Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  “Fifteen hundred bucks a night for this place,” someone nearby mutters. A man, of course. “And there’s a screaming kid at the restaurant.”

  My face burns all the way to the tips of my ears as I hold back more tears. I can’t breathe around the hardness in my throat. I need the bill, and I need to get the hell out of here.

  Standing, I grab the stroller. I feel the heat of everyone’s derision—their judgment—follow my every movement.

  I’m shaking with embarrassment. Hurt. Frustration. All of it.

  I’ll just tell the hostess on my way out to put the meal on my room.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say to the elder couple—to everyone—as I start to push Maisie toward the door.

  Maisie howls. A sound I’ve never heard her make before. I look down to see that she’s bright red.

  Guilt, an arrow straight through the heart, wars with anger inside my chest.

  “Why won’t she just feed the poor thing?”

  I can’t. Fucking. Breathe.

  That’s when I see him.

  Beau.

  Looking determined and outrageously handsome in his dark jeans and plaid sport jacket, he stalks across the restaurant like Moses parting the Red Sea. Only Beau is parting asshole patrons, giving them the death stare as he makes his way toward me. They go quiet, suddenly interested in their meals.

  The relief I feel at seeing him—the gratitude—washes over me in a wave. Coming up for air, I take a deep breath, my body going limp, exhaustion rising where panic had been two heartbeats ago.

  “Sit.” He gestures to my chair. “Finish your dinner. I got this.” Nudging me out of the way with a hand to the small of my back, he takes Maisie’s stroller.

  “Beau—how did you—”

  “Telepathy. Finish your dinner, Annabel. That’s not a request.”

  I swallow. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. I finally get some quality alone time with Miss Maisie. Don’t rush, you hear?”

  I have no words. So I just repeat “thank you” and continue to stare at him. My best friend. World’s best kisser.

  Savior and inadvertent seducer of single mothers.

  Maisie’s still howling. Quickly he kisses my cheek—whispers “hey” in my ear—then turns and wheels Maisie out the door.

  All eyes in the restaurant are on me again. For a different reason.

  Pressing my palm to my cheek, I sit. I’m shaking again. For a different reason also.

  The mom version of being rescued by a square-jawed prince on a big white horse—that just happened.

  To me.

  Princess Bride. Pride & Prejudice. The parenthood editions.

  The veggie plate is amazing, but I have to admit, I don’t savor it like I should. How can I when I’m so distracted watching Beau hang with Maisie outside the picture window to my left? They’re on the edge of the enormous lawn that stretches out in front of the barn. He’s taken her out of the stroller and is doing what I call The Endless Exhausting Bounce: baby slung in his arm, his bicep dwarfing her sweet little head, patiently bouncing her up and down.

  I don’t hear her crying.

  Between his enormous build and filthy mouth, it’s sometimes easy to forget Beau has a soft touch. Especially with kids.

  Makes sense, considering he’s the oldest of five. He’s told me many times how he remembers Rhett as a baby. How much he tried to help out his mom, who was understandably overwhelmed. I can’t imagine doing this baby thing five times.

  He makes faces at Maisie, holding her up to the sky as he gives her a wiggle.

  I eat and I breathe and despite my best intentions I feel desire for him take root inside my being, deep and firm.

  There’s a good bit of sorrow there, too. Because Beau would be a really great dad, but he’ll never allow himself the opportunity. He’s tapped out. Done hoping.

  How does he manage to stay so positive? So outwardly engaged, when inside he’s hardened his heart?

  But I already know the answer. He does it for his family. For me, and for Maisie.

  It just makes me want him more. So does the fact that parenthood is so much easier when someone else is around.

  I decided to have Maisie on my own because the timing felt right. I’d wanted a baby for a while, but my search for Mr. Forever wasn’t panning out. I did it without a partner not because I gave up on love—not out of cynicism or hurt—but because that was how the cookie crumbled.

  Of course, I’ve worried about Maisie growing up without a father. But she’s got a wonderful village of family and friends who love her and support me.

