Sweet Home Carolina

By Kim Boykin

Darcy Vance has sunk every cent she has into making Mimosa House the best bed and breakfast in Magnolia Bay. But the key to her success lies in the hands of the Historic Preservation Society run by the Bloom bitches who are embarrassed about their father’s connection to the storied house and they have no intention of validating it with a spot on the society’s registry.

After losing his PGA card, Trent Mauldin has come home to Magnolia Bay to lick his wounds and has no plans to stay. Until he falls for Darcy. Things heat up between the two until Trent’s good intentions to help Darcy go sideways. While Darcy works to save her house, Trent fights to win her back and keep her in Magnolia Bay for good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: May 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781940296401

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to Erika Marks who makes this remarkable journey so much fun.

Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the crown jewel of the South Carolina Lowcountry—Magnolia Bay, the perfect setting for Sweet Home Carolina’s feisty heroine and hot southern hero. Author and fabulous gal pal, Erika Marks, and I have had a blast creating this tiny historical community just thirty miles north of Charleston.

Set in Magnolia Bay, Sweet Home Carolina is sass and seduction. It’s moonlight and mimosa trees. It’s blessing your heart one minute and making it beat out of your chest the next.

Want to know when the next book in the series will be out? LIKE our Magnolia Bay Facebook page to find out about new releases AND a contest for a fabulous girlfriend getaway to the Isle of Palms in the Charleston Lowcountry!

Thanks forever,

Kim Boykin

Chapter One

The ancient clock that came with the house chimed the hour. As I shinnied down the ladder, I ran through the to-do list in my head—shower at ten, hair appointment at eleven, then back to the grind of turning Mimosa House into a stellar bed-and-breakfast. My brain counted the bongs as they reverberated off of the walls of my new lease on life that came with a seven-figure mortgage. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Eleven? Shit.

I stepped into my good flip-flops by the front door, the ones with hardly any paint on them, grabbed my purse and keys, and sprinted toward the Jeep.

"Yankee." The hiss came from my lovely neighbor, Mr. Hunsucker, who was somewhere between five and a hundred and five years old and wasn’t at all happy I was opening a B&B. He was watering the prize roses he’d accused me of pilfering on more than one occasion. Okay, so when I thought no one was looking, I’d pulled a spent blossom off, just to smell it, which made me a flower thief and a Yankee.

Good morning, Mr. Hunsucker, I called and then ducked into the Jeep before the spray drenched my windshield. Missed me.

Looking up at him in my rearview mirror, he only held up his middle finger a few seconds this time. A new record. Yep, I was definitely growing on him. I glanced at my hair and tucked a stray strand behind my ear. Thanks to the unusually hot Low-Country spring and all my DIY renovations, I’d been aching to have it chopped off. As a matter of fact, the day the air conditioning went out in the money pit I’d been trying to turn into Magnolia Bay’s finest bed-and-breakfast, I came close to taking the kitchen shears to my waist-length red hair.

That horrific thought sent me searching through the Welcome Wagon basket one of the friendly residents dropped off six months ago, just after I moved into the beautiful little South Carolina town. I found the business card for The Sassy Scissors, requested an appointment with Rosie Mauldin, and took the earliest one I could get.

Five after eleven, the Jeep came to a stop in front of the salon, and a jolt of adrenaline zinged through my body like a triple shot of espresso. Sure, I was a little buzzed from the fear of missing a hair appointment, but excited too about being around people for a change. I knew restoring Mimosa House to its former glory would be a lonely job, and when I ditched my corner office in the corporate world, I had actually looked forward to the solitude. But the first four months of renovations on Mimosa House, the Charlestonian mansion I’d sunk my life savings into, provided anything but. I’d hated having workers and contractors around all the time. Resented having to hire them to do the projects I couldn’t tackle myself. 

