Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  I almost run into Samuel again upstairs. And again, in the hallway outside our offices when I’m shrugging into my coat after a meeting with our managers to make sure everything goes smoothly tonight. My nose somehow ends up in his shirt again.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re trying to sniff me. I smell that good, huh?”

  He’s smiling again, real and warm.

  It shouldn’t be this hard, not wanting to strip your coworker naked and fuck him six ways to Sunday.

  It shouldn’t be this hard not wanting someone, period.

  “Get over yourself,” I mutter and dash out of there like the barn’s on fire. My pulse is hammering, and I feel lightheaded.

  I see flurries on my short walk home. It’s also windy. The sky is getting dark, and the smell of cold stone and dampness fills the air. I’ve lived in the mountains long enough to recognize it as the smell before a good snow.

  My stomach twists, and I walk faster. I know the worst of the storm isn’t supposed to hit until later tonight. But the weather changes quickly at higher altitudes, and the farm tops out at almost four thousand feet above sea level.

  Shit.

  I hurry inside my cottage. I throw my jacket, boots, and bag on the bench beside the front door and make a mad dash for the bedroom. I have my outfit picked out, but I didn’t have time to pack an overnight bag in case I get stuck. Truth be told, I also didn’t want to jinx myself. Is packing for a night away bravely optimistic or embarrassingly naïve?

  Either way, I didn’t do it yet, so I scramble to throw something together.Protein bars: check. Samuel would not approve, but this isn’t about him. In fact, this is about forgetting him. Plus, if I really do get stuck, it can’t hurt to have some food on hand.

  Aquazzura heels: check. I’ll wear boots on the way there, then slip into the stilettos when I get to the restaurant.

  Condoms: most likely checking the embarrassingly naïve box, but whatever. If Blue and I are gonna bone, we’re gonna do it safely.

  I throw on some eyeliner and lip gloss. Then I wiggle into my jeans. It’s the first time I’ve worn them since I came to the farm, and they’ve definitely gotten tighter.

  Gotta be all that food Samuel keeps feeding me. Despite the fact that these jeans are cutting off my circulation, I smile.

  Worth it. That quiche he left on my desk the other day? The stuff of dreams.

  So I leave the button undone and plug in my curling wand. I feel sexiest when I’m rocking long, loose waves, so I’d planned to curl my hair after work. Glancing out my window, I see it’s getting dark, and the snow is really picking up.

  I try to be quick, but I also want my hair to be perfect. I don’t know what it says about me that a great hair day gives me a bigger boost of confidence than pretty much anything else, but I don’t care.

  Only when I’m halfway done with my head, I lose power. Literally. As in the lights go out and the heat cuts off and the world goes dark around me.

  “What the hell?” I say out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  I come up with plan B. I’ll pack my wand, cross my fingers and toes there’s an outlet in the restaurant bathroom, and finish my hair there. But I have to leave now if I’m going to have time to do it.

  I don’t realize just how hard it’s snowing until I’m making a run for my car but find a golf cart instead.

  Because my car is parked in the lot up by the main house. Of course. Hank took it up there when I arrived, and I haven’t needed it since. How did I forget that large detail? Maybe because being on Blue Mountain makes you forget the real world and all its conveniences—cars, men who aren’t distractingly beautiful—even exists.

  For a second, I consider calling Hank. Should I have him bring the car here? But with the amount of arrivals we’re having, everyone at the main house will be busy. My guess is it’ll be much quicker for me to run up there and get the car myself.

  No use taking the golf cart. Those tiny tires definitely won’t cut it on the slick road.

  Cursing the day I was born, I pull up my hood, hike a bag over each shoulder, and start walking. It’s barely five o’clock, but it’s already pretty dark, and I have to squint to see through the snow. The path is mostly uphill, and as I huff and puff, my lungs and heart burn from the cold air. The snow is coming down sideways, blowing inside my hood. My curls are already wet, and I can tell my jeans are gonna be soaked by the time I get to my car. This bums me out more than it should.

  Still, I keep going.