  But watching Beau with my baby, I can’t help but think how nice it’d be if he were part of our family. I’d go outside and loop my arm through his and together we’d walk back to my “cottage.” We’d put the baby to bed. Open a bottle of…well, maybe fancy sparkling water or something. Have great sex and/or veg on the couch with some low-quality yet oddly addictive Netflix show.

  Ugh, as if my heart didn’t ache enough.

  “I didn’t know a side effect of probable CTE is the ability to read minds,” I say a few minutes later as I head out onto the lawn.

  Good joke? Bad?

  He laughs.

  Good. It feels so good to hear that sound.

  It’s warmer than the other night, but still chilly. Crossing my arms, I stand beside Beau.

  “Telepathy is one of the many joys of traumatic brain injury. That, and the ability to do magic.” He glances at the sky. “My owl is around here somewhere.”

  The sun’s ducked behind a nearby tree, casting everything in a warm, light shadow that makes Beau’s eyes look translucent. Sweet and warm.

  “Baby looks good on you.” I nod at Maisie, asleep in the crook of his arm.

  “Everything looks good on me. How was your meal?”

  “Food was great.” I nod again at my daughter. “Company kinda sucked. Thanks for the rescue.”

  He turns his head to look down at the baby, exposing the sinews of his neck. The handsome lines of his profile. Nose. Jaw. Lips.

  My skin feels a few sizes too small.

  “Samuel told me y’all came down for dinner, and I had a feeling you could use an extra hand.”

  Oh, God, the dirty pun. It’s right there. Do I call it out? Usually I’d call it out.

  But that was before, and this is after.

  I hate not knowing how to behave around him. It’s like my favorite pair of jeans don’t fit right anymore. A dilemma I’m all too familiar with.

  “Turns out going to a nice restaurant with your four-month-old is a terrible idea. Everyone was staring at me, Beau. It was the worst feeling.”

  “Who cares what they think?”

  “But they were complaining about how much they’d paid to stay at the farm, Beau. I don’t want to sabotage the good thing you’ve got going on here. I know how hard you’ve worked, and how much—”

  “Please. Don’t let some of our more entitled guests judge you for doing your best.”

  “But she was screaming—”

  “And you were just trying to eat a meal. It didn’t go according to plan today. But that doesn’t mean you won’t nail it tomorrow like the rock-star mom you are. Okay?”

  Letting out a breath, I manage a tight smile. “Thanks for that. I am doing my best. Only sometimes I feel like I should be doing better than that. But I’ll try not to care so much about what people think.”

  “Good.” He looks at me and lowers his voice. “You all right?”

  He’s talking about last night. If I’ve recovered from his rejection. But even if he weren’t, if he were talking about my depression, my night, my life, the answer is the same.

  “Nah.” I shake my head. “You?”

  He tilts his head, remorse written all over his face. “I’m sorry. So fucking—oops, put those earmuffs on, Maisie—so flipping sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I understand. Even if you answer sucked, too.”

  “I know you h
ave a lot going on, and I’m sorry to add to the shit pile. Shit, I didn’t mean—goddamn—wow, you don’t realize how dirty your language is until you have a kid around.” He leans down to gently kiss Maisie’s bald head.

  My heart just about explodes. This huge man, who’s been roughed up countless times, and roughed up others, too, is so sweet with my baby.

  Makes me wanna do something stupid, like go up on my tiptoes and kiss him again.

  I can’t. We can’t.

  But Lord, if you wanted to make a new mom fall in love, this is how you’d do it.

  “Hopefully the shit pile will start to diminish soon,” I say, curling my fingers around my upper arms. Squeezing hard. “Doc told me the meds take a few weeks to really kick in, but she also said some of her patients start seeing a difference—albeit a small one—a week in.”

  Beau glances down at my hands and frowns, like he can tell I’m struggling not to reach for him. How is the crackle of energy between our bodies not driving him crazy?