For the last eight weeks, I’d been cooped up in the house alone with a twenty-two page to-do list, painting mostly, perfecting. I’d missed having someone around to talk to, but didn’t dare stop working long enough to make friends. Not when I had just a little over three weeks to get the house open for the Memorial Day weekend historic home tour.

Problem was, I couldn’t get anyone on the Magnolia Bay Historical Society board to return my phone calls to find out when or if Mimosa House would be added to the tour. The house met all the historical requirements. But the society liked to pick and choose the history it sells to tourists from all over the world, and, as a former brothel, Mimosa House just wasn’t their type.

Of course, I did my homework before I bought the property and knew there could be problems with the Bloom clan, the most prominent family in town. Magnolia Bay was founded in 1826 by Angus Crawford Bloom. Fast forward almost two centuries later, Violet Bloom and her two of her five daughters still ruled the town. They either weren’t interested in preserving the inn’s part of the town’s history or they were too embarrassed about Violet’s late husband Rembert’s connection to the former brothel to acknowledge my requests.

I’d even marched myself up to Violet’s daughters, Daisy and Camellia, at a Historical Society fundraiser a few weeks ago. Their tight smiles said they knew who I was and what I wanted, and that they had no intention of giving it to me. But I didn’t back down. When they politely excused themselves from my company, I asked for an appointment to discuss getting the house on the town’s historic registry.

Having the endorsement of the Magnolia Bay Preservation Society meant everything, especially to the tourists. It would put Mimosa House on the board’s website, in their brochures. And their advertisements, something I had hoped to have some budget left for, but thanks to the four shiny new HVAC units, I had no money to spend on ads.

The sisters smiled their charming southern smiles and then gave me an appointment all right—next January.  And that was it from the Bloom bitches. No pity for my dire situation, no discussion, just a wave of the hand to dismiss me like a peasant. Which was another good reason I dropped what I was doing and ran out of the house five minutes ago. A long awaited audience with the eldest Bloom sister, Rosie.

I checked my look in the mirror. No paint spatters on my face or in my hair, although getting all of them out had taken a full hour and a quart of Duke’s mayonnaise. I looked decent. Hardworking. Sure I had no makeup on, but I wasn’t man hunting, not by a long shot. My outfit—outfit? Shit. 

I’d been in such a rush, I’d forgotten to change out of my favorite paper-thin cutoffs that barely resembled denim anymore. Even worse, I was wearing my paint spattered Yenz is right. Y’all is Stupid T-shirt my brother sent me after he moved to Pittsburgh. I could turn it wrong side out, but then I’d look like I’d just stepped out of the back seat of a car. Or I could wear it as is and offend the entire southern half of the nation. I ducked down in the seat and flipped the shirt.

My knees gave a little as I pushed open the door and entered the sanctity of The Sassy Scissors. But it wasn’t from desperation over my home or my hair. It was the same feeling I got when I walked into one of the neighborhood pubs back home in Chicago, friendly, welcoming. Belonging.

The place was large with six stations, although only three of them seemed to be occupied. I signed in at the front desk and took my place in the reception area. Across the room, a pretty, older woman looked up from the head full of foils she was working on and grinned. Hi, I’m Rosie, and you much be Darcy.

Rosie Mauldin was the oldest of Violet Bloom’s daughters, and by most people’s standards, the least prominent. According to my research and bits and pieces of info from the workers who came and went from my house, Rosie owned the Sassy Scissors. She’d divorced Big Jack Mauldin ten years ago after he sold the family home so he could pay off his gambling debts. Not six months after the divorce was final, he hit the lottery, literally, and was set for life. Rosie wasn’t rich, but as a hair stylist, I was betting she had some influence over the townspeople and hopefully her stuck-up sisters.

Yes ma’am, sorry I’m late. Even after ten years south of the Mason-Dixon Line, the word ma’am sounded funny coming out of my mouth. Another custom I’d picked up when at Emory Law School in Atlanta.

Back home, whenever I slipped up and said yes ma’am to my mom, she’d quickly remind me that west of the Mississippi River, ma’am is for old ladies.

