Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  “Why are you playing coy?”

  “Because.” I let out a sigh. Once again, the truth wins because I’m just too damn tired to keep up with the lies. “I know what you’re getting at, Milly, and it ain’t gonna happen. Me and Emma, I mean.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s what she wants. It’s what I want.” I watch Hank pull off the main road and head up the lane that leads to Emma’s cottage. “And I’m kinda sorta into someone else, anyway.”

  “Really?”

  The tightness in my chest loosens at the change in subject. I may not know her real name, and I may be having sex with her in a way I’ve never had before, but that somehow feels more straightforward than my relationship with Emma. “Promise not to judge?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Whatever. I met a girl on the internet. We’ve been chatting for a while, and I really like her. I think we’re gonna meet up. Meet in person, I mean.”

  I pull up to Milly’s house and put the car in park. She unbuckles her seat belt and leans back against the passenger side door, cutting me a look. “That’s…interesting.”

  “Goddammit, Milly, you can judge me, just—I need a sympathetic ear here for a minute.”

  “I’m not judging the internet girlfriend thing. I am curious about why you think you’re into someone you’ve never met when you’re so clearly into someone else. Like, why invite Emma to Sunday supper if you’re crushing on your internet girlfriend? You had to have known seeing Emma interact with us would only make you want her more.”

  I sigh. Again.

  And feel like a douche canoe. Again.

  “You’re not wrong. It’s a long story, one that I’m not exactly at liberty to share, but I thought inviting her was the right thing to do. I figured, hey, I can be the good guy for once, and she can hang with the family and get to know everyone a little better. Kill two birds with one stone kinda thing.”

  “So you don’t think Emma is out to steal your job anymore?”

  “Honestly?” I run a hand over my face. “After working with her this week, I don’t think I do. She’s wonderful, Milly, like, really fucking amazing at what she does—and she’s been nothing but a team player. But it’s still hard to let go of that grudge, you know? That knee-jerk reaction I have not to trust a damn soul after Olly.”

  Milly claps her palms against her thighs. “Well, Olly was a dude. A straight dude. Which meant he didn’t look at you the way Emma does.”

  I’m holding the wheel in a death grip. “What does that mean?”

  “I mean Emma’s into you, Samuel. She watched you the whole time back at Beau’s. And you watched her. You try to hide it, but both y’all have that look in your eyes—the look of love.”

  “Shut up.” I wave her away. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

  “I’m not. She’s into you, but she’s also into who you are and what you have to say. She respects your opinion. She’s hungry for it—that sense of certainty you have. And you’re hungry for her ballsiness, as you so eloquently put it.”

  “The ballsy thing is hot.”

  “Hell yeah, it is. You know how much I admire a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it the way Emma does. This is just me talking, but I don’t think she’s gonna stab you in the back. I think, if anything, she has your back. How many times are you gonna make her prove it?”

  I slump onto the bench, feeling suddenly deflated. “How fucked up does this sound? But what if I’m making her prove it as many times as it takes for her to show me I’m right? Because I want her, and I can’t have her, and the only thing that will get that memo through my thick skull is if she betrays me the way Olly did?”

  Milly’s gaze softens. “Betrays you the way Daddy did by dying too young, you mean?”

  I haven’t felt the burn of tears in…Christ, it’s gotta be a decade. More than that.

  Now that I think about it, I haven’t cried since the day we buried him.

  The sensation startles me. I blink hard and turn my head to look out my window. My throat tightens at the same time my grip on my self-control loosens.

  How the hell did we go from talking about internet sex to our dad dying? My life—conversations, emotions, desires—is giving me insane whiplash lately.

  “Hey.” Milly rubs my back. “It’s okay if you’re not over it. I’m not sure any of us will ever get over losing him the way we did. But you and Daddy—y’all were really close. I knew from the second we found out Daddy was sick that losing him would be hardest on you.”

  It has been hard. Really fucking hard.

