Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  But I don’t feel all right as I wrap my arms around Bel when it’s time for her to go. Regret sits like a stone inside my chest.

  Sending her off with a half-hearted hug—sending her off at all—feels wrong.

  I know I’m doing the right thing.

  I just wish it didn’t feel so goddamn awful.

  Chapter Twelve

  Annabel

  I wheel the stroller into the restaurant at exactly 5:01 PM.

  The place is empty. Maisie is quietly snoozing, pacifier hanging out of her open mouth.

  I pray she stays that way. Long gone are the days of my leisurely eight PM dinners. Now it’s pure survival mode, shoving food in my face whenever I have a second. In my new life as a mom, that’s around the time of Blue-Hair specials. The later it gets, the crankier my baby is. So what used to be the start of cocktail hour has turned into five o’clock dinner, drink, and dash.

  I got Mom that massage, plus a facial and this North Carolina clay body wrap thing (why not?), so she’s been at the spa all day while I fly solo with the baby. Even though getting the two of us presentable enough to leave the house took literally three hours, I really needed to get out after a long day of mourning. Because that’s what this feels like: a death.

  The death of the infallible guy I’ve known since college.

  The death of our foolish, delicious youth.

  The death of the possibility we could be more than friends.

  That Beau could be the one.

  The irony that we can’t be together—in his mind, anyway—when we need each other the most, when we’re both single and both craving the presence and the touch of someone who knows us, truly, deeply knows us, is painful beyond measure.

  Maybe that’s why we finally made out at the dock house after years of pining for each other like idiot teenagers. Because we’re dying to be known. Understood. Despite the fact that we’re feeling less than: less than perfect. Less than desirable.

  The problem is, Beau really does think he’s dying. Who am I to refute that? I imagine he’s sought out the opinion of the best doctors and therapists out there. He’s a smart guy. He’s not prone to hyperbole. If he thinks he’s sick, then he’s really sick.

  I did my own late-night Google search after I got home from Beau’s yesterday. I remember researching CTE when they discovered it in Mr. Beauregard’s brain. But that was ten, twelve years ago. Now, there’s much more information. And many, many more resources for people like Beau who have been diagnosed with probable degenerative brain disease.

  The statistics are admittedly scary. The incidence of CTE in athletes who played tackle positions, like Beau, is very, very high. Beau was an outside linebacker in the pros for almost a decade. Never mind the years he played in high school and college. He had something like five hundred total tackles in his career, one hundred sacks. Who knows how many hits to the helmet he sustained?

  Enough to cause serious, traumatic injury, that’s for damn sure.

  Several football players who committed suicide were later shown to have had CTE. Men like Mr. Beauregard.

  Still. Maybe this makes me naïve, but I don’t buy that Beau will end up like his dad. He’s being proactive in a way his dad was sadly never able to. Yes, his dad had money to afford good care. But twelve years ago, they just didn’t know what we do now about CTE. There have been lots of medical advancements since then.

  But how do I make him see that? Is it even right to try? I’m no fortune teller. I can’t read the future any better than he can. And even if I could convince him his story will be different, there’s no guarantee that he and I will be better off as lovers rather than friends, or that we’re right for each other in the long run. What if we blow up and the fallout sends him reeling? What if it impacts his mental health or mine in ways we could never anticipate?

  Doesn’t make his refusal sit any lighter. I recognize the weight in the pit of my stomach as grief. I felt it when my parents’ marriage ended. I felt it again when mine ended, too. It’s familiar and it’s awful, and I know nothing will fix it except time and grace.

  But for now, a good meal will go a long way in helping me cope.

  Gliding the stroller back and forth—out of habit—I manage a smile as Samuel strides across the restaurant to greet us.

  “Hey, y’all! How’ve you been?” He presses a scruffy kiss into my cheek. My body rings with the memory of a similar kiss, planted in a similar place.

  Drawing a sharp breath, I reply, “We’re hanging in there. You have room for a party of one and a half? I promise we’ll be out of here before six.”

