Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

Rhett’s phone chimes just as Hank shuts the dishwasher after loading it with our dirty dishes. The Beauregards grab their things, wishing us luck. Milly is the last to leave.

“Hey.” Rhett curls an arm around her neck at the door and kisses the top of her head. Milly leans into his chest, the obvious familiarity between them making me think this is an embrace they’ve shared a thousand times. “Thank you for coming over. I know I’m being a grumpy asshole, but I appreciate your support, Milly.”

Looking up at him, she says, “You’d better. Amelia’s right—your family’s pretty fucking fantastic, Rhett.”

“Like I could ever forget, considering how often y’all remind me of that fact.”

My heart squeezes as I watch Rhett pull her in for one last quick, tight hug. “Tell me I’m gonna be okay.”

“You’re gonna be okay.” She runs a hand up his back. “I promise.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, Vader.”

Something I love? How fiercely Rhett adores his family. Makes me think he really will be okay. He loves his people, and he’d bust his ass to make them happy.

It was one of the many things that drew me to him as a lonely sixteen-year-old who could count the number of family members—immediate and extended—on one hand.

Milly leaves. Not long after we hear the crunch of tires on Rhett’s gravel driveway. Glancing out the family room window, I see a small white Ford with a Buncombe county sticker on the side pull up.

My stomach drops, but by some quirk of physics, it ends up in my throat. I glance at Rhett. He wears a stoic expression, the kind I imagine inhabited the faces of French royals on their way to the guillotine. The only sign that he’s about to lose it is a tic in his jawline.

He’s shaved today. All traces of the overgrown scruff I’ve seen on him lately is gone. He’s dressed in pressed khakis and a blue-and-pink-checkered button-up. It’s not a bad look—in fact, I very much like the way his chest and shoulders fill out that shirt—it’s just not very . . . him. I actually miss the scruff. And even now, he plucks at his pants and gives his belt a tug, like he’s wearing a stockbroker bro costume that’s one size too small.

Rhett wouldn’t want my pity. But right now, I can’t help but feel bad for him.

Then a car door opens and shuts, and I remind myself he’s about to get a kid, not a cancer diagnosis.

“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Let’s go meet your son.”

“Let’s,” he says grimly and heads for the door. I follow a step behind. Close enough to catch him if he really does pass out, but far enough to give him some space.

He puts his hand on the knob and drops his head. Breathes deeply. Then he looks up and opens the door.

The morning is overcast, but the light that pours into the foyer is still bright enough to make me blink. A black woman in shiny clogs and a cardigan stands on the stoop, a navy blue quilted tote bag slung over one shoulder. Rhett told me her name is Natasha. She was here earlier this week for a home visit—child protective services wants to make sure kids go to stable, secure homes—which Rhett said went well.

Beside Natasha, his hand in hers, is a little boy with bright blue eyes and the thickest, blondest hair I’ve ever seen on anyone other than Rhett. He’s holding what must be his lovey in his other hand, a worn stuffed puppy attached to a small gray blanket.

Oh my God, he’s a mini Rhett Beauregard. Right down to the shape of his eyes, the olive tone of his skin, and the uncertain frown he wears.

He is beautiful.

I’m flooded by emotion ferocious enough to clog my throat and make my eyes water. Without thinking, I reach down and grab Rhett’s hand. It’s warm, dry. Safe.

It feels safe. Even as a zip of awareness darts up my arm, making me want to lean into him, into the solid breadth of his body.

He turns his head, and I see that his eyes are full of tears too. He squeezes my hand. Thank you.

I squeeze back. I’m here.

“Mr. Beauregard,” Natasha says, extending her hand. “Good to see you again. I’ll get right to it, as I know you must be anxious to finally meet the newest member of your family. This is your son, Liam. Liam, this is your dad.”

Rhett drops my hand and offers it to Natasha. “Good to see you too.” He falls into a crouch, his knees cracking, and gives Liam a watery smile. “Hey, buddy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Can you say hello?” Natasha asks gently.

Liam looks at Rhett. And keeps looking. I can already tell he’s a serious little guy.