  Even harder to pretend I’m okay when deep down, I know I’m not.

  I remember what Emma said back at Beau’s—that I’m braver than I think. What did she mean by that? That I’m brave enough to do what? Face the facts?

  Brave enough to be honest with myself about how much losing the man I loved hurts? And how he was the last person who knew the real me because I’ve been too scared to let anyone in since?

  “But how?” I manage. “How do I let it hurt without drowning in the pain?”

  “I wish I could answer that for you. I think you start with the idea that acknowledging the truth welcomes awful, awful pain. But it can also welcome an incredible kind of love too. The kind maybe you’re looking for with your internet lover. Or Emma. Or both.”

  “And if Emma isn’t looking for that? Not with me, anyway. She says she wants to keep things professional.”

  Milly grins. “I think y’all blew right on past that when you hooked up.”

  “What?” My eyes bulge, a welcome relief from the burn there. “We—uh—”

  She pats my leg. “You and Beau must think we’re all blind or something. You don’t look at a girl the way you looked at Emma if you don’t have, shall we say, carnal knowledge of her.”

  “Cool. Well, not cool, but I have no idea what the fuck else to say.” I tap my hand against the steering wheel. “So I’m gonna kick you out of my truck now because that is not my story to tell. If there was a story, I mean.”

  “I’m offended y’all think I’m such an idiot. Night, Samuel.” Milly opens the door. “Love you.”

  “Love you too, Milly.”

  I drive home alone in the dark. Windows rolled down, nighttime breeze in my face. I put the truck in park in my driveway and turn off the ignition and sit in silence. Just me and the truth.

  I think back to the darkest time of my life. The day they told us Dad had committed suicide after a years-long battle with a degenerative brain disease. That moment when I looked into my mother’s eyes and saw stark, agonizing pain. When I watched my incredibly strong sister crumple in shock. When I realized I’d never again be able to look into someone else’s eyes and allow myself to be completely, compassionately understood.

  The day I felt betrayal that eclipsed sadness because Dad had left us.

  Left me.

  “Why?” I shake my head. “Why’d you go? I hate that you fucking left me.”

  The burn in my chest makes my eyes smart.

  I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be alone anymore.

  It’s time to make some changes.

  * * *

  “This was you, wasn’t it?”

  I look up from my laptop. Emma is carrying the lemon scone and coffee I set on her desk when I got in this morning.

  Biting back a grin, I turn back to my computer. “Why, yes, Emma, I did bring you breakfast. Being thoughtful and kind is a crime, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  “But you already made me dinner. And lunch. And dinner tonight too.”

  “Eat it.”

  “What if I already ate?”

  I glance back up. “We’ve been over this. Consider it a token of my appreciation for helping out with Beau and Annabel.” Over the weekend, the two of them had a date night at The Barn Door. Emma helped create a special tasting menu for their dinner. “Now eat some real food and get back to work, dammit.” />
  A pause. My skin prickles with awareness the way it always does when I’m around Emma. I’m not looking at her, but I mentally revisit the outfit she’s wearing. My favorite skirt—it’s black, tightly fitted, the kind of sophisticated sexy Samantha would definitely approve of—and a black blouse that’s just the right amount of see-through. She looks like a French businesswoman intent to bend you over the table in the boardroom and have her way with you.

  And Lord, does it work for her.

  It works for me too.

  “Fine,” she sniffs. “Don’t you dare do this again.”

  “Fine. Actually, not fine. I’m going to do it again tomorrow just to piss you off. Or feed you because real food matters.”

  “You’re the worst. Also, the best.” She lowers her voice. “Thank you.”

  “Welcome.”

  “Your family is great, by the way. I’d kill to have that kind of relationship with mine. You know that’s rare, right?”

  “I do, yeah.”

  “Oh! I meant to ask. Are you taking any time off this weekend?”

  I settle my elbows on the table. “I was going to ask if you’d cover for me on Friday.”

  “I was actually going to take Friday off too.” She frowns. “Shoot.”

