Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

“A guy?” His turn to raise a brow. “C’mon, Milly. Finish the thought.”

The way his face looks with the curled eyebrow and the playful bent of his mouth punches me right in the gut.

“A guy who couldn’t dance for shit, except when his inamorata Gloria came on.”

He chuckles, a low, warm, smooth sound I feel inside my chest. “I miss your honesty.”

I miss you.

Thankfully, I have the presence of mind to push through the door before I say it aloud.

Chapter Eight

Nate

I miss your honesty.

What was I thinking, saying shit like that? I can’t decide if it was inappropriate or not. It was a compliment, one I know Milly would appreciate. Still, did it come off as flirty? Was I flirting? The idea that I crossed a line makes me deeply uncomfortable. I’m not that guy.

Milly’s not that girl. But really, how am I supposed to handle this? Above all, I want Reese to have the wedding day she’s always dreamed of. For that to happen, it’s essential I play nice with our wedding planner. It’s essential for me to show up.

Does dancing salsa to the Miami Sound Machine with Milly count as “showing up”? Or was it something else?

I don’t know, and that bothers me. I also don’t know if I should address the elephant in the room. Feels dickish not to apologize to Milly for ghosting her. But what would I even say? What explanation could I give her that doesn’t dig up old secrets I swore I’d keep buried? Secrets that, if they ever got out, would destroy everything I love?

Lucy, my dachshund, appears out of the late afternoon mist. Bopping merrily through the blanket of red and yellow leaves that cover my yard, she drops the stick in her mouth at my feet and looks up at me expectantly, her little tail wagging.

“We’ve been at this for half an hour,” I say, my breath just visible in the cold, damp air. “Can’t we go inside and read a book now?”

Speaking of books, I’m almost done with the Patrick Rothfuss fantasy series I’ve been reading, which means it’s time for a trip downtown to one of my all-time favorite spots in the universe: Malaprop’s Bookstore.

Lucy just looks at me, wagging her tail so hard her entire body flaps back and forth. I grin.

I dip down and grab the stick, which is covered in sticky dog slobber. Lovely. “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

I hurl the stick, careful to throw it just far enough to get Lucy moving but not too far that I can’t see her. Not gonna lie, I love watching her little butt wiggle as she runs.

It’s freezing out, the kind of day that gets grayer and chillier as the hours pass, but I’m not wearing a jacket. I’m too hot. Clammy, almost, like I’ve been stuck in middle school dance purgatory all day long.

It’s the weirdest fucking thing. So is the fact that Milly took a dancing lesson with me this morning. I almost think she enjoyed it. She got this soft, curious look in her eyes, the one she’d get when she was lost in an idea.

I almost asked about it. Milly’s mind was my favorite thing about her. We could talk for days about the good stuff. The important stuff—dreams and ideas and inspiration.

I’m glad I didn’t ask.

Glancing toward my mile-long driveway, I wonder if Reese is on her way over. She dove right into meetings with some local restaurant owners after she finally landed in Asheville at noon, but promised she’d come over for dinner when she was done. The idea that I’m going to see her makes me feel a swoop of relief.

All will be well.

Lucy has stopped to sniff something by the old barn a hundred or so feet from my cabin. I whistle for her, which excites her so much she takes off at a sprint but then loses her footing. She ends up sliding into a pile of leaves I was supposed to bag but didn’t. I know she’s fine, but I still jog over and pick her up, curling her warm little body into my chest.

“Take your time, sweet girl,” I say, patting her belly. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

We both look up at the sound of tires crunching on gravel. A diesel truck, not as new as Dad’s but definitely newer than mine, creeps toward us. I glimpse the Kingsley Distilling logo on the driver’s side door. The guy honks. Lucy jumps.

“Goddammit, Silas!” I shout. “You’re scaring the dog!”

My brother pokes his head out the window. He waves, smiling. “Always so happy to see me.”

Silas is hilarious. He’s also a recovering gambling addict with busted credit and a criminal record. While he’s done a complete one-eighty over the past couple years, shocking us all with both his recovery and his dedication to the distillery, I still worry about him. Especially with Dad around. The two of them were thick as thieves back in the dark days of Silas’s addiction. I always feel like I’m standing on shaky ground with them, like shit could collapse into chaos all over again at the drop of a hat.