Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  I head for my closet, where I grab the softest, warmest sweats and sweatshirt I own. Emma will be swimming in ’em, but at least she’ll be warm and dry.

  I put on my second softest sweatsuit, an ivory Balenciaga set I recently bought, and try my best to make a beeline through the bathroom again.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, cupping my hand over the side of my face as I pass the shower. She’s inside it now, the door closed behind her. “I won’t look.”

  “I thought you were being honest these days,” she shoots back, voice echoing off the tile.

  “Fine. I’ll look.” And I do.

  The glass is fogged up, but I can still see Emma’s outline as she reaches behind her and unhooks her bra. She hangs it over the door, its lacy straps dangling, and then she steps out of her panties. She hangs those over the door too, only they fall to the floor. A tiny black heap that may just be the death of me.

  Emma Crawford is in my shower. Naked as the day she was born.

  Her see-through panties are on my floor.

  Do I have time for a quick tug in the guest bath?

  I definitely don’t. But watching Emma shimmy through the glass—yeah, she knows I’m looking, and she doesn’t care—makes me think I might have to.

  “Blow-dryer’s on the counter over there,” I say huskily. “Help yourself to whatever else you need.”

  * * *

  Thankfully, I prepped the lasagna last night, so I just have to pop it in the oven. Then I get started on the rest of the meal.

  Being in the kitchen, I feel more steady. A little less like I’m gonna die from want. Food is something I’m good at. Food is what I know.

  Without exception, food makes me feel centered.

  So I decant a bottle of Emma’s Screaming Eagle (I’ll never not think of it as hers). I grill some romaine hearts. Shred a block of aged parmesan and toast day-old focaccia, then cut it into cubes that I’ll use as croutons.

  I put the garlic knots in the oven beside the lasagna. Put on a Top 50 playlist I pray is not romantic in any way, shape, or form.

  I light a fire in the family room.

  All the while silently chanting a litany of affirmations.

  You can be friendly.

  You can be honest.

  You can keep it in your pants.

  Emma said living this way may be worth it in the end. But right now, it’s a kick in the balls.

  Especially when Emma emerges from the shower. Her wet hair is brushed back from her face. Color in her cheeks. Eyes puffy.

  Her vulnerable beauty knocks the wind out of me. She’s not trying to hide.

  She’s not trying, period. She’s Emma as is.

  She looks fucking adorable in my clothes.

  “Hi,” she says. She’s got her phone in her hand.

  I nod at it. “Hear from your date?”

  “Not yet. I just sent him a message to cancel.”

  “Bummer. You warm?”

  “Getting there.”

  I nod at the fireplace. “Sit by the fire. I’ll bring you some wine.”

  “Samuel.” Taking a seat on the raised edge of the hearth, she meets my eyes. “Go easy on me, okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be so”—she gestures to the fire, the glass of wine I hand her, the food on the kitchen island—“awesome. I know I told you I hated him, but if you could bring back a little Samuel-from-before, you know, the jackass, I would appreciate it.”

  I smile tightly. “Too late. That guy’s gone forever.”

  We’re in trouble, her eyes say.

  I know, mine say back.

  I want her, I fucking want her, and from the way she’s looking at me, burning need written all over her face, she wants me too.

  It doesn’t matter. What matters is making her feel better.

  Honesty, bravery, authenticity—those are the things that light her up. She’s got something to share, something to get off her chest, but she’s tired and scared. It’s my turn to do the heavy lifting. Maybe after I bare my soul to her, she’ll feel comfortable baring hers to me.

  So I tap my wineglass to hers and dive into the deep end.

  “A friend and a teammate stabbed me in the back and ended my career.”

  Emma’s eyes bulge, and she chokes on her wine. Pounding the side of her fist against her chest, she says, “What? Samuel, my God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I—”

  “Look, if you don’t want to talk about this shit, I’ll understand. But I want you to know I’m making an effort not to bullshit anymore. We can do small talk. But after meeting you, I gotta say it bores the hell out of me. It’s like you taught me how to talk to people. Really talk to them.”

