Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

“Amelia, you sure you can catch this guy?” Beau asks, nodding at Rhett. “He may be the smallest Beauregard brother—”

“By five pounds,” Rhett shoots back.

Beau’s grin deepens. “But he’s still not light by any means.”

I lift my arm and flex my bicep. “I’ve got him. Turns out lifting little kids all day keeps you in pretty decent shape.”

“Dang, girl,” Beau says appreciatively. “I’m impressed. No doubt you got my little brother, but you ever need help, you come to me. Got it?”

“Or me,” Hank says.

“But I was always Amelia’s favorite, so she’ll come to me, obviously,” Samuel says, pointing his spatula at me.

There’s that flicker again. The love in this room is real, a palpable thing that invades my middle and makes the organs there feel like they’re about to burst.

I smile. “A good teacher doesn’t play favorites. But in y’all’s case . . .”

“It is me, right?” Samuel says.

Hank lets out a bark of laughter. “I’m the prettiest Beauregard. And the funniest. Stevie says so, so it must be true.”

“Of course it’s true,” Stevie says, and leans in to peck Hank’s cheek.

“I throw a flag on that one,” Rhett says, lips twitching.

“Y’all smelled too bad back then to be anybody’s favorite,” Milly interjects. “Clearly, I was and still am Amelia’s favorite. I’m cooler than Hank, and I definitely smell better than Samuel or Beau.”

His family is doing this on purpose—teasing me, baiting each other—to lighten the mood, and it’s working. I can’t stop smiling.

“Mama, tell Milly I don’t smell,” Beau says.

June grins at her only daughter. “Milly, Beau doesn’t smell . . . too bad.”

“It’s true,” Annabel says, turning to smile at Beau. “He only smells some of the time.”

“Y’all are children,” Hank mutters.

Samuel meets my eyes. “So? What’s the verdict? Who is your favorite Beauregard?”

“Am I allowed to say everyone is my favorite?”

“Absolutely not,” Beau says.

Samuel shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Total garbage non-answer,” Milly replies. “But because we all have to be nice to you and Rhett on account of this secret baby situation—”

“Y’all are never nice to me,” Rhett says.

“We’ll accept it, just this once.”

“Thank you,” I say, laughing. “And you know, there’s nothing wrong with a secret baby.”

Rhett finally looks up from his phone. Looks right at me, running a hand inside the collar of his shirt. “Really? Ask Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker. I think they’d have a very different opinion.”

Hank’s barking with laughter again. “Are you comparing yourself to Darth Vader?”

“But you were never a Darth Vader,” I say in mock seriousness. “I thought we agreed you were more of an Ewok.”

Samuel pulls a face. “What the fuck is an Ewok?”

“Language,” Junie says and points at Maisie, who’s now running circles around the ottoman in Rhett’s family room.

“Sorry, sorry.”

“No,” Rhett says to me, “you were the Ewok. I was Han Solo.”

Milly rolls her eyes. “In your dreams. PS, how did I forget what huge dorks you two are? Those movies were always on when y’all were around back in the day. I bet I can still quote The Empire Strikes Back by heart. Ew.”

“You’re wrong,” I glance at Rhett. “I was Jabba the Hut, remember?”

“Oh God,” Hank says, “if this has anything to do with Amelia’s tongue—”

Rhett laughs, the kind of belly laugh that rumbles in his throat, and a ribbon of feeling unspools inside my rib cage.

“No comment,” he says.

Luckily, he leaves it at that because Samuel’s setting plates piled with eggs, toast, and bacon in front of us, giving me just the distraction I need to focus on anything but these mushy feels I keep getting.

I’ve missed the Beauregards. Emma is so damn lucky to have married into this family.

“Y’all got a long day ahead,” Samuel says, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Time to carb load.”

I tuck into my eggs. They’re perfectly cooked, scrambled with chives and this rich, tangy goat cheese that’s out of this world. It’s the first meal I’ve eaten in days that hasn’t come out of a can or a styrofoam takeout container, and it’s so delicious I want to cry.

“I adore all of you,” I say around a mouthful of buttery sourdough toast, “but I think Samuel is my favorite today. This food is insane.”

Rhett groans as he nibbles on a piece of bacon. “You’re insane. Samuel is the worst, clearly.”

The fact that Rhett can joke around shouldn’t make me smile this hard, but it does.

“And by worst, you mean the best,” his brother replies. “Clearly, I’m the handsomest, and clearly the least smelly too. Also the best cook, but that goes without saying.”

We eat and trade barbs for the next half hour. I can’t stop wishing I’d grown up in a big family. My chest hurts when I begin to think I may never have this for myself.

I may never have a family like this, one of my own.