Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

I nod at Milly’s coat. “Can I help—?”

“No, thank you,” Milly replies, squaring her shoulders. She looks like she’s either about to level a city with the help of her fire-breathing dragon or cry.

I curl my hands into fists inside my pockets. Same, girl, same.

I follow Milly to the mirrors. She’s so put together in her fitted silk blouse-skirt-dress thing. I feel like a tool standing beside her in my jeans, my button-up rumpled from a wrestling match with my dog, Lucy, earlier this morning.

I close my eyes and pray the end of the world is nigh.

No such luck. Holly leads us through something called a foxtrot, which seems simple enough until she has Milly and me face each other. The smell of her perfume whacks me in the backs of my knees. Luckily, we don’t have to touch each other as we move, but I still stumble through the first few steps, my big dumb feet finally catching on the toes of Milly’s pristine boots.

I pitch forward. She reaches out to catch me, hands curling around my biceps in a way that makes my brain—and my body—short-circuit. I freeze. Because the universe is intent to fuck with me today, my biceps harden against her palms. It’s like I’m having an involuntary hard-on, but . . . not.

“Sorry,” we say at the same time. Milly drops her hands. I want to step back—I should step back—but I’m still frozen to the spot.

I’d forgotten what it’s like, having someone look out for me. Reese is kind, but I often feel like what I want or need takes a back seat to what she does. Being cared for this way makes the perpetual block of ice that is my chest cavity melt a little.

“You really are terrible at this,” Milly says, offering me a small, almost shy smile.

The ice melts a little more. She could easily make me feel like a doofus with two left feet. Instead, she’s cracking a joke, putting us all at ease. It’s a kindness I don’t deserve from her, and I appreciate it more than she’ll ever know.

“I told y’all.”

Holly clasps my shoulder. “You’re doing great, Nate. Let’s try again. On the count of one, a-two, a one-two-three-four . . . that’s it. Yes—no! Milly, you’re fine, but Nate—yes, that’s it. You lead, so you’re the one who steps forward first. Left foot. Other left foot. Now the ri—gracious, Nate, you do know the difference between left and right, right?”

“Keep trying,” Milly says. “You’ll get it.”

I don’t want try again, but dancing is a good excuse to focus my gaze on my feet and not the woman standing in front of me, so I force myself through the steps. Feet together. Is Milly seeing anyone? Left foot, step forward. How is she not punching me in the face right now? Right foot forward. Reese and I only talked once while she was away this week. Left foot side step. I’ll kill Silas if he knows Dad’s gambling again and isn’t telling me. Right foot side step. Is it too late to elope to Scotland and start a new life there?

I look at my feet. Look at Milly’s. By some miracle, I actually nail the steps by the time the third song—a Phil Collins banger—comes on.

“Would you look at that!” Holly shakes her head and smiles. “I think it’s time we brought y’all in so you can try it together.”

My stomach flips. “Brought us in?”

Holly wheels her arm, motioning for me to move closer to Milly. “The bride and groom should touch each other when they dance, don’tcha think? Nate, you lead, so you gotta make sure your grip on your girl is firm but still loose enough to let her move. Start by putting your right hand on Milly’s back near her shoulder blade.”

Oh, boy.

Milly and I look at each other. Her blue eyes, so certain a second ago, are lit up with panic.

Touching her will be awkward as hell.

But refusing to touch her? That’ll be even worse. It’d be an admission of . . . something we should not revisit. Besides, what excuse could we possibly give Holly for keeping our distance that wouldn’t come off as bizarre and/or a red flag? I’m sorry, but I have a highly communicable disease only transmitted through touch? Sorry, I probably smell?

Milly’s eyebrows are slightly turned up at the center, making the pair of uneven creases appear above the bridge of her nose. Help.

She saved me once today. Time to return the favor.

“Okay,” I say. And then I put my hands on Milly Beauregard for the first time in two years.

Chapter Seven

Milly

One minute, I’m standing there with my pulse ripping through my veins.

The next, Nate is dipping his chin in a barely perceptible nod—it’s all right—and closing the gap between our bodies, his hand slipping past my waist to gently find its way to my upper back.