  Samuel’s handsome face creases into his habitual smile. “We’ll always have room for you, Annabel. That little nugget is always welcome, and y’all definitely don’t have to rush.” He leans down to smile at the baby. “Good Lord, she’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “C’mon, follow me. I got the best table in the house waitin’ for you.”

  “If you could put us in a corner, maybe a little ways from other tables, that’d be great.”

  “Course. Keep in mind, this is a family-friendly place, Annabel. You don’t have to worry.”

  But judging by the white tablecloths and multiple crystal wine glasses holding court at each place setting, I don’t think anyone dines here often except well-heeled adults with expensive wine habits.

  He seats us in a cushy leather booth toward the back of the barn. Afternoon sun streams through nearby windows, one of them open to catch the warm spring breeze. Daylight savings time started two weeks ago, so the light inside the restaurant is bright. Strong. Makes me feel like I’m here for lunch or something, when all I want is a dark, moody, buzzy dinner.

  I feel so tired, so bummed, that I want to crawl into bed and stay there for a week.

  I thank Samuel when he sets down menus and fills my glass with a bottle of sparkling water that has magically appeared (what’s up with all the magically appearing water at this place?).

  “He told you,” Samuel murmurs, setting down the bottle.

  I look up at him. Parse through all the words in my head. All the things I’m feeling.

  “I’m crushed. How are you? How has he been? I feel like a shit for not knowing. Or asking. I had a feeling something was up, but…”

  “We’re doing what we can to help. He’s been…all right. Staying busy with the farm. He’s always kept himself in pretty great shape, and now he’s just doing more of that. Eating well, trying to get good rest, exercising like a motherfucker. I’m happy that I can be here with him. We all are. He’d never say as much, but he needs us right now. His family. He needs you. No matter what he says, he needs all of us, Annabel.”

  I fold my napkin across my lap. I will not cry in public.

  “I’m happy I’m here, too,” I say.

  “Cut yourself some slack. About not knowing. He didn’t want to tell you until he was ready. Until you were ready, which he didn’t think you would be considering that little event right there.” Samuel nods at Maisie. “Although I did say he should’ve filled you in right from the beginning. I don’t like secrets.”

  “Me neither. But I understand why he did it. I’m just”—I swallow—“so torn up for him.”

  Samuel looks at me. “I know. He’s in good hands.”

  “He thinks his life is over.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not in so many words.” I can’t help it. I have to ask. “I disagree. Don’t you?”

  “Of course I disagree. That’s—” Samuel sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s just him, Annabel. He’s always thinking about the people he loves first. He doesn’t want to disappoint anyone. So he’s preparing us for the worst—”

  “When really, he should be hoping for the best.”

  “Right. I wish I could tell you how to make him see the bright side. I’ve tried. So has Milly, and Mama, and Hank and Rhett. Everyone’s on it. But you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”


  “He’s not old.”

  “He’s older’n me. Less good-looking, too, but you already know that.” Samuel smiles, and so do I. “Point is, my brother, he’s set in his ways. He’s always been cocky on the outside and serious on the inside. I want him to be happy. I want him to have a real future. We all do. Not to beat these animal metaphors to death here, but you can lead a horse to water…”

  I nod, blowing out my cheeks. “In the meantime, we just keep trying?”

  “Yep. We keep bein’ there for him. Keep showing him that we care. Maybe he’ll come around. Maybe he won’t. Either way, it’s worth the effort. Stick around for a while, would you? I know you got a lot going on—and he’s sensitive to that, so he’ll go along with whatever you need—but stay at the resort as long as you can. Please. Beau hasn’t been himself lately. But I can already tell with you around, he’s better. Happier. Happier than he’s been in a while.”

  My heart palpitates. Weird that I’m proud of that? Being able to light someone up that way?

  I just know how good it feels, because Beau lights me up like that. Just by being there, being himself.

  But how can I bring him back to that guy? How can I help?