  “You have a hot date or something?”

  She grins. “I do, actually.”

  I have a date too, so I have absolutely no right to be jealous. But I am. The kind of jealous that makes you inappropriately curious. It’s all I can do not to play a game of twenty questions with her about this asshole she’s going to see.

  But because I’m trying to change, dammit, I give Emma the night off instead. “Both managers will be on the floor that night. As much as we’d like to believe our little planet up here will stop spinning if we’re not around, I think the two of us can take the night off. I’ll just keep my phone at the ready.”

  “I was going to say the same thing.”

  “Great.”

  She nods, then hesitates. Nods again. “Do you? Have a date?”

  My stomach dips. I shouldn’t read too much into the fact she asked the question. But I do. Is she jealous? If she is, does it mean what I think it does?

  “Yes.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Charged silence stretches between us.

  Emma lets out a breath. “Well, I should get back upstairs.” She lifts the plate. “Thanks again for breakfast.”

  She turns and goes. Her heels mark a steady, deep-throated beat against the cellar’s flagstone floor. Do not look up. Do not look at her ass—

  Fuck, too late. I’m looking. And her backside is just as glorious as it’s been the other eighty-five hundred times I’ve checked it out.

  I’m overwhelmed by the urge to ask her to turn around and sit down and share another meal with me right now. But that goes against her wish to keep things friendly.

  But what’s more friendly than eating together? And what if I can show her how sharing a meal with me is a far superior experience to sharing one with the douche she’s seeing Friday night? Yes, I can’t say for certain if he’s actually an asshole or a douche. But envisioning her date being a total dud makes my jealousy burn a little less brightly.

  I only had my fingers and tongue inside her a week ago. Now she has a date? Had she met the guy before she allowed me to see and taste her? Because Emma’s not someone who plays with men. She’s not the type to string someone along. Is she?

  Before I can think better of it, I leap to my feet. Emma turns around at the same time.

  “Samuel—”

  “Emma—”

  Our eyes lock across the cellar. Her lips twitch.

  I nod. “You first.”

  “I was going to say you should make breakfast for the staff one day. Keep it simple—a tray of these lemon and thyme scones would be perfect—and I can do a little Irish coffee or something to accompany it. If we’re feeling especially sassy, I could do lemon drop martinis.”

  Grinning, I reply, “Because what’s sassier than martinis in the morning?”

  “Exactly. We can all eat and drink together. You know, as a chance for everyone to get to know you better.”

  My pulse thumps. One hard, decisive beat. “How about now?”

  Not what I was going to ask, but I’ll go with it.

  “You have time to make that many scones?” she asks, brows raised.

  “No. But I have you to help.”

  Emma smiles, and I feel something crack open inside my chest.

  “I’ll get the vodka,” she says.

  I close my laptop and head for the elevator.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Samuel

  The lemon scones are delicious. So are Emma’s martinis. They’re strong, the sweetness softened by just the right amount of tartness.

  The conversation, however, is awkward as hell.

  “So, Xavier,” I say, chowing down on my third scone. Because I can’t do awkward, I keep eating. It’s not a good look. But at least it keeps my hands and my mouth busy. “Tell me about…you.”

  Fourteen pairs of eyes seem to blink in unison as they watch me make horrific attempts at real conversation.

  Breezy, how-are-you-I-don’t-really-care-to-know conversation I can do. Bullshit is an art I’ve perfected over the years. So is sticking to business.

  But genuine conversation? The personal kind that leads to a real connection?

  I’m re-learning how to do it from Emma. But saying I’m rusty in that department is a kindness I do not deserve.

  I’m downright awful at it. Daddy is rolling over in his grave right now.

  But I gotta keep trying.

  Xavier wipes his mouth and smiles. It’s different, somehow, from the polite smiles he’s always given me. It’s amused, kind, and a little embarrassed, not because he’s awkward but because I am.

  He’s sympathizing, and I appreciate that more than he knows.