  She smiles down at her wine. “I didn’t have to teach you that.”

  “Fine. You reminded me how to do it because somewhere along the way I’d forgotten.”

  “That’s really cool of you to say,” she replies, looking up. She pats the hearth beside her. “So talk to me.”

  I sit, careful to keep a good twelve inches or so between us, and talk.

  The truth comes out in a torrent. How Olly Welch played the part of supportive teammate as second-string quarterback after Carolina drafted him five years into my career. He was wet behind the ears, but he was hungry, and he worked hard, and he took a real interest in learning what I had to teach him. He reminded me a lot of myself at his age.

  We also shared an agent, so it wasn’t long before Olly and I became friends. When a torn ACL sidelined me halfway through my fifth season in Carolina, Olly checked in on me daily. He was great. He sent me food and kept me smiling with texts and calls.

  I tried to hurry back to the team, speed up whatever I could in my recovery. Fans—and coaches and owners—have a short memory. I was hell-bent on getting back in the game as soon as possible. My dad never missed a game in his twelve-year career, and I hated that I wouldn’t be sharing that statistic.

  I also hated the idea of being forgotten. Eclipsed. Olly was starting games while I was out, and he began playing really fucking well. He knew it, I knew it, the organization knew it.

  Still, when I got back, everyone assured me I’d start again. Olly most of all.

  “He looked me in the eye and said he had my back one hundred percent,” I tell Emma. “Little did I know he’d end up stabbing me there instead.”

  Emma gasps, hand going to her mouth. “Oh my God, Samuel, what happened?”

  “It turns out, Olly was playing games behind my back with my agent, Lina,” I reply grimly. “Apparently he told Lina that I told him my heart wasn’t in the game anymore. He said to her, ‘hey, the docs say Samuel will be cleared, but he’s still in a lot of pain and he told me point-blank he doesn’t want to start anymore. He doesn’t even want to come back at all.’ Olly told her I didn’t want to go through all that again if I got injured a second time—the surgery, the rehab. Said it ‘took too much out of me.’ He also told her not to tell me that I shared everything with him.”

  Emma furrows her brow. “Why?”

  “Because I was”—air quotes—“‘brokenhearted,’ and I was ashamed over losing my love for the game. I’d rather be asked to leave than publicly admit I didn’t want to play anymore. He claimed I felt like I’d be letting the team down, like I was a coward. So Olly pushed her to take the information to our coaching staff without saying a word to me.”

  “Oh my God, Samuel.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I don’t know the world of pro sports that well, but isn’t that illegal? At the very least, it has to be a serious breach of ethics.”

  “Absolutely.” I nod. “Didn’t stop it from happening, though. I walk into training camp my first day back, and Coach pulls me aside. Says the team will be okay without me, and that they were ‘moving in a different direction’ with their new starting quarterback, Olly Welch.”

  Emma gasps. “Wow. I googled you, obviously, before I met you. I read a much different version of this s
tory—”

  “The PR people fed the media that bullshit about the team and I ‘amicably’ parting ways. I rode the bench for another year to the end of my contract. And then…yeah. My career in the pros was over.”

  Emma is shaking her head. “But what about Lina? What about the rest of the people working for you?”

  “I went right to my manager after my conversation with Coach. And he said he’d been told that Lina was working hard to help me retire from football, and that thanks to Olly, they both knew that’s what I wanted.”

  “Holy shit.” She’s still shaking her head. “But you fought it, right?”

  I shrug. “I did for a little while. I was angry. But the wheels were already in motion, and Olly was playing so fucking well. He took the team far that year.” I swallow. “At the time, it was devastating. Football had been my life for so long. But by then Beau had retired, and he’d started putting his plans in motion to develop Blue Mountain. My siblings and I, we’d always planned to come back to the farm one day and make it the place it was always meant to be. Beau asked me if I was ready to lend a hand, and, well…seemed like the fresh start I needed. The way things ended in Carolina made me hate the sport for a while there.”