  Or is it, and he’s just better at controlling it? Compartmentalizing it all?

  “Give it time, Bel. Take care of yourself in the interim. We’ve got lots of great stuff to do at the resort. Fishing, horseback riding, hiking. I know you hate guns, but we’ve got one hell of a clay-shooting program. Then there’s yoga, and the pools, of course. Some cooking courses…”

  Samuel’s words from earlier float across my thoughts. Take advantage of everything we have to offer.

  Beau’s happier when he’s with you.

  Then Beau’s words: What if it’s our last time together like this?

  The idea takes sudden shape. My stomach leaps, the brick there all but forgotten.

  “Do it with me.”

  “What?” he arches a brow.

  “Everything you just said. Let’s do it together. All of it. If life as we know it really is ending like you think it is, then let’s live it up. It’ll help me pass the time until the meds kick in, and it will help keep your mind busy and your body engaged. That has to be good for what’s going on inside your head.”

  Beau shifts on his feet. “I have to work.”

  “No you don’t. You have two hundred employees at your beck and call, remember?”

  He tilts his head. Shoots me a look. “Why you gotta be so goddamn smart?”

  “C’mon. Show off those country boy skills. I know you’ve got ’em.”

  Eyes on my face, Beau chews on the inside of his lip.

  “You sure?” he says at last.

  What he’s really asking: are you sure we can do this without getting hurt? Without us getting deeper into the weeds?

  “Yup,” I say. Even though I don’t feel very sure at all.

  Whatever. Maybe getting romantically involved with Beau isn’t worth the risk. But spending time together?

  That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Because at the end of the day, I love Beau as a friend, and I know he loves me, too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Beau

  Sunday night supper.

  It’s been a family tradition for as long as I can remember. Growing up, we sat down to dinner every night. As we got older and life got busier, family dinners happened less often. But now that we’re all back together on the farm—well, everyone except Rhett—I make it a point to gather everyone on Sunday nights.

  It’s my favorite time of the week, hands down.

  My family may not agree on everything, but we all love to eat. Samuel cooks and selects the wine. Milly does dessert and decor. Hank provides the music, Mama the family china and silver. When Rhett’s around, he brings some girl none of us like. And I provide the table itself, a huge antique slab of oak that was part of the original farmhouse my ancestors built on this property back in the 1700s.

  Tonight, my dining room is lively as ever. Acoustic Dave Grohl playing in the background, candles lit. A small but insanely beautiful cake, hummingbird with cream cheese frosting, judging by the crumbled pecans on top, is on the sideboard.

  We’re gathered around the table: me, Mama, Milly, Hank, and Samuel. I wanted to invite Annabel, her mama, and the baby, too, but considering they’re tonight’s topic of conversation, I thought I’d hold off until next week’s supper.

  Part of me hopes Bel stays that long and then some.

  Another part, the rational one, hopes she doesn’t.

  There’s a big old pot of rice pilau in front of us. It’s an old family recipe, passed down from generation to generation, along with the cast-iron pot Samuel cooks it in. Basically, it’s a Southern take on risotto; you can put pretty much anything in it. Tonight, it’s loaded with brisket, plenty of bacon and butter (because this is the South), Carolina gold rice, and green veggies from our garden. Okra. Asparagus. Green onion.

  Add in the clean, cool Italian Arneis wine Samuel’s paired it with, and Lordy, I’m tempted to do some kinda murder on my usual diet.

  Delicious doesn’t even begin to describe it. My house smells like heaven.

  Smells like home.

  I’ve had a complicated relationship with Blue Mountain Farm over the years. It’s been a place of pride. A reminder of sadness. The scene of tragedy.

  But this right here—food, family—makes me glad I stuck it out and made my dreams for the property come true.

  I made Mama and my siblings’ dreams come true, too. I knew what I wanted for this place. But having my family alongside me as we developed it from the ground up has made this farm so much better.

  The dream is complete.

  Almost.

