Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

He must notice the same about me—well, not the scruff, but my eyes are so swollen they probably look like chewed-up Red Hots—because his brows snap together. “Hey. Everything all right?”

Dammit, more tears.

I blink hard. “Um.”

I could lie. But I’m sick of lies. I’m sick of everything and everyone.

“Bad day?” Rhett asks, voice softer now.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I look away and nod. “You could say that, yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Well.” I think for a second, then decide to say it like it is because I have nothing left to lose. “My life literally blew up in my face this morning.”

His turn to blink. “Sounds intense. I’m really sorry, Amelia, whatever happened.”

“Thanks.”

Rhett wrinkles his nose. “You smell . . . smoky. That have anything to do with it?”

“Yes.” I sniff too, grateful for the distraction. “You smell sweaty.”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand up the back of his head, making the vein that snakes lengthwise up his bicep pop against his tan skin. “I meant to shower, but . . . my life kinda blew up today too. It’s why I’m here, actually.” He nods at the rows of booze around us. “Needed a little liquid fortification.”

I let out a sigh of—shit, there’s that relief again. What kind of monster am I, being relieved I’m not alone in my misery?

Still, I say, “Same.”

He looks like he’s about to cry.

“Whatever happened to you, I’m sorry too,” I say, and like the idiot I am, I tap my plastic jug of cheap liquor against his shoulder in solidarity.

He studies my face for a moment, as though he’s deciding whether to share the nature of the bomb dropped on his life. Napalm? Nuclear?

Instead, he reaches down and takes the vodka out of my hand.

“Don’t drink this shit.” He shoves it back onto the shelf. “It’ll rot your insides.”

“But—”

“Try . . .” He studies the shelves of vodka before grabbing a handle of Ketel One. “This. Much better. Let’s not add insult to injury and drink gasoline after a bad day, all right?”

The bottle looks pitifully small in the paw of his hand. I glance at the price tag on the shelf. “No doubt that’s good stuff, but it’s a little rich for my blood.”

But Rhett is already walking away, Ketel One in hand. He snags a handle of whiskey from another shelf, then heads for the cashier.

I glance at the neon green sign again, wondering if I should grab a bottle. For some reason, I decide against it and also hustle to the cashier, glancing over Rhett’s shoulder as he sets the bottles on the counter and pulls out a wad of cash from his shorts pocket.

“I got this,” he says to me, using the broad tip of his thumb to sort through the bills.

“Rhett—”

“You’re not drinking bad liquor on my watch. No one has time to be that hungover.”

Actually, time is all I have.

Rhett pays and hands me a plastic bag with my Ketel One inside it.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Welcome,” he says and holds the door open for me.

Chapter Six

Rhett

Bad idea.

Asking Amelia to have a drink is a bad fucking idea. I know it; she knows it. The universe knows it too. Last time I invited her over, I ended up attempting to rub one out because I couldn’t stop thinking about her boobs.

But the thought of being alone right now makes me want to die. If anyone would know what to do in a surprise-you-have-a-kid situation, it’s Amelia.

The realization hits me. Amelia literally knows what to do because she deals with kids all day, every day. Maybe she’ll have some suggestions. Ideas on what I need to learn. What to buy.

How the hell I come to terms with the idea that I’m going to be a daddy.

And yeah, the fact that she looks like she’s been through hell might have something to do with asking her over too. Her eyes are puffy. But it’s her nose that gives her away. The tip always got bright pink when she was upset.

“Hey. Tell me to fuck off if you want—I totally get it. But you have any interest in coming up to the farm for a drink?” I lift my bag of whiskey. “Promise I won’t get wasted this time.”

She glances at her bag of vodka. Glances at the car idling at the curb. Did she Uber here? Sunshine ricochets off the blacktop, making her screw an eye shut. “I probably should get home.”

“Right,” I say, heart falling. “Like I said, totally get it.”

A beat of silence stretches between us. Could be the heaviness in me searching for light, but I imagine there’s warmth in the quiet. A mutual recognition of hey, this sucks, but it sucks a little less with you here.

“Amelia, I just found out I have a son,” I blurt.

Her one eye goes wide, followed in short order by the other. She blinks, cupping a hand over her brow. “Holy shit. Holy shit, Rhett.”