  Emma pushes the sleeves of my sweatshirt up to her elbows. Her skin there is covered in freckles. “Understandable.”

  “This is something I’ve never told anyone,” I say. I’m already in over my head here, so no point in holding back now. “But there’s another reason I didn’t fight longer than I did. The rumors Olly spread about me—they weren’t entirely untrue. I knew in my gut that my body wasn’t the same after the injury. Neither was my head. I couldn’t get into the game the way I had before. Maybe I was scared or tired or whatever, but the first thing I felt after the rage died down was relief.”

  Emma frowns. “Why keep that a secret?”

  I search her eyes. Heart thumping inside my chest. “Why do you always ask such good, awful questions?”

  “Because I care.”

  “I really did feel ashamed.” I tip back my wine. Emma’s already halfway through her glass, and I need to catch up. “I did feel like I was letting the team down. Although the reality is my gut very likely saved me from the kind of injury Beau’s dealing with right now. But still, that shame, the feeling that I fell short—it’s real.”

  “You don’t need to tell me. Shame’s been my constant companion for as long as I can remember.”

  “How did you finally kick its ass?”

  Emma’s throat dips as she swallows her wine. My body pulses. She smells like me—my shampoo and my soap.

  “When I do, I’ll let you know.” She smiles. “Therapy helps. So does time. I give way fewer shits about what people think of me as I’ve gotten older. But I guess it comes down to being brave enough to acknowledge who you really are and what you really want, and honoring that instead of fighting it. Thinking of it as sacred and good, rather than something that’s shameful, something that should be ignored or swept under the rug or bottled up. It’s living your truth.”

  I’m full-on gulping my wine now. “And what’s my truth?”

  She thinks for a minute before responding. “You talk a lot about your dad. I don’t know much about him, except that he passed when y’all were young.”

  Aw, shit, I’m gonna cry again. “I was eighteen.”

  “That’s awful. I don’t know what else to say except that I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s got to do with him—who you are, and what you feel like you’re missing. When he died, what died with him?”

  My eyes won’t quit burning. The sensation is familiar now, and I don’t fight it.

  Emma and I both startle at the ding of the timer in the kitchen.

  “Saved by lasagna,” I say, getting up. Just because I don’t fight the tears doesn’t mean I’m not glad I don’t have to explain why they’re there in the first place.

  What I don’t say is the loneliness I’ve felt for years goes away whenever I’m with Emma.

  I don’t say it’s because I think she’s the only person who’s cared enough to get to know me—to dig past the bullshit to the real me—since Daddy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Emma

  I know I’m going to sleep with Samuel one bite into my lasagna.

  It’s like the cheesy, carby goodness meets my tongue and the last of my defenses comes tumbling down.

  Maybe I knew it the minute I climbed into his truck.

  The minute he told me what he’d never told anyone else.

  Or maybe I knew it the minute we met.

  Whatever the case, it’s happening. I want to fight it. And right up until the end of my shower, I was fighting, valiantly, reminding myself over and over that my whole life is at stake. Every dream. Every dollar.

  I fought to remind myself of how he behaved that night in his kitchen.

  But then his confession happened, and now this lasagna and this fucking wine, and I have never wanted in my life something more than to be with this man in every sense of the word.

  I’m begging you, I silently tell him as I sink my teeth into a garlic knot, don’t break me.

  “Good?” Samuel asks, blue eyes flicking to mine.

  He looks eager. A little nervous. Totally fucking adorable.

  “Insane. You’re a pretty amazing cook, Samuel.”

  He suggested we do dinner indoor picnic style, which I was totally on board with. So we’re eating on a bear skin rug—“it’s fake, I promise”—in front of the family room’s massive fireplace. It’s laughably over the top and incredibly, temptingly romantic. Snow falling outside the picture windows, the frozen swirl a delicious contrast to the cozy, buzzy warmth sinking into my bones.

  Samuel wants to take good care of me. Tonight, I’ll let him.

