Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

Silas and I stick our noses into our glasses and inhale. The alcohol hits first, a burning sting that makes me blink. I wait a second, and then I parse through what’s underneath it.

Definitely almond. A hint of strawberry candy, the kind your grandmother kept in a dish beside her ashtray. It sounds gross, but it’s actually kind of interesting in this context.

I tip back the glass and sip, holding the whiskey in my mouth for a moment while my taste buds calibrate.

Butterscotch is the first flavor I get. It’s rich, caramel-y, and definitely sweet. Then I get a hint of smoke. Vanilla. Moving the liquid around my mouth, I notice how smoothly those flavors come together. There’s no bite. No raw edges to mellow.

It’s freaking delicious.

Silas and I swallow at the same time.

“You’re good,” Silas says.

“I know,” I say, the knots in my neck and shoulders loosening as I take another sip. “This one’s a winner.”

“I have a feeling people are going to lose their minds over it. Think it’s time to finalize those plans with the marketing team—they came up with pretty cool ideas. We can launch by summer.”

I raise a brow. “Silas, they want to call it ‘Sherry Sunset.’”

“Hey. You didn’t come up with anything better, did you?”

Milly would. She’d dig up some obscure literary or pop culture reference, and it would be perfect.

I blink. Banish the thought. Imbibe more whiskey so that my glass is empty and my blood is warm.

Glancing down at my watch, I see that it’s almost six. Where the hell is Reese? I hope she’s okay.

Desperate for a change of subject, I hold out my glass for more and say, “Do you think Dad’s been acting weird lately?”

“Dad’s always weird.” Silas refills both our glasses, then picks up Lucy in a single-arm move. The two of them settle on a stool on the other side of the island.

“I’m getting sketchy vibes from him again. He’s been jittery, hiding his phone from me and shit. I’m worried.”

Silas sips his whiskey and sighs, looking down at Lucy. “You worry too much, Nate.”

A hot poker of anger stabs me in the chest. “If I didn’t worry, we’d all be bankrupt and homeless. Show some fucking gratitude.”

“Nate.” Silas looks up. His eyes are kind. “Of course I’m grateful for all that you’ve done for us. I’m still here because of you. Dad’s still here because of you. But at some point, you gotta let the savior complex go so you can live your own damn life.”

“I am living my own life,” I growl. “I’m getting married, for Christ’s sake.”

Silas nods. “Reese seems to make you happy. But believing you’re a piece of shit who needs to take care of everyone else to earn his keep? I know that doesn’t make you very happy at all.”

“You think I’m a piece of shit,” I tease, deflecting. “I don’t.”

“Joke all you want, but being raised by a narcissist like Dad’ll do that to you.” Lucy stirs on his lap, restless, so he carefully sets her back down on the ground. “I would know.”

I take a gulp of whisky, my legs beginning to feel light. Lucy comes to sit at my feet, looking up at me with doleful eyes. “You plagiarizing your therapist now?”

“Watch it.” Silas points a finger at me. “I had to work hard to get on that couch.”

“You mean you had to hit rock bottom?”

One side of his mouth quirks up. “Didn’t I just say I took a loan from the mob to pay back the twenty grand I owed? Yes, Nate, I almost had to be stuffed in a garbage bag and thrown in a river somewhere in New Jersey so I could get into therapy. I highly recommend it. The therapy, not the garbage bag.”

“I don’t have time for either.”

Silas rolls his eyes. “Exhibit A of your martyrdom.”

Lucy starts to whine. I look down at her. “No, Lucy, it’s not time for dinner yet.” Then I look back up at my brother. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Not give a shit.”

Lucy whines louder.

Silas lifts a shoulder, finishing his whiskey. “I still give a shit. I just stopped hating myself, which allowed me to focus on the right things. I recognize that if someone’s not willing to put in the effort too when it comes to our relationship—if they’re not willing to meet me halfway—then I’m wasting my time. I don’t need to try harder. I need to let go and move on.”

Groaning, I swipe Lucy’s empty bowl off the floor and open the pantry, lifting the lid on the plastic tub of dog food. I can hear her little tail swishing in anticipation.

“So where does that leave you and Dad?” I scoop a heaping half-cup into the bowl and set it on the ground. Lucy attacks it like she hasn’t eaten in days. “Pretty sure he doesn’t love anyone except himself.”