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, of course. I mean, let’s be real, Samuel. It’s no hardship hanging out on Blue Mountain Farm. This place is ridiculous in all the best ways. The service, the accommodations. The views. Thank you. For having me and my little family. We appreciate it more than you know.”

  “We appreciate you bein’ here and enjoying our farm. We want you to take advantage of everything we have to offer. Food, spa, activities. Speaking of…” Samuel cracks open the hefty wine list. “What can I get you? Our wine list is second to none in the state. Largely thanks to yours truly. Did Beau tell you my private collection formed the basis of our list?”

  I laugh. “You get that ego from Beau?”

  “Beauregard boys were all born with it, I suppose.” He claps his hands together. Gives them a rub. “You thinking red or w—”

  “You must be Annabel.” A woman, petite and pretty, appears at Samuel’s elbow. She holds out her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Emma.”

  I take her hand. The name rings a bell. “Ah! You’re the sommelier Beau’s told me about. He says you’re amazing.”

  Clasping her hands behind her back, she rolls up on her toes, clearly pleased.

  At the same time, I can’t help but notice the way Samuel goes stiff beside her.

  “Beau is too kind. Yes, I’ve come up to the mountain for a bit of a trial run.”

  “Nothing’s set in stone yet,” Samuel grunts.

  I glance between the two of them. “How’s it going so far?”

  Emma purses her lips. Samuel glowers.

  “What can I get you to drink?” Emma clips. “Beau says you know wine. If that’s the case, I’d like to recommend something new we’ve got on the menu. It’s a red from a small maker called Ve—”

  “You should try a grenache. Or a blend.” Samuel edges in, cutting Emma a glance. “Greene Family Vineyards makes a great red blend. It’s delicious, especially for its price point.”

  Emma cuts him a glance right back, sharp and quick. “Verity is also a great bargain. They put a little charbono in, giving that plum a nice smoky edge.”

  “You and the braggy grapes.” Samuel turns to her, hands on his hips. “If I had a dime—”

  “If I had a dime for every time you ‘casually’ mention your seven-figure private collection—”

  “Then you’d have a seven-figure collection, too. I get it. Jealous much?”

  Emma crosses her arms and thrusts her head forward. “Jealous of your entitled attitude and endless need for validation? Sure. Yeah. Definitely jealous of that.”

  “You know I’d be your boss, right? I can—”

  “Fire me? Ha. I dare you. I don’t work for you yet, remember? Your brother will have a fit if I leave before y’all even hire me. Your wine program will take a nosedive when I go, contrary to what you believe about your own prowess.”

  “Our wine program will be just fine without you, thank you very much.”

  “That’s not what Beau says. And deep down, you know that’s not true. Why can’t you just admit I know more than you?”

  Samuel’s nostrils flare as he stares her down. Emma is a small girl, and he dwarfs her. He’d dwarf anyone. He’s the biggest of the Beauregard boys, and that’s saying something. Not that it seems to faze her one iota. She’s going toe to toe with him, and I have to admit, it’s kinda fun to watch.

  These two do not like each other.

  I think they might also want to tear each other’s clothes off.

  I shouldn’t smile, because really, whatever’s going on between them is none of my business. But smiling feels nice right now: a welcome antidote to the brick sitting in my stomach.

  “I was actually going to go with a mocktail,” I say in an attempt to break the stalemate. “Something not too sweet?”

  Emma turns to offer me a tight smile. “My favorite mocktail on the menu is the basil and lime smash. We make it with club soda, so it’s more refreshing than sweet.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  With one last wicked glance at Samuel—Lord, if looks could kill—she disappears across the restaurant.

  Samuel watches her go. “Sorry you had to see that. I don’t normally get into it with staff in front of guests. But Emma and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

  “I picked up on that. She gives as good as she gets.”

  “I know.” A muscle in his jaw—same one as Beau’s—twitches. “It’s so damn annoying.”

  “Annoying?” I sip my water. “Or arousing?”

