pending, and the school’s involvement will be critical.’ She cleared her throat. ‘After all, the school is the hub of our little community. And it is our beautiful, wholesome community we are selling here.’ She gestured towards Genevieve and her Styrofoam. ‘Perhaps even more than dairy products.’ The faces around the little table murmured agreement. ‘A happy, untouched valley. An antidote to all the vice, excess and wickedness of a world gone mad.’

  The teacher stepped back, her speech done. Genevieve gave her a B-minus.

  Lucky Mrs Sticklen didn’t know exactly how excessive and wicked Brodie Brown really was. And the kind of vice he could make seem appealing with one crook of an eyebrow.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Sticklen,’ the denim-clad man beside her said, pushing back his cowboy hat and turning to the grey-haired teacher. His hands were big and expressive as he waved them in a gesture of ‘help me out here’. Genevieve wasn’t close enough to see if he still bit his fingernails down to the quick and forgot to wash the tractor grease off the back part of his right hand. ‘I just love the whole dress-up thing.’ He grinned widely. ‘But I’m wonderin’ … will there be any fruit costumes at the fair? ’Cause I’d sure like to see Ms Jenkins here as a pineapple.’ He turned back to Genevieve, smiled that over-achieving, blinding white smile, and she wished she had a couple of free hands with which to give him a Chinese burn. He would be loving this, after what had gone down the last time they’d seen each other. He’d be enjoying every second of her fall from grace. ‘I just love pineapple.’

  The older woman smiled back at him indulgently. ‘Oh now, Mr Brown, I’m glad you spoke up. It gives us all the chance to show our appreciation for your sponsorship of our little shindig, and the help you’re giving the town as we navigate these troubled times.’

  The parents and teachers ceased their chair shuffling and fidgeting to beam as one at the star in their midst. Genevieve sighed and blew her auburn fringe out of her eyes. Cheese was hot. Even Styrofoam cheese.

  Mrs Sticklen went on. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to say how thrilled we are to have our favourite son not only back in town for the season, but taking such an interest in his old school and the Spring Fair.’

  The cowboy flapped his hand as the group broke into a litt
le round of applause. ‘Well thank you, Mrs S.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t ever remember getting such a good report from you. In fact, I seem to recall I was possibly your least favourite son back in grade three.’ The group laughed, pulled under the spell of his low, slow, country-boy charm. ‘But let me just say I am thrilled to be here too. And so looking forward to working with the sweetest little cheese I ever saw.’ He gestured towards Genevieve, who smiled back weakly and mentally stepped through how good it would feel to inflict that Chinese burn. She knew from all her parenting that sometimes imaginary smacks were just as satisfying as real ones, without the guilt and repercussions.

  How? How had she agreed to this? As if she didn’t have enough on her plate.

  She thought back to the text message she’d read from her best friend the day before, as she’d walked into the Spring Fair Organising Committee meeting. It was in caps, as KD did when she had a point to make:

  DO NOT TAKE IT ON. LET THE STICKLER DO IT.

  Genevieve had her reasons for joining the Spring Fair Organising Committee. And she’d only said yes to helping Mrs Sticklen present the plans for the school’s involvement to the Parents and Citizens Association because her son Will needed so much, and she felt she owed them all somehow—the school, the other parents, and especially cranky old Mrs Sticklen, who had a way with Will that Genevieve could certainly never remember The Stickler having twenty years ago when she’d been her own teacher. The old girl was, as her mother liked to remind her, ‘a good stick’.

  The town needed the school to get on board if the fair was going to work. The organic certifiers and potential buyers needed to be sold on the whole town, not just its dairy products. Gen knew enough to understand that was how these things worked. Organic is all about no-chemicals, sure, but it’s also about the community—people connected to each other; rosy-cheeked kids singing at local fairs; happy places people feel like they remember from some distant past.

  And she felt good about this yarn they were preparing to spin; it wasn’t some bullshit lie. Sweet Pocket was really like that, for the most part. Look at how it had stood up as one to Devondish Dairy. Gen was hopeful she could help show the certifiers and the buyers what it was that made Sweet Pocket special.

  But still. She would never have agreed to any of it—being on the organising committee or being the school liaison—if she’d known Brodie Brown was the surprise sponsor Mrs Sticklen had been so dizzy about.

  And she would certainly never have agreed to wear a cheese for the big reveal.

  Why did this shit always happen to her? Why couldn’t she just learn to say no?

  At least she could assure herself that it would be over soon. She knew, like she knew the sun set in the west, that the P and C meeting always finished by ten pm sharp. The Stickler was as punctual about her Law and Order addiction as she was about everything else. Genevieve didn’t have long to wait. And just as well, because the troops were getting restless and Brodie was coming to the end of his bonhomie.

  Favourite son. What a crock.

  Brodie Brown had been the naughtiest boy Sweet Pocket had ever seen.

  And judging by the way he was sizing up her cheese, with a carnivorous look that told her he was definitely not lactose intolerant, some things never changed.

  Despite their history.

  Gen was surprised he could even look at her.

  ***

  ‘Nice costume in there tonight, Gen Jen.’ Brodie winked at her, holding her door open and standing so close she could smell Rexona and see the dark hair lining his temples.

  ‘Get lost, Bro Bro,’ she hissed, clasping a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee with one hand and waving at the principal as he got into his car across the street with the other. The night was warm and wet, and the first drops of rain splashed her nose. ‘And stop taking liberties with Una.’ She prised his hands off the door of her beloved utility. ‘And …’ And what? Where to start? ‘And what the hell is with the cowboy hat?’

  ‘What?’ Brodie frowned and pouted, those slate-grey eyes narrowing playfully. ‘You don’t think I’m still a country boy? Just because I live in the big smoke now?’

