Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

He didn’t get rid of the tats. Good.

The freckled skin there draws taut over bunched muscle as Nate thrusts the gearshift into third. The throb between my legs spreads to my thighs. I’m on fire, and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing I can do about it except pet Lucy and hope to God I don’t soak through my leggings (I always go commando when I wear them).

“What about you?” Nate asks at last, glancing in my direction. “Are you seeing anyone?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Wedding season kinda takes over my life this time of year.”

“I remember,” he says.

My heart skips a beat. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“Listen, Milly—” But he’s cut off when we round a wooded bend and nearly run head-on into a line of traffic. Literally.

Nate slams on the brakes. His arm flies out in an attempt to keep Lucy and me from pitching forward. The seat belt catches me, and I’m able to hold on to Lucy in turn. But the tips of my breasts still brush his arm—those fucking forearms, they’re as solid as they look—and we both shout, “Sorry!” at the same time.

The Bronco shudders to a stop less than a foot from the car in front of us.

Nate’s forearm is still pressed to my breasts. I’m trapped against the seat, and I realize a beat too late that the twist in my stomach isn’t fear but something else.

Need. For him. For the way he makes me feel—safe and settled and cared for.

“You okay?” Nate asks.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

Realizing where his arm is, he quickly pulls it back and whips his sunglasses off his head. “Sorry. I’m fine. Sorry.” He cranes his neck to get a better look at the traffic. “What the hell is going on?”

I push up on my seat to look too. We’re on a winding two-lane highway that disappears up a hill into the trees a quarter mile or so ahead. A line of traffic stretches as far as the eye can see.

“No idea. Let me call Beau and see if he knows.” I lean down and dig my phone out of my bag.

“He’s got to. This is the only way up to the Farm. Well, the only way from town,” Nate says, shifting his hand on the steering wheel.

Beau answers on the first ring. “It’s a motherfucking rockslide. Cops are telling me the road’ll be closed for the next couple hours at least.”

I groan. Thanking him, I hang up.

“What’s up?” Nate asks.

“Rockslide.” I look over my shoulder at the road behind us. “Why don’t you turn around and take me back downtown?”

His eyes go wide. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because it’s easier to get an Uber there. The long way up to the Farm takes almost an hour.”

“But I’m taking you to Blue Mountain.”

“I can’t . . .” I can’t be this close to you for another hour without losing my mind and/or causing irreparable damage to your leather seat. “I can’t let you waste your Saturday running me around.”

Nate puts the Bronco in reverse. Turning his head, he places his hand on the back of my headrest and begins to guide the truck backward. “You’re not getting an Uber.”

“But—”

“You’re gonna have to pull a Sandra Bullock and fight me for this steering wheel if you really think you’re wasting my Saturday. Reese would lose her shit if she knew I didn’t help out our wedding planner.”

Referring to me that way—not as his ex, but as the woman he and his fiancée hired to help them out—is a shameless tactic.

But it works. Just like he knew it would.

“Only because Lucy’s such a good cuddle buddy,” I say. She looks up at me, panting with pleasure as I scratch her neck.

“Everyone likes my dog more than me.” Nate shoves the truck into first gear with a grunt.

“I wonder why.”

He smirks, the tension between us thawing. But it’s replaced by warmth. Comfort. An altogether different kind of electricity seeps through my skin and charges my blood.

The truth is, the idea of wiling away the morning in this truck with this man makes me feel happier than I have in a long time.

Hornier too.

Oh, God.

But before I can even think to jump out of my door and make a run for it, Nate hits the gas.

Chapter Twelve

Nate

I call Reese and, despite begging every god in the universe for her to answer, my call goes to voicemail. I leave a message and tell her what happened.

“I think I’ll still be able to make lunch, though,” I say. “So give me a call when you can. Hope spin class didn’t suck too hard.”

It’s an inside joke of ours—how Reese is one of those rare birds who actually enjoys sweating her balls off in a dark room while a bro with biceps coming out of his ears shouts at her to ride faster, push harder—but I don’t smile as I say it.