  Samuel shakes his head and straightens, taking a long breath through his nose. “Y’all enjoy your meal. If there’s anything we can do for you, just say the word.”

  “Will do.”

  He heads toward the front of the restaurant.

  “Prowess,” Samuel mutters as he goes, running a hand up the back of his head. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

  To: Annabel Rhodes (ARhodes@unc.edu)

  From: John Riley Beauregard (JRBeauregard@unc.edu)

  April 29, 2006 3:01 AM EST

  Subject: Re: HOLY SH!T YOU GOT DRAFTED!!!!!!!!!

  BEL ONLY 21 DAYS UNTIL YOU COME HOME! Not that I’m counting. I can’t wait to celebrate with you. This has been the longest semester without you here.

  We had a draft party with the team on campus, but I’m waiting for you to come home to really throw down. Should we go somewhere ridiculous, just because we can? Aruba, Bahamas? I know you’ll just be getting back from Spain, but I’m down if you are.

  I can afford this shit now. How wild is that?

  TBH the whole draft experience has been a whirlwind. After the combine I got really excited about going pro. Been my dream for as long as I can remember. Just wish my dad could’ve been here to see it come true. We all miss him. Samuel especially has really been struggling since the funeral.

  I’m doing my best to fill Daddy’s shoes as head of the family. It ain’t easy. But all this happening is putting a pep in everyone’s step. Plus, let’s be real, the money doesn’t hurt.

  Still. I’m gonna miss Carolina. I’m gonna miss you. Part of me wants to stay so I can finish my degree. But then another part thinks I’ll have time for that later, after I make my money and fix up the farm.

  To answer your questions: yes, I’ll be moving to Green Bay at the end of May. Team already set me up with a real estate agent and everything, which is cool. No, I’m not buying a jet. Not yet. Yes, my brothers are jealous as shit. And, most importantly, YES I do have a big head from being drafted in the first round by a Super Bowl contender. I’m already insufferable. Sorry not sorry.

  How’s that hot Spaniard lover of yours? Y’all still sneaking around your señora’s house when she’s asleep? I’m happy for you, even if I hate him.

  I miss hearing your voice.
COME HOME ALREADY.

  B

  PS Thanks also for brushing me up on my Spanish-speaking poets. Neruda is my favorite so far.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Annabel

  I’m two bites into the most delicious vegetable plate of my life—field peas with ham, dressed wild greens served with cornbread croutons, a slice of quiche made with ramps and white cheddar—when Maisie wakes up.

  She starts to cry.

  My stomach dips, then tightens. Over the past half hour, people have started to drift into the restaurant. There’s a stylish couple to my right, older, and a few younger couples sprinkled across the space. I’ve watched them order pricey entrees and even pricier bottles of wine.

  They’re here for a nice, expensive night out, which means they definitely don’t want to be interrupted by a cranky baby.

  “Hey, sugar bear,” I try, giving Maisie her paci. “Shh.”

  That calms her for all of twenty-seven seconds, and I try moving the stroller back and forth.

  She starts to cry in earnest, and in the quiet of the restaurant, it sounds like a bad Motley Crüe concert blaring over the speakers.

  The edge of my scalp prickles with heat.

  People are starting to stare. Gripped by panic, I’m starting to sweat.

  The overwhelm rises inside my chest, making my throat swell.

  I’m the asshole who brought a baby to a restaurant. What is wrong with me? How did I think this would end?

  But I needed to get out. You’re a new parent. You’re asking too much. But I wanted to talk to Samuel, and I knew I’d find him here. You should be at home with your baby. But I needed a breather from the house. I came early. What am I supposed to do as a single parent? Never go anywhere? Be at home and fucking stay there. It’s what your baby needs.

  Maisie is screaming now. Big, gulping sobs that are so ear piercing it’s hard not to screw up your eye every time she lets one loose. She shouldn’t be hungry. I fed her right before we left. So what the hell is going on?