Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

I knew I’d run into Milly again at some point. Asheville is a small place. But I never in a million years imagined I’d sit down in her office to talk about planning my wedding to someone else.

“You said it was just a fling,” Reese had said when we were hashing out planner ideas. “I mean, yeah, maybe it’s a little awkward, but who cares? I can’t imagine you’ll be seeing her much. If you don’t want to come to our meetings after the first one, you don’t have to.”

Exactly why I agreed to meet with Milly in the first place. This particular meeting may be excruciating, but hopefully the pain ends here. I pass the baton to Reese and Chris, and Milly takes care of the rest. The wedding happens, and then Reese and I get to jet off on our honeymoon. She wants Hawaii, but I’m hoping to convince her Scotland is the better bet.

Is it weird that Milly even agreed to plan our wedding? She knows I’m the one getting married; my name is on all the paperwork, and she still booked us for a primo weekend in April when another couple unexpectedly canceled.

To be fair, I get why she’d do it. Like her brothers, she’s all business, all the time, and taking on a wedding of this size and scope is very, very good for business. Milly doesn’t charge a flat fee; she takes a percentage of the wedding’s overall cost. Considering Chris gave us an eye-wateringly high budget for this shindig, Milly would get a nice chunk of change.

And is it weird Reese doesn’t seem to care that Milly and I have a past? Or does that show she’s an evolved adult who knows what she wants and isn’t going to let a long-ago hookup stand in her way? One of the things I love most about my fiancée is how she isn’t afraid to go after what she’s set her eye on. Me included—Reese was the one who proposed, although I insisted she be the one to wear a ring.

I’m grateful to have such a standup partner by my side.

Yet my heart pounds as a bellhop leads us through a door beside the front desk marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. We enter another world. This one is equally stylish, still mountaintop-chic but a little slicker. We walk past a glass box, where a man with his feet propped up on his desk laughs into a phone. An open door on our left reveals the low, warm whirr of a copy machine.

That’s when I smell it. Perfume.

It’s this sexy shit. Vanilla and a little smoke and fuck—

“Knock, knock,” Chris says, tapping on the open door just ahead to my left.

“Mr. Noble! Welcome. I’m so glad y’all are here. Please come in.”

My stomach plummets. The familiar voice is high, fitting for such a little thing.

Little do they know that little thing has balls of fucking steel.

Reese turns to me with a smile. “It’s her!” she whispers before dropping my arm to join Chris at the door.

“Milly!” Reese says, throwing her arms wide. “Oh my God, I am so excited to meet you! I’ve only been stalking your work, for, like, ever. I’m a huge fan.”

Milly doesn’t laugh in reply. That would be “bullshitty and fake,” as she used to say. Instead, she pulls Reese in for a hug. I hear the pride in Milly’s words when she says, “Thank you so damn much, Reese. That means a lot. We work our asses off to deliver top-notch results for our clients, and I’m honored to be a part of your special day.”

Milly in a nutshell: classy, but with cussing.

Lots and lots of cussing.

A fact Chris and Reese don’t seem to mind. They’re both smiling like Beyoncé herself just winked at them from the stage. I’m not surprised; Milly always had this Princess Diana thing going on, an ability to be in a room and give whoever’s in it an immediate sense of belonging.

She also had this private hurt she let no one else in on, even me, the guy she stripped naked every night (and most mornings too) for six months straight.

“My daughter knew from the minute she got engaged she wanted you to plan her wedding,” Chris says.

The three of them keep chatting. I glance over my shoulder. Too late to duck and run?

“But before we begin, let’s get my fiancée, Nate, involved.”

Yep, too late.

I paste on a smile that, judging by the way Reese’s eyebrows dart together when she glances my way, looks more like a grimace. Then I remind myself that I, too, have balls, and that they respond to my fiancée and my fiancée only. I step forward. Turn. Step over the threshold into the studio.

Milly’s eyes immediately lock on mine. Their color—it’s a shade of blue vibrant enough to make you wonder if it’s fake (it’s not).