  Just tonight.

  Something deep down tells me that’s a promise I won’t be able to keep. But it’s the assurance I need to make my professional and personal desires square up right now.

  I go with it.

  The disappointment I felt earlier is nowhere to be seen.

  I eat my lasagna and I gather my courage, Samuel’s elbow brushing mine every time he lifts his fork to his mouth.

  Jesus, even the way he eats is sexy. He takes his time, thoughtfully savoring every bite. I try to do the same, although it’s hard because this stuff is so delicious I want to devour it in giant bites. But slowing down does heighten the experience. This is not a meal to be rushed through. Lasagna is time-consuming to make, and I’d bet my life everything in it is homemade, from the sauce to the noodles to the ricotta cheese.

  As trite as it sounds, everything Samuel cooks is made with fierce, real love.

  “It’s truth,” I say, sipping my wine.

  Samuel cuts me a confused look, his blue eyes glowing in the dim light of the fire. “The lasagna?”

  “Yes. My God.” I scoff. “How did I not see it sooner? Your truth—it’s in your food.”

  He grins. “See? I’m not all bad.”

  “You were a jerk for a minute there, yes, but…what if food is your way of showing love? You put a lot of effort into feeding the people who mean something to you. Filling them up fills you up. That’s why you adore sobre mesa so much. It’s people eating what you love and connecting over it, connecting with each other. Your food brings them together. See? You’re honest here”—I hold up my empty plate—“and you always have been. That love and that authenticity and the courage to put yourself out there, it’s been here”—I press my finger into the center of his chest—“all along.”

  His eyes soften, and so does everything inside my body. “That’s beautiful, Emma. It’s beautiful that’s what you see in a plate of noodles and way too much cheese.”

  “It’s more than that, and you know it.”

  “You know it.” His eyes hold mine. “You know how much I want to kiss you, Emma Crawford.”

/>   My heart leaps, and my stomach drops, and I sit, waiting for him to finish that thought.

  He sets down his plate and tugs a hand through his hair. “Since we’re on the subject of honesty. I know you said you wanted to keep things professional, and I have every intention of respecting your wishes. But I couldn’t not—” He groans. “I’m trying to be a better man here, and right now that feels like being up front about what’s going on inside my head.”

  Those fingers of his tighten on the stem of his wineglass, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t break eye contact. He’s feeling his feelings, and he’s not running away from them like he did when we first met.

  He’s trying for me.

  It’s affirming and arousing in a way I can’t quite describe.

  “Samuel Beauregard,” I say, setting down my wineglass on the hearth. “I’d very much like to kiss you too.”

  His eyebrows pop up. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “And you’re okay with it?”

  “I am.” I flatten my palm on the floor beside Samuel’s hip and lean into it. “Right now, I really am. In fact, I’m okay doing a lot more than that too.”

  “Promise me. Promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll stay on the farm.”

  I meet his eyes. “That’s quite the commitment.”

  He curls a hand around the nape of my neck. My body ignites at the feel of his fingers on my skin. His palm is huge and warm, and I already feel myself melting into a kiss that hasn’t even happened yet.

  “Promise,” he repeats.

  I look at his lips. They’re full, dark from the wine. “I promise.”

  My initial impulse is always to take charge in sexual situations. If I’m in control, no one gets hurt. Not if they don’t want to, anyway.

  Ceding that control, surrendering rather conquering—it’s scary. But I try it on anyway.

  I let Samuel lean in and angle his head. I tilt my chin, lips parting, welcoming his kiss.

  I let him in.

  The moment his mouth finally comes down on mine is a rush. He’s confident right off the bat, his tongue licking my bottom lip before moving into my mouth. His lips are soft, sure, and he tastes clean, like water and wine. His scruff catches on my chin and I bring my hand to his face, unfurling my fingers through his beard. He groans, this half helpless, half rowdy sound, and my nipples harden to tight points. They brush against the inside of his sweatshirt, making my clit pulse.