  “I’m gonna need y’all to cover for me a bit more than usual this month,” I say, careful not to meet anyone’s eye as I top off my water with one of Milly’s fancy clay pitchers.

  “Oh?” Milly raises a manicured brow, wineglass in hand. “This have something to do with a certain guest of ours?”

  “Annabel?” I feel Mama’s smile on me, and I look up. “I like the sound of this. Y’all have plans together?”

  Dang it, I shouldn’t have looked at Mama. She’s hopeful, I can tell. She loves Annabel, no surprise there. Like the rest of my family, she’s not-so-secretly been hoping the two of us will end up together.

  The space in my chest throbs—the one that’s felt both hard and tender ever since I kissed Annabel at the dock house.

  I do my best to ignore it, shoveling food in my face. Healthy way of dealing with shit, I know. But I gotta keep my feelings in check here. My head must prevail. The one on my shoulders, not the one in my pants.

  ’Cause that fucker’s been giving me grief, too.

  “She’s been having a rough time of it.” I chew my food. “Same as me. She suggested we do stuff around the resort together as a way of, you know, passing the time. Healing.”

  Because Bel will heal eventually. She’ll bounce back from the depression, stronger and wiser and more determined than ever.

  But me? There’s no bouncing back from what I’ve got.

  “You saying she needs you to heal? Or you need her?”

  I point my fork at Samuel. “Do you ask everyone inappropriate personal questions? Or just me?”

  “Everyone.” Hank merrily chews. “But you especially.”

  Samuel rubs his hands together, grinning. “What can I say? I like to dig.”

  “Probably why Emma wants to kill you,” Milly says.

  Samuel’s mirth fades. “Feeling’s mutual.”

  “She doesn’t want to kill me,” Hank says.

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Samuel shoots back.

  Hank’s expression darkens. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for me to take some time off—”

  “No. Nope, I got it handled, Beau, I promise.” Samuel holds up his hands. “Emma and I—we’re just off to a rocky start, that’s all. If you’d just let me take over—”

  “How many times does he have to tell you no?” Milly cuts him a look.

  “About as ma
ny times as we have to tell you to mind your own beeswax.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  Samuel shrugs, his smile back. “I’m a complicated man.”

  “You’re an ass.”

  Hank snorts. “You should hear the things Emma calls him—”

  “Y’all,” Mama pleads. “Beau’s asking for our help. Can we at least pretend to get along so he feels a little better about taking the time he deserves to be with his friend?”

  “His ‘friend’.” Hank curls his fingers in air quotes. “Beau, would you be offended if I told you we took bets on how long it takes before y’all become more than that?”

  My stomach drops. I hide my—what is this feeling? Surprise? Shock? Embarrassment?—by grinding my teeth. If only they knew the more already happened.

  “This family is going to drive me to drink,” I mutter, reaching for my wine glass.

  Hank’s smile softens, and so does that hard feeling inside my chest.

  “I’m just teasing,” he says. “Of course we’ll cover for you. Just say the word and we’ll make it happen. I’m glad you’re taking some time for yourself. It’s long overdue.”

  They know why I’ve worked my fingers to the bone over the past five years to get the resort up and running. I don’t know how much time I have left. Daddy drove his truck off a cliff at forty-seven. Dementia set in years before that. It came and went until the end. He’d have his lucid moments when he was himself, but then he’d have moments when he was someone else entirely.

  I wanted to bring my vision for the farm to life before I started losing my mind, literally. I wanted to leave my family not just a fortune, but a legacy. Something to be proud of. Something to work for and make their own, as I’m a firm believer that idle hands are the devil’s workshop. It was a favorite saying of Daddy’s, and one I’ve adopted as my own.

  They know who I am and what I want, which makes the fact that I’m gonna leave them before I’m ready much harder.

  Family is everything.

  So is a great friend.

  “I’m gonna miss her,” I say softly. “So I want to spend as much time as I can with her before—well.”

  “I love everything about that,” Milly replies, putting a hand on my back. “I hope this means we’ll be seeing more hickeys?”