  “How about this,” he says. “We did this ice breaker back in college called two truths and a lie. You give three facts about yourself, and everyone has to guess which one is the lie.”

  I clap my hands together, making one of our hostesses Bianca jump. “Yes. Thank you. Let’s do it. Who wants to start?”

  “I will.” Emma grins from her seat beside mine. “Okay, three facts: one, I dropped out of law school to become a cellar rat. Two, the most expensive things I’ve ever bought myself are a car and a pair of killer stilettos. Three, the best wine I’ve had all year is a Riesling from a Spring Mountain producer.”

  “Two,” I blurt. “Definitely two.”

  Emma’s grin becomes a smile. “Anyone else?”

  “One,” Jen says.

  “I’d guess three, actually,” Xavier replies.

  Bianca narrows her eyes at Emma, pondering. She picks up her martini and sips. “You’re sharp as a tack and a great storyteller, so I don’t doubt you went to law school. You wear boring heels to work—”

  “Hey! They’re sensible heels. And sensible doesn’t always equal boring.”

  “I beg to differ,” Bianca says, and the entire table laughs, Emma laughing right along with them. “You know they’re boring and so do I.”

  “Fine, fine, they’re boring. But when you’re on your feet eight hours a day, killer heels really will kill you. Unless you’re Bianca Jimenez, and then you’re just a freak of nature who makes walking in boots with four-inch heels look easy.”

  Bianca uncrosses her legs and crosses them again, flashing said boots in the process. “You know I love my kick-ass boots.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to kick my ass wearing those heels, that’s for damn sure,” I say, and the table laughs again.

  I look around in wonder, a funny little feeling nudging underneath my breastbone.

  Holy shit, I made my coworkers laugh.

  I’m laughing with them.

  It actually is kinda easy. Nice too.

  “So?” Bianc
a asks. “Which one is the lie?”

  Emma points at Xavier. “Three.”

  “Stop it!” I put my hands on the table and gape at Emma. “That’s gotta be the lie. You said that Riesling was your favorite when we did your tasting.”

  She curls her lips between her teeth, then lifts a shoulder in this adorable little shrug. “It was. Until I tried that Screaming Eagle.”

  I nearly jump out of my chair. “What?”

  Also: she has a killer pair of heels she’s hiding?

  “I know.”

  “But that’s one of my BSD wines. You know, the ones you said ‘didn’t tell a story’ and ‘weren’t that interesting.’”

  She covers her face with her hand. “I know!”

  “Does that mean I win?”

  Emma glides her fingers apart so I can see her eyes. “Never. I’d settle for a tie, though.”

  “A tie? Are you serious?”

  She does that shrugging thing again. She’s smiling, and I’m smiling, and the entire room is watching us with laughter and curiosity in their eyes.

  “Yes, sir. You introduced me to my favorite wine of the year, and I introduced you to yours. I’d say we’re even. Right, y’all?”

  Xavier looks at me. Looks at Emma.

  “Ugh.” I tug my hand across my stubble. “Be honest.”

  He grins. “That’s a tie, yeah.”

  “Totally agreed,” Fi, a sous chef, agrees.

  I lift my hands to wave them off. “Y’all are biased.”

  “Yup,” Jen says. “Sorry, Samuel.”

  “I’m not,” Emma says.

  “Of course you’re not.” I let out a sigh. “Fine. It’s a tie.”

  Emma offers me a hand for a high five. “See? Now we’re all satisfied.”

  “Satisfied,” I reply, “but not finished.”

  “You want to make it last, huh?”

  I smirk. “Good things come to those who wait.”

  Jen peers at us. “Do y’all always talk in sexual innuendo, or…”

  Oh, yeah, we should definitely stop this. Right the fuck now. Emma “I don’t do workplace romance” would definitely not approve of public flirtation.

  But this Emma—the one sitting beside me with her legs crossed, giving me a maddening glimpse of her stockinged calf—she just smiles and shrugs.