Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

“Liam?” Amelia softens, smiling. “You haven’t mentioned his name. I like it.”

I finish my whiskey, my buzz intensifying. “Makes me think of that Oasis CD Beau kept in his truck. Liam Gallagher—wasn’t that the name of the lead guy?”

“I think so, yeah,” she says.

“Just consider it, okay? That’s all I’m asking. Please. I want the best for my kid. And you can’t tell me you’re not the best, Amelia.”

Her eyes stay on mine. The smile stays in place. “I am pretty freaking awesome.”

“I’ll pay you whatever you ask.”

Her smile tightens. She looks out at the view, and I realize at some point she stopped rocking.

Shit, am I being too pushy? There’s something about the set of her jaw, the way she swallows, that communicates hurt.

She’s hurting, and I hope I’m not adding to her pain. That’s the whole point of my proposal, isn’t it? To make things better for both of us?

“I’ll think about it,” she says at last, pushing up to standing. I’m not ready for her to go, but I guess I don’t have a choice. “Do you know when you’re expecting Liam’s arrival?”

I stand too and reach for her empty glass. “Not yet. Is it cool if I call you? I’ll let you know any details as soon as I do. We can chat about it at Samuel and Emma’s wedding this weekend. Or I can send you a text. Which do you prefer?”

“Call is fine. Not like I have a lot going on at the moment, so.” She scoffs. “I can talk anytime. Literally.”

“Thank you.” I nod at the house. “Here, come inside. I’ll call you a car.”

I leave our glasses on the counter and then lead Amelia out front to wait for her ride. Opening the front door for her, I slip my eyes down the length of her figure, landing on her ass.

It’s such a nice ass, especially in those jeans. She was a beanpole in high school, but she’s filled out since then, and I—ugh.

It does.

Not.

Matter what I think about Amelia’s ass or her laugh. Her thoroughness. Her drive to make a difference. I can’t let myself get distracted by all that awesome shit.

I can keep my body and my mind in check. My career is a testament to that.

Tearing a hand through my hair, I focus my gaze on a big old oak tree in my yard. A swing. Maybe I should put a swing up over there? My house—hell, my whole property—isn’t exactly kid friendly. I have multiple staircases. Expensive furniture. Nary a gate or fence.

It’s all I can do not to groan. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

I glance at Amelia from the corner of my eye. Her gaze is watery again, and somehow I know that she’s thinking about the married loser who took down her career and her car.

In the interest of distracting myself from my ever-growing to-do list, I contemplate asking her about him. Friends can do that, right? Ask about exes? Friends do do that.

Also, if I’m doing the talking, then I’m controlling the conversation.

I’ll still be in control.

“So this guy.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “Did he break your heart?”

You weren’t in love with this prick, were you?

“Not sure if it’s losing the job or car or the guy,” she says. “But yeah, I’m heartbroken.”

Chapter Seven

Amelia

I should go home. Cry it out. Pay some bills and throw in a load of laundry because I have exactly zero pairs of clean underwear left at the moment.

But Rhett gave me a lot to chew on—hell, life’s given me a lot to think about in the past twenty-four hours—and I’m just buzzed enough to give in to my first impulse. I have the driver, a nice guy named Jeremy, who tells me he’s working his way up in Blue Mountain’s guest relations department, drop me off at my grandmother’s house.

She lives in a fabulous craftsman-style cottage that was built in 1912. It’s got wavy glass windows and a wide front porch. Towering oaks and pine trees line the house’s original gilded-age footprint, which Grandma Rose hasn’t changed despite a sizable kitchen renovation a couple of years back.

The house is one of my favorite spots in the world.

I climb the red brick steps onto the porch, the tightness in my chest loosening at the sight of my grandmother’s mismatched decor. The upholstery on the cushy wicker chairs is mellowed with age and sun. A round, wrought-iron table is crowded with plants of every shape and size, including a cutting from the snake plant Rose gave my mom the day I was born. I have a cutting too, back at my place downtown.

“It’s me,” I call. I give the front door a push—it sticks in the summer, thanks to the humidity—and step inside.

I’m barraged by familiar smells. Onions sautéed in butter. Pastry browning in the oven.