Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

He parks the truck underneath the gigantic oak in front of my cabin and jumps out.

“Hey, little lady,” Silas says, crouching down to scratch underneath Lucy’s ear. She arches into his hand, wiggling out of my grasp into his, and I roll my eyes.

“I still don’t get why she likes you so much.”

He tucks her underneath his arm. “Could be the fact that I’m not a grumpy asshole.”

“I’m only grumpy because I have to deal with you.” I nod at the bottle in his hand. “What’s that?”

Silas grins. “Some whiskey out of those sherry casks you’re so wild about. Danica and I tasted it today. It’s different, but I think you’ll like it.”

I take the bottle and hold it up to the fading light. “Pretty color.”

“I also heard you had your first dance lesson this morning.” He strokes the top of Lucy’s head, and her eyes roll back. I wouldn’t be surprised if she started to purr. “Figured you’d need a little brown water to help you come down from all that . . . excitement.”

I grunt, uncorking the bottle and giving its contents a sniff. “Interesting.”

“The fact that you actually agreed to dance?”

“The grapes,” I say. “I can smell them. I also get almond.”

Silas grins. “Wait till you taste it. C’mon, let’s go inside and pour one out. By the way, where’s your jacket? It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a steel bra out here.”

I ignore him and head for the cabin. Even after the renovation wrapped up a few months ago, my heart still skips a beat when I see the place. It’s part early-nineteenth-century cabin, part modern shiplap addition, and it’s set on a gentle slope miles from anywhere. I fucking love it.

The original structure, a three-hundred-square-foot log cabin, was built by my ornery ancestors around 1810 and has been passed down from generation to generation ever since, along with the hundred acres of forest and farmland it sits on. Dad didn’t want the place; it was an uninhabited wreck when he inherited it from his father. It was such a mess, in fact, that Dad’s “creditors”—a nice term for the loan sharks and bookies he borrowed money from—wouldn’t accept it as collateral or payment.

Turned out to be a stroke of luck for me. Dad couldn’t gamble away the cabin, which meant I was able to buy the property from him as soon as I could afford it.

The cabin had indoor plumbing but not much else in the way of modern amenities. Still, I made do and saved my pennies, and I was finally able to afford the renovation and addition I’d been dreaming about for years when I dug the distillery out of the hole last year. My home’s not extravagant by any means. But I made sure the craftsmanship was top-notch. I hired a preservationist to help restore the original fieldstone fireplace and kitchen; what I gave up in square footage I made up for in quality materials, from the small but mighty Wolf range to the quality millwork (custom bookshelves in every room were a must) and steel windows.

It’s my little slice of paradise. Still makes me angry when I think about how close we came to losing it.

I shove that thought aside—it’s tedious, it’s tiring—and step into the cabin’s cozy little entryway. Behind me, Silas sets down Lucy, her nails clacking merrily against the wood floors as she heads for the kitchen in search of food.

I shake my head. “So shameless.”

“Girl after my own heart,” Silas says. He glances at the cutting board I have set out on the antique island, topped with sticks of softened butter, mushrooms, and a bag of Rodgers’ Farms grits. “Expecting company?”

“Yeah, shithead, I’m making dinner for my fiancée.”

Silas smiles, grabbing a pair of whiskey glasses from the open shelving beside the sink. “Whatcha making the lucky lady?”

“Grits and veggie casserole.” I wet a paper towel with warm water and lift Lucy, carefully wiping down her stubby little legs and paws.

“Will there be—?”

“Cheese?” I set down Lucy. “Yes. I’ve got a block of gruyere in the fridge.”

“You’ll be using the—”

“Whole block? Yes.” To drive the point home, I open a nearby drawer and dig out my cheese grater.

“Ah. Because freshly grated cheese—”

“Tastes better. It’s a—”

“Scientific fact.” Still smiling, Silas pours us each a dram of whiskey, careful not to spill it. “Did you ever think we’d be finishing each others’ sentences in your fancy-ass kitchen one day?”

I take the glass he holds out to me. “Fuck no. I thought for sure your severed limbs would be buried across five states by now.”

“Hey. I only took a loan from the mob once, and I paid it back in full.” Silas holds up his glass. “To Mom.”

I clink my glass to his. “To Mom.”

It’s the same toast we do every time we drink. Mom passed away ten years ago—brain cancer. She’s responsible for turning me into such a bookworm, and I miss talking words with her every damn day.