Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

“Yup. Before he got sick, he’d spend whole days out in his shed making all kinds of stuff—mostly furniture but other things too. He made this sweet little wagon for you kids when you were little. You probably don’t remember it—”

“I don’t.”

“But it was marvelous. He painted it blue and put your names on it in white cursive. He had beautiful penmanship.”

I just stare at her. “How did I not know this?”

“Your father can be a painful subject.” Mom lifts a shoulder. “And between the five of you, I can never get straight who remembers what. He was sick for so long . . .”

I pull her in for another hug. “Thank you for telling me. And for listening. And for this bomb-ass banana bread.”

“My pleasure. I hope knowing that your daddy was a sensitive soul makes you feel less silly for being one yourself. I may not be like y’all, but I do love you. I love you both dearly. In fact, it was your father’s artistic side that really made me fall for him. That, and his slow hands. Yes, that is a euphemism.”

I’m crying all over again, even as I laugh. “Please don’t elaborate.”

“I’ll spare you the details,” Mom says with a wink.

The two of us go through half the loaf before Mom gets up to leave. I give her a long, tight hug and thank her for the millionth time. I may have a broken heart, but my spirit feels lighter somehow. Like those pressures nipping at my heels have gone into hiding. Or at least backed the fuck off.

I’ll take that as a win.

Chapter Sixteen

Nate

Holding the steering wheel in a death grip, I nearly jump out of my skin when my phone rings.

Milly? Beau?

I would almost welcome a death threat at this point. Seems wherever I go, I leave a trail of destruction behind me.

The only things messier than the situation I’m in are my feelings. They’re all over the place, and I think I’m too scared to acknowledge what that might mean.

I’m too scared to give those feelings a name.

So I don’t. I grab my phone from the dash instead, my stomach doing a backflip when I see that it’s Reese.

Relief? Regret? Shame?

I clear my throat before I answer. “Hey there.”

“Hey, Nate.” My stomach flips again. She doesn’t sound like herself. In fact, she sounds like she’s been crying, voice thick with emotion. “Any chance you could swing by tonight? I think . . . we need to talk.”

My gut seizes. “What’s wrong?”

“Let’s talk in person, okay?”

“I’m just about to pull up to my house. Is it all right if I drop Lucy off first?”

“Sure.”

“Need me to pick anything up?”

I hope she does. The fact that she’s thinking about dinner or dry cleaning or something mundane like that means whatever crisis she’s experiencing isn’t bad enough to block out everything else.

Hopefully, it also means she’ll forgive me when I tell her Milly won’t be doing our wedding anymore.

“Thanks, but I’m set. Just get here as soon as you can.”

I hustle into my house with Lucy and make sure her water and food bowls are full. Then I jump back into my truck and head downtown. I’m shaking, but I still keep the windows rolled down. It’s the only way I feel like I can keep breathing.

There’s this feeling taking root in my gut—this uncertainty. About Reese? Our relationship? I can’t tell. But I do know with Milly out of the picture, I won’t have to deal with all the inconvenient things I feel and think when I’m around her.

In a few short months, Reese will be my wife, my whole life, and I need to start taking my role as her husband-to-be more seriously and give her my all. What I feel for her might be different from what I felt for Milly—of course it is, they’re totally different people—but that won’t keep me from learning to love Reese the way she needs to be loved.

Reese is still in her workout tights and tank top when she answers the door at her condo. My heart falls at her expression. Wearing a frown, her full eyes ringed with purple, she looks sad. Serious.

Does she know about Milly and me? But what would she know? Our interactions have been completely above board, even if the things those interactions made me feel . . . weren’t.

“Hey,” she says softly, opening the door. “Come in.”

“You all right?” I ask. My voice wobbles and she pauses, looking up at me.

Her frown deepens. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”

My heartbeat is a hammer as I follow her inside, driving nail after nail through my breastbone. Feels like it’s about to crack at any moment.

I know something’s really wrong when I see what a disaster Reese’s condo is. She’s not as much of a neat freak as I am, but she never leaves her clothes on the floor, and she never lets so many dishes pile up in her sink. There must be a dozen mugs stacked in there. Jesus, has Reese been mainlining coffee day and night? She looks like she hasn’t slept much.