  Think about what a great story this will make, I think to myself, legs aching. You and Blue can tell your grandchildren how you literally had to walk uphill in a snowstorm to meet him.

  That’s dangerously naïve, but hey, my hair and my outfit are already ruined, and I don’t want my eye makeup to go too. So I do what I must to keep from dissolving into tears.

  The snow is coming down so hard now I can barely see two feet in front of me. The realization, sudden and awful, settles like a brick in my stomach.

  This date isn’t going to happen.

  It’s just too risky trying to make it down the mountain in weather like this. The narrow road connecting Blue Mountain to the rest of civilization is precarious in even the best weather. In snow like this? It’ll be downright treacherous.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, my rational self is telling me it’s no big deal. Blue and I will just reschedule. The disappointment is temporary. If the date is meant to happen, it’ll happen.

  Still. The disappointment may be temporary, but damn is it crushing. I blink against the sting in my eyes, embarrassed that I’m crying over a scrapped date with a virtual (heh) stranger but too exhausted to give myself another pep talk.

  That’s when I see an unfamiliar pair of headlights moving my way. They’re halogen, so bright it hurts to look at them. An enormous black SUV materializes out of the darkness. I take one look at the shiny gold rims and know—oh, shit—it’s Samuel.

  My stomach plummets. I tug my hood over my eyes and keep my head down. A beat later, I hear the whirr of a window rolling down, followed by—wait, is that Van Halen’s “Why Can’t This Be Love” I’m hearing?

  “Emma? Is that you?”

  I hold up a hand but don’t stop walking. “Hi. And bye. I don’t mean to be rude, but I gotta go.”

  A beat. The idling engine of his truck throbs.

  I hear him change gears, and the next thing, I know he’s reversing the vehicle, following me.

  Yeah, that’s definitely Van Halen. For a second, my stride falters. What are the chances Samuel’s listening to the band that always comes up in my chats with Blue?

  Speaking of blue—Samuel’s still wearing that cobalt suit. And he said he had a date tonight.

  Now it’s my heart that’s faltering.

  No way.

  No way Samuel is Blue. Right? Samuel may have come around to kindness recently, but Blue has been excellent from the beginning. Samuel was rude and narrow-minded and didn’t listen. Blue always listened. Blue always had an open mind. More than that, Blue has a grip on who he is and what he wants. Samuel didn’t, at least when we met. I’m not sure he does now.

  My heart starts beating again. They can’t be the same person. It just doesn’t make sense. The music and the suit and the date—they’re coincidences, that’s all. For all I know, Samuel lied about having a date to make me jealous. Let’s not forget his history of being a dick.

  Right.

  “Where are you going?” Samuel asks.

  “The main house,” I say.

  “Why?”

  I go with the truth. A version of it, anyway. “My power went out.”

  “It did? Dammit. I’ll give maintenance a call. In the meantime, let me give you a ride.”

  I’m freezing and tired and wet, but getting even more freezing and tired and wet is preferable to Samuel seeing me on the verge of tears in the close quarters of his truck. Who knows what will happen if I get in?


  If I keep walking, I’ll make it to the main house. If I make it there, I can dry off and maybe warm up by one of the fireplaces while I shoot Blue a message to reschedule our date.

  “I’m good, thanks. You’d better get where you’re headed anyway. It’s bad out here.”

  “Emma, get in the truck.”

  I’m wracked by a full-body shiver. My hands and nose are numb.

  “Look at you, you’re gonna get yourself sick. Don’t make me come out there.”

  I keep going.

  “Goddammit.” I hear the clank of Samuel putting the SUV in park. My heart skips. Eyes burn.

  He rounds the truck, as big and broad as a bear in his sharply cut coat. His breath billows around his head in a cloud.

  “If you don’t stop walking, I’m gonna throw you over my shoulder. You have three seconds. One. Two—”

  I round on him, tears blurring my eyes. “Please.”

  He studies me for a stunned second. Then he slowly holds up his hands, eyebrows snapped together. “I was just kidding. I won’t touch you without your consent. But I get the feeling that’s not what you’re upset about.”

