Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

Everything inside me tightens to the point that I ache.

Chris Martin croons about taking his time—it’s like the universe planned it, this day that’s about to kill me before lunch—and for several beats, I don’t know what to do. Do I panic? Tell Nate he needs to find another wedding planner?

“Milly.”

I blink, startled from my spiral. “Yeah?”

“It’s a beautiful day.” He gestures to the sky. “You just got a pile of books. You’re cuddling with the best dog who ever lived. You’re getting to witness the high-quality sound of a cassette tape firsthand. Enjoy it.”

Scratching Lucy’s belly with one hand, I hold my hair back from my face with the other. “I’m not sure I know how anymore.”

Nate reaches for the volume and turns it up. Way up. “Like this!” he shouts.

And then he starts to sing. He shifts gears, and the adorable motherfucker sings at the top of his lungs. He tilts his head back and furrows his brow and belts out every damn word to the song. His timing is perfect, but his voice is terrible, cracking on the high notes. But he keeps going, confident in a way that’s epically, terrifyingly sexy.

I’m overwhelmed by the sudden urge to cry. Covering my mouth with my hand, I laugh instead, still overwhelmed but in the best, most delicious way possible.

He’s doing this for me. Making a complete and utter fool of himself because I’m having a bad day and he wants to fix that.

He wants to fix me in the same way Chris Martin apparently wanted to fix Gwyneth Paltrow.

I have to remember they ended up divorced. But right now, it’s all I can do not to get swept up in the giddiness of the moment because Nate’s laughing too. Stumbling on the words of the next song—“In My Place”—he’s giving it the old college try nonetheless. He loses himself in the song, singing with a passion that would make Chris proud.

Heaviness continues to gather low in my core.

The music swirls around us, the breeze too. Even though my eyes are wet, I’m smiling so hard it hurts. I want to lose myself too. I need to get out of my head. Badly.

So when the chorus hits, I start to sing too. “Please, please, please . . .”

Nate turns his head again to give me an encouraging nod. “You’re less terrible than me! But not by much.”

“Thanks!” I say, laughing.

We keep singing, trying to outdo each other in how awful and loud we can get. Laughter clears my thoughts. Most of them, anyway. I don’t focus on the few that are left on work. I just try to enjoy for enjoyment’s sake. I become aware of the beating of my heart. I let my hair blow into my face and stick my hand out the window, letting the air whoosh between my fingers. I bob my head in time to the beat as I sing. I catch my reflection in the side-view mirror and smile harder.

I look like such a mess.

I look happy.

Lucy, however, looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.

I want this morning to last forever.

The music is loud, and so is my heartbeat. I breathe deeply as I sing, fresh air filling my lungs, and I wonder where the hell I’ve been. This silly, slap-happy person who knows every word to every Coldplay song—where has she been over the past couple years?

What does it mean that she’s only resurfaced now?

I thought I was showing up for myself by working hard and staying focused. But maybe I leaned into the mindless rush a little too hard, and somewhere along the way, I actually ended up losing myself.

Because singing in a car with a handsome redhead on a beautiful day makes me feel like I’m reclaiming something. I’m taking back what the business and the hustle took away.

We wind our way through the mountains. Every so often, we’ll crest a hill and get a spectacular view of the valley below. It’s past peak leaf season, but the vistas are still dotted with color. The Blue Ridge Mountains do their name justice, the farthest ones appearing almost purple in the distance.

Songs cycle through. “Clocks,” “Every Tear is A Waterfall,” and my personal favorite, “Till Kingdom Come.” A knot forms in my stomach the closer we get to the Farm. I don’t want to go back to my life there. To my day. Not yet. I want more of whatever magic sauce Nate has that helps me escape the productivity-obsessed perfectionist I’ve become.

The ride goes too fast. All of a sudden, we’re driving through the Farm’s stone entrance. Nate turns down the music as our iconic barn comes into view, and practically five seconds later, we pull into the gravel drive in front of my house.

I feel like I’m going to cry again.