Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

Chapter One

Rhett

I’m on my third—or maybe it’s my fifth?—whiskey neat when I spot her across the room.

Short hair. Full mouth. Laughter that’s real and loud.

It’s been nine years since Amelia Fox broke my heart, so I don’t know why my pulse skitters, sending a zip of electricity through my veins. It’s the same feeling I’d get the second or two after the day’s first snap. That’s when the thrill of being on the field and having my legs under me used to overtake any pregame jitters.

Used to being the operative words.

My hand tightens around my glass.

One, why the fuck did my brother Samuel invite my ex-girlfriend to his engagement party?

Two, why didn’t he tell me?

And three, why am I moving toward her like some dick-led deadbeat, my skull hollowed out of any thought except damn, she looks good?

She’s wearing a floral dress. Heels that’ll make her a little taller than me. She was self-conscious about being five-ten back in high school. Now she’s owning it, baring legs that go on for days. Her dress clings to her long torso and those pert little tits that make—made—the perfect handful.

She turns her head, and our gazes collide. Her warm brown eyes widen for half a heartbeat. I hesitate, hit by the feeling of stepping in shit. I’m doing that a lot these days—acting before thinking—and I wonder if I should back off.

Too late. Amelia smiles, wide and so fucking pretty, and I’m hit square in the chest by an altogether different feeling.

God, how I loved making this girl smile.

“Hello, Rhett,” she says.

I’ve dated models with more Instagram followers than the population of a small European nation. I’ve hung out with pop stars flaunting their nipples for paparazzi. I’ve also done some very dirty dancing with an undisclosed member of the British royal family (sorry, kids, her NDA is watertight).

I was never, ever at a loss for words in those situations.

Now, though?

Now I scramble for what to say. What to do. What’s the protocol for greeting the girl I lost my virginity to in the bed of my brother Beau’s truck? The girl I thought would be my forever?

“Amelia. Hey.” I clear my throat. The whiskey’s making me sound growlier than I mean to. Or maybe it’s the guy in the bow tie behind Amelia checking out her ass who’s got me out of sorts. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m friends with Emma.” Amelia nods at the bride-to-be, who’s got her arm looped around Samuel’s waist over by the bar. “We were neighbors downtown before she moved up to Blue Mountain. We’ve been working on some educational programming together. Stuff about vegetables and growing a garden and healthy eating. My students love it.”

I run a hand over my overgrown scruff—I shaved my beard when we lost in the playoffs, but I’m thinking about growing it back—and Amelia’s eyes flick down to watch me do it.

“So you’re teaching,” I say.

She nods, her smile growing. “You’ll be shocked to hear I work at Mom’s preschool. I’m with the toddler class right now. It’s my favorite age.”

“Was only your dream to work there since, what,” I scoff, “you were five?”

“Woodward was a special place,” she says, referencing the Montessori school her mom founded back in the nineties. “Still is. I’m happy to report we’re thriving. We were able to give twenty-two kids scholarships this year.”

“Impressive! Your mom would be proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

Her eyes drift over my face before falling to the glass in my hand. I wait for her to say it back—that my parents would be proud of me—but she doesn’t.

Not gonna lie, that kinda hurts.

I tip back my glass, vision spinning out. I probably should slow down.

“Toddlers are your favorite?”

She nods again. “Even at their worst, they’re easier to deal with than moody adults.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about me?” I ask, lips twitching.

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

She sips her drink, and my gaze moves to the lime that floats to the top of her glass. Gin and tonic? Vodka soda? “You just seem a little . . . grumpy.”

“It’s a new thing I’m trying out.”

“Looks like you’re trying out a lot of new . . . things,” she replies, eyes on my scruff. “Wishful thinking? That you made it to the championship?”

Now I’m the one smiling. Amelia never held any punches.

“So you know my team lost in the playoffs,” I say. “Does that mean you’ve been following me? My career? Maybe my Instagram too?”

“It means I’m wondering why you’re sporting a semi-playoff beard while, yes, losing in the playoffs. Aren’t you supposed to shave after you lose?”

I stroke my scruff. “Playoff beards actually started as a hockey thing. I’m doing the football version, which is post-playoff beards. Scruff. Whatever.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. Season’s over, and you want to relax. You don’t feel like shaving, so you don’t. Hence, the post-playoff beard.”