  We’re trapped in our own little snow globe, the snow falling silently around us. Snowflakes catch on his eyelashes and eyebrows. He’s standing a couple of feet away, but I can still feel the warmth radiating off his body.

  I want to curl into his chest and live there forever.

  How do I tell him I can’t stop falling for this nice guy he’s turned into? That he’s putting me between a rock and a hard place, and I feel like I’m going to break? That my one chance to get some breathing room was dashed by this fucking storm?

  “I’m not okay,” I blurt, eyes stinging, throat burning.

  “I know,” he says quietly. “Walk if you want to. But if you’d let me, I’d love to give you a ride. Warm you up a little bit. And if you wanna talk about whatever’s on your mind…well, I’ve got a generator at my place, and a whole tray of lasagna with your name on it. I used Mama’s recipe with sides of Caesar salad, homemade dressing, of course, and garlic knots. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles of that 2016 Screaming Eagle to sweeten the deal.”

  Fuck him.

  Seriously, fuck this guy for life. How does he know what I want—need—before I do?

  Think about your career.

  But then I shiver, drawing a sharp breath through my teeth. I am so cold. And hungry.

  Really, really hungry.

  “That’s it,” he says, his expression hardening as he takes a step forward. “You’re coming home with me. Give me permission to put my hands on you.”

  I grin, despite the fact I can’t stop shivering. It’s a fun little inside joke Samuel and I have, throwing each other's lines back and forth.

  Samuel and I have inside jokes. I don’t know how it happened or when, but I love it, and I want more of it.

  That’s when I give up.

  Or maybe it’s just giving in to the truth. And the truth is that I want to go home with Samuel.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Samuel

  I move quickly.

  Shrugging out of my coat, I wrap it around Emma. Poor thing is shaking like a fucking leaf. Her teeth chatter. Anger grips my heart. What was she thinking, coming out in this weather? She should’ve called the main house.

  She should’ve called me.

  I’ll have time to be mad at her later. Right now, I need to get her warm.

  I open the passenger side door and hustle her inside. Thankfully, I already had the heat blasting, and I adjust the vents so they’re pointing directly at her. She closes her eyes and exhales, wrapping her arms around the bag she’s set in her lap.

  I furrow my brow. Was she planning on staying the night at the main house? Leaning in to make sure she buckles her seat belt, I get a good look at her face. She’s wearing more makeup than usual. And her hair—it’s down, wild, wavy.

  “What’s up with the Van Halen?” she asks when I climb into the driver’s seat.

  I glance at the center console. “Am I not allowed to like eighties rock? Where do you think Eddie and David’s names came from?”

  “Ha! I get it now.” She looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Indulge my totally inappropriate curiosity for a sec.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You said you had a date tonight. Where were y’all going?”

  Settling my left hand on the top of the wheel, I use the other to put the truck in gear.

  “I cancelled it,” I say. Which is and isn’t true. When I saw how bad the weather was leaving The Barn Door, I knew my date with V wasn’t happening. I don’t doubt the restaurant where we were supposed to meet will be closing early anyway. I just haven’t officially cancelled our date yet. Chances are she already did anyway, but I haven’t had a minute to check our chat since this morning.

  “Oh. Oh, okay.” Emma almost sounds…relieved?

  I try not to think too much about what that means on the drive back to my house. I also try not to drive like a lunatic. The roads are already starting to get slick. But my girl clearly needs to get out of her wet clothes and into a hot shower stat, so I hit the gas.

  Having Emma over is not a good idea. But for starters, I wasn’t gonna leave her struggling on the side of the road in a snowstorm. And it’s a distraction from the disappointment of having to cancel my date with V.

  By the time Emma and I pull into my driveway, the snow is coming down so hard and so fast I can barely see three feet in front of the truck. I park in the garage. The wind howls above the sound of the door closing behind us.

  Blizzard conditions are minutes away.