  Oh, she knew he was a country boy alright. She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory of too many long, lazy Sunday afternoons hiding out in his aunt’s barn, watching those smoky eyes turn stormy.

  He was standing close, so close, and she could hardly believe that he still wore the same deodorant he had in senior year. She would have thought a guy with his kind of cash would have moved on to Armani.

  It was hard to decide if she loved or hated the close heat of him. It was familiar, and yet deliciously foreign—it had been a long, long time since she had held him in her arms, and they’d both been little more than kids back then. Her fingers tingled with the desire to reach up and see if his hair was still the same kind of scratchy-soft.

  Bad idea.

  ‘As I recall,’ she huffed, kicking him in the shin so he would step back a little and let her get in to her beat-up utility, ‘you were more a baseball cap kinda boy. And you were more into basketball than calf-roping. But I guess it’s expected.’ She sniffed, indicating the hat with her finger. ‘Now that you’re the Crop Country King.’

  Brodie threw back his head and laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbing under what you might have thought was a designer five o’clock shadow, if you didn’t know that Brodie Brown never did anything to impress anyone. At least, at eighteen he hadn’t.

  ‘Well, we’ve all got a thing,’ he said.

  ‘Yep,’ Genevieve agreed, lowering herself into the driver’s seat. ‘I’ve got two and they’re waiting at home with Mum. So I’d better go say goodnight.’

  He didn’t seem surprised to have learned she had two kids. Brodie leaned close, shutting her door for her. For a second, his face clouded over, and she couldn’t decide which way he was prettier—flirting and joking, or coming over all dark and kind of menacing. His face was very close to hers; she could feel the warm lick of his breath on her cheek, and she wanted to turn her head and feel it on her neck.

  What the hell kind of wanton was she?

  Like a child’s tantrum, the moment passed, and he smiled again. ‘Say hi to her for me,’ he said.

  Now it was Genevieve’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh, she’d love that,’ she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘She still swears at the TV whenever your ads come on.’

  Brodie rolled his eyes at the truth of it.

  Genevieve turned the key in the ignition, gunning the engine to send him the message that the audience was over. But he still leaned casually against the ute, taking his time. Always taking his time. He cleared his throat. ‘I heard your mum’s not been well,’ he said, going slow, as if he was picking his way carefully. ‘Hope everything’s okay?’

  Gen swallowed hard. This was dangerous territory between the two of them. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’

  Brodie nodded and then gestured back towards the school. ‘So how come you’re taking this on then?’ He frowned. ‘I would have thought you’ve got enough on your plate. Two little ones …’

  She raised an eyebrow. Her mother really wasn’t any of his business.

  ‘Aunt Nelly keeps me plugged in,’ he said, shrugging. ‘So? Why you doin’ this?’

  Gen sighed. ‘I dunno. I felt like I should help out.’ Did he know how deep the town was in it? She screwed her face up and considered his, outlined in only a yellow halo from the streetlamps. He was unreadable, but he must know some stuff, if his aunt really did keep him plugged in. ‘We all need to kick in right now,’ she finished softly.

  ‘Yep, I heard about what’s going down,’ he said, taking off his hat and spinning it a little in those big hands. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Surprised you care,’ she said, trying to keep the meanness out of her voice. ‘I thought you hated farming.’ She made little inverted commas signs with her fingers as she followed up with ‘I thought if you “never saw the arse end of a milker again for
the rest of your life it would be too soon”.’

  He laughed in a way that sounded like he thought she walking a fine line, and it was so dark and low that some mad memory started knocking on the door of Gen’s pelvic floor, trying to remind her of things she had no right to be thinking about. ‘I’ve always been interested in farming,’ he corrected her with a warning growl. ‘You know that better than anyone.’

  ‘Just not being a farmer,’ Gen said, trying to smile so it sounded less like an accusation.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ he agreed, shoving the hat back on his head. ‘Far more lucrative selling farmers the shit they need to play roulette with this fickle bitch of a country.’

  Genevieve nodded. Which was why he was rich and she was wearing cheese.

  But she didn’t blame him, not really. She knew better than anyone why he felt the way he did about the land. And it wasn’t as though he hadn’t done his time romancing that particular bitch. ‘Things are different now,’ she offered weakly.

  He nodded, and she saw that look on his face—the set jaw, the hooded eyes—that said he was past ready for a change of subject. ‘Yep. So where is Mac tonight?’

  The breath sucked from Genevieve’s lungs, and her face flushed.

  Okay, so maybe Brodie wasn’t as plugged in as he thought.

  For the briefest instant she wished she still had the cover of the cheese to hide the wild hammering in her chest that she was sure must be visible to the naked eye. ‘He’s … er …’ She gave herself a mental talking-to. She had nothing to be ashamed of. ‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘He left. A year ago now.’ Gen could well imagine why Aunt Nelly hadn’t shared that titbit. Genevieve’s mother wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been wild about the teenage infatuation between Genevieve and Brodie.

  ‘Oh,’ Brodie said, pushing his hat back again and watching her face closely. ‘He left Sweetiepie? For good?’

  She smiled at his old name for the town, even though the effort of it felt about as easy as pushing a tractor up Old Arsehole, the biggest hill on her little farm. Her face didn’t crack with the effort of the smile, so she backed up with a nod, not trusting herself. If her voice broke, she didn’t want Brodie to mistakenly think it was because she missed Mac, that lying arsehole. Nor did she want him to think it broke because the effort of not screaming aloud how much she wanted to kill Mac hurt her throat. Which it did (hurt). And which she did (want to kill him). But it just didn’t seem like the kind of thing you told the guy who had even more reason than you to hate his ex-best friend. Or at least he thought he did.