I’ll be with you in about ten minutes, sugar, Rosie said.

Two women under the dryer laughed and talked while their color processed. A younger stylist with white-blonde hair and eggplant purple streaks was chatting up her customer while she shaped her chestnut-colored bob. The laughter, the gossip, the estrogen-filled room were just what I needed, and for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel so frazzled, so lonely.

Thanks, Rosie. No rush. I picked a People magazine off a stack, and started flipping through the pages. Whether I could talk Rosie Bloom into helping my cause or not, one thing was for sure, it was high time for a little pampering.

A woman under the dryer pointed at the magazine I was reading and raised the hood a little. "Good Lord, Rosie, you’ve still got the People with Kate’s baby bump on the cover? Honey, that shrimp boat’s done sailed."

Hush, Bernice, and put that hood back down or your color’s going to take forever to process, Rosie snapped playfully. "Besides, I love that cover. Her and William look so happy, downright sweet, and Kate’s hair always looks fabulous."

Bernice lowered the hood. Well this girl’s obviously new to Magnolia Bay, and I don’t want her getting the idea that we’re old hat.

I smiled and kept flipping the pages of the old magazine. One of the things I loved most about Magnolia Bay was its rich history. It was the reason I’d bought and renovated the stately old mansion on Bayshore Drive. I’d looked into homes in historic Charleston and Savannah, but couldn’t afford anything big enough to turn into a profitable bed–and-breakfast. As it was, the renovations had cost more than twice the amount I’d planned, and if things didn’t pan out—I couldn’t let myself think like that.

Funny thing about a house like Mimosa House, good sense would tell anyone else to cut their losses, go back to practicing law in the big corner office, and being miserable. At least I could afford food and shoes, really great shoes. But it turns out buying a house like mine makes you a gambler, willing to double down at every freaking opportunity until you’re on whatever is ten times smaller than a shoestring budget. But there wouldn’t be much point in even opening the doors if I couldn’t get the Historical Society’s stamp of approval.

Well, I don’t give a hoot in hell about the royals. The old woman under the dryer beside Bernice piped up. But every time I see a picture of that baby, they have him in a dress. I think that’s fine for the christening, but a little boy, even a little king ought to dress like a boy.

Ida, Bernice huffed. For the hundredth time, putting your grandson in a dress didn’t make him gay. Folks either are or they aren’t; you got to let that one go, honey.

"It confuses the hell out of those babies, the old woman said. I’m sure of it."

"He’s a baaaaby, Ida. For God’s sake, just let the gay thing go."

Darcy, don’t pay them any mind, Rosie said. Ida and Bernice are sisters; they’re always like that.

Before I could reply, the front door opened and my breath caught a little. Trouble walked into the salon. Tall, broad-shouldered, shirtless, and gorgeous, he pushed his dirty blond hair away from dangerous green eyes and plopped down in the chair of one of the vacant stations. I wanted to smack myself for gawking, but I wasn’t the only woman in the room staring at him, even Bernice and Ida’s faces were flushed like young girls’.

Trenton James Mauldin, I raised you better, Rosie fussed. You better put your shirt on this minute.

Please. Don’t. I shook the thought out of my head. I couldn’t afford such a pretty distraction, not even a little bit. But it doesn’t cost anything to look. Right? Wrong. It costs a lot to look, at least it did last time I let myself feel all fluttery at the sight of a pretty face. The pretty face, and the reason I’d sworn off men. For good.

It’s hot outside. Tiny beads of sweat trailed down the guy’s chest toward the narrow planes of his belly. Holy hell.

This minute! Rosie punctuated the order with her rattail comb.

My hair won’t stay out of my face and it’s driving me nuts. He pulled on his damp T-shirt that clung to abs that I was reasonably sure were airbrushed. Can you buzz it for me? Now?

Nooooooooooo. What the hell was wrong with me? What did I