  “Phew,” I say, grabbing Emma’s bag from her lap. “That was lucky timing. I haven’t seen a storm this bad up here in years.”

  Emma nods, unbuckling her seat belt with fingers that tremble. “As much as I didn’t want you to rescue me, I’m glad you did.” Her eyes meet mine. “Thanks.”

  The space between us thrums.

  Must. Get. Her. Inside.

  “Right,” I say, climbing out of the truck. “How about a shower?”

  Her eyes go wide, and I don’t miss the flicker of heat in them.

  I open her door for her and hold out my hand, laughing. “Not together. Unless—”

  “Don’t go there.”

  I was joking, but clearly she’s not.

  We kick off our boots when we’re inside, and I lead her to the nearest shower. Which just so happens to be the one in my bathroom.

  Emma stares at the expanse of glass and tile. Then she looks at the sink nearby, my toiletries neatly arranged on the marble countertop. A beat of charged silence fills the room.

  Yeah, my bathroom is legit. But that’s not what this silence is about.

  She’s standing in the inner sanctum. Probably the most private room in the house. Now she knows I use Crest toothpaste and an electric razor. She knows I like Molton Brown soap. She knows I’m a secret neat freak.

  These are intimate things. The stuff only a girlfriend or wife would know.

  The stuff I’d only share with someone who means something to me.

  Judging by the way her expression softens, that’s not lost on Emma.

  But then she’s shivering again, and she’s trying to peel her clothes off, but she can’t because she’s shaking so hard.

  “Help?”

  She doesn’t need to ask twice. I gently unbutton her jacket and fold it, draping it over the edge of the nearby tub. Together, we guide her sweater over her head, revealing a black bra with delicate, transparent cups.

  Christ Almighty. Her nipples poke against the fabric, tight, pink buds that are just begging to be sucked. A rush of warmth moves through my groin, gathering in the head of my dick.

  Draping her sweater over my arm, I turn away. “I’ll let you finish.”

  “But my jeans.” I glance over my shoulder to see her unzipping her fly. “I think I’m gonna need your help getting them off.”

 
; I just stare at her, mouth going dry.

  Lord Jesus, what am I supposed to do here?

  I catch a glimpse of her panties through her fly. They match her bra: black, tiny, see-through.

  “Uh,” I say.

  Emma is trying to shimmy out of her jeans now, doing that little shake of her hips that’s playful and sexy, but they’re not moving. Her jeans, I mean. She really does need help.

  And I’m gonna need to cut off my dick while I prep dinner because I’m hard as a goddamn tree.

  Clearing my throat, I discreetly adjust my trousers and nod at the tub. “Sit.”

  Emma sits. I squat in front of her, knees cracking. I pull her jeans down one leg at a time, going slowly so I don’t startle or hurt her.

  The muscles in her legs convulse as she trembles.

  I frown. Her legs are covered in goosebumps.

  “But really,” I say. “Is it okay if I put my hands on you?”

  She dips her head in a nod. I run my palm over her bare thigh and give it a good, warm squeeze. Emma goes still. Her skin is cold to the touch, and the need to make this better fills me. Her belly rises on an inhale, and I imagine leaning in and kissing her there. Kissing my way down her hip, between her legs. Pushing those fucking panties aside and kissing her pussy.

  Emma is (mostly) naked.

  She’s in my house.

  And she’s trusting me to do the right thing.

  Groaning, I rise to my feet. I set her jeans beside her sweater on the tub. Then I strip off my socks and turn on the shower.

  Immediately, it fills with steam. Holding the door open, I look at the ceiling.

  “Take your time,” I manage. “It’s a good shower. Water pressure’s excellent.”

  I glance down at Emma to see her peering inside. “Are those multiple showerheads?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes. And yes, I put them in there for exactly the reason you’re thinking.

  Shower sex—actual dick into pussy action—is not worth the hassle. But getting or giving head in the shower? Nothing hotter.

  My dick throbs. I shove a towel into Emma’s arms. “Enjoy. Don’t turn that water off until you’re thawed out, all right?”