Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

Silas points at me again. “Boom.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Means stop trying so hard with him.”

I groan. “But I have to try. Who else is gonna keep him from pissing away all our money again?”

What I don’t say: who else is gonna keep him safe and make him happy?

“If he’s gonna fuck himself, let him fuck himself,” Silas continues firmly. “You can try to stop him—you can try to save him—but I don’t think it’s gonna matter much in the end.”

I wince. That hurts. It also makes me want to scream. Our lives are so intertwined that wherever Dad goes, Silas and I go with him. Whatever hellhole he’s in, we’re in too—just look at our equal stakes in the company as proof. I love the distillery too much to let him destroy it. And now that the Nobles are involved, it’s not just my ass and my livelihood on the line. It’s Reese’s too. What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t protect her and her investment from my dad’s shitty decisions?

Protecting the woman I love means keeping my dad out of trouble. That’s a full-time job. I can’t afford distractions.

Distractions like Milly Beauregard.

The floorboards creak, and I look up. They only make that sound when the front door opens. A beat later, I hear a familiar voice.

“Dad, this one just feels different,” Reese is saying. “Yeah, I know, I know . . . but my passion for the game, I think it could really be an asset. I haven’t been this excited in ages about something. Charleston is . . . yeah, it’s a special place, and I got this vibe . . . exactly.”

She appears on the threshold, phone at her ear. She smiles when she sees me.

There’s that smile I’ve missed out on the past few days. Shouldn’t it fill me with relief and extreme horniness, then?

But then Lucy makes a mad dash for Reese, and Silas says something about her being a saint for putting up with me, and all I feel is tired.

Chapter Nine

Milly

Weekends.

In theory, they’re for play. Rest. Recharging your batteries.

For me, they’re for work. Especially this time of year—fall is wedding season in the South. Working Saturdays and Sundays is part of the gig when you’re in the hospitality industry. With the bitcoin billionaire soiree fast approaching and lots still left to do for the Kingsley/Noble wedding, I’m in my office by eight o’clock on Saturday, steaming latte in hand.

I gave Thea and Hadley the day off. It’s mostly my fault we didn’t get done what we needed to this week—my bitch of a muse went back into hiding the second I stepped out of the dance studio on Tuesday—and I feel like I need to be alone to make her sing again.

Sipping my latte, I set it on my desk and plop my tote bag on the floor. It’s a beautiful fall day outside, the sky a crisp, vivid shade of blue, and sunlight catches on the screen of my laptop as I open it, muting the image of my inbox to the point I can barely see it.

“Goddammit,” I say and move to the table in the center of the room. But now that my laptop is facing away from the strident morning sun, my eyeballs are staring directly into it. I have to cup a hand over my eyes to keep them from watering. “Seriously?”

It’s almost like the universe doesn’t want me to get shit done.

Plan B. I got caught up on my emails anyway last night as I half watched a DVR full of Hometown reruns. I need to create. We’re supposed to present this godforsaken mood board to Reese next week, which means I need to wrap up the design plan pronto.

I close my laptop, slam my latte, and pull out everything we’ve selected so far, setting paint cards, fabric and brass samples, and clippings from magazines on the table.

Opening my notebook to a blank page, I uncap my pen and survey the spread. The vibe is right. We’re getting closer to that England-meets-Asheville idea Reese and I dig so much, but it’s still missing something. I can’t put my finger on it, but as it stands now, the whole thing feels too sweet. Too basic. It’s been done before.

How the hell do I make this wedding stand out?

I stare at the spread. My mind is a fuzzy blank, so I try staring at my notebook instead. The fuzz inside my head stays put. Frustration rises inside my chest and grips my throat.

“Come on,” I say through gritted teeth.

Why the fuck is this so hard? It didn’t used to be this way. I’ve always been a creative person, craving the magic, the bone-deep satisfaction that comes from translating what’s inside your heart into something beautiful outside yourself.