Southern Bombshell (North Carolina Highlands 5)

I’m smiling hard enough to be grateful for the darkness. Nate would think I’ve truly lost it if he saw my face. But the happiness inside me is too big to contain.

“Your family is great,” he says, and he almost sounds a little . . . sad?

I squeeze his hand. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve missed out on a lot, having a family like mine.”

Taking a minute to formulate the right words, I say, “There’s the family you’re born into, and then there’s your chosen family. The ones you love not because you have to, but because they’re great. They’re great people, and they’re great to you.” I squeeze his hand again. “If your family’s not good to you, you don’t have to stick around. I think you’ve earned the right to walk away after how hard you’ve tried. Because here’s the thing, Nate—you shouldn’t have to try.”

“But they need saving,” Nate says. “Silas and Dad both.”

“It was never your job to save anyone. You didn’t have to try with me.”

Thoughtful silence swells between us. I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds. Our relationship—our intimacy—feels simultaneously brand new and broken-in.

“Why?” Nate replies gruffly. “What about me makes you want to stick around?”

“You really don’t know?”

His jacket sighs as he shrugs.

“See, I think you’re coming at this the wrong way,” I continue. “You’re not the piece of shit you think you are. Change your baseline, because here’s the reality of the situation. You’d do anything to make me happy. You are fun and funny and you have a beautiful dick. You’re an absolute joy to be around, and I hate whoever made you feel otherwise.”

Another beat of silence. “I do have a great dick.”

“Nate, it’s the best.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “You’re the best. I hope I’ve made you see that.”

“You have,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

“Exhibit A: my brothers liked you too.”

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t say they liked me.”

“I wouldn’t say they didn’t. Whatever the case, thanks for being a good sport.”

I feel the heat of his gaze on my face. “Anything to make you look as happy as you do right now.”

“Nate, it’s pitch black out here.”

“It’s that obvious, baby. I saw it back at Samuel’s too. Everyone did. Your smile, and how easily you laughed, and that little ass-shaking thing you did when Hank played ‘Waiting for Tonight.’”

The corners of my mouth hit my ears. “I’m that obvious, huh?”

“You are,” he says, sounding sad again.

Only this time, I don’t get to ask what he’s thinking because my house comes into view, and so does the enormous, gleaming pickup truck parked out front.

My stomach bottoms out when I see the handsome older man standing on the porch, hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans in a way that’s vaguely, terribly familiar.

Speak of the devil. It’s Wilson Kingsley.

Nate’s hand clamps around my own, confirming what I already suspected. Whatever Wilson’s reason for showing up unannounced at my house is bad.

“Stay here,” he hisses, spearing a hand through his hair. “Jesus fucking Christ—”

“I’m not letting you face him alone. Do you know why he’s here?”

I can make out the contours of Nate’s face now that we’re getting closer to the lights on the house. My breath stalls in my throat. He’s wearing a mask of dark fury I’ve never seen on him before. His mouth is a grim line, eyes sharp, and his jaw is clenched.

“I told him to stay away,” Nate replies.

“Do you need me to kick his ass? I think I’ve got a box cutter in my purse.”

“Why the hell do you have a box cutter in your purse?”

“Nate, I’m an event planner. I basically open boxes and trim greenery for a living.” I look at him. “I’m not afraid to use it.”

Nate nods in the direction of his father. “Problem is, neither is he.”

“Your dad carries a box cutter in his purse too?”

That draws a quick smile out of Nate. “Stay close to me, all right?”

I take his lead, approaching the house at the same leisurely pace we’ve walked all evening.

Wilson looks up at the crunch of our boots on the gravel driveway, one side of his mouth curling into a smirk. “Well, don’t y’all make a pretty pair.”

“I’ll give you five seconds to get the fuck out of here before I call the cops,” Nate growls. My blood jumps at his baldly authoritative tone. It’s a complete one-eighty from the placating way he talked to his dad at our first wedding planning meeting.

Holy shit. Is Nate taking what I said to heart?

Wilson peers down at us like it’s his porch he’s standing on and not mine. “Now, hold on just a minute. I was stopping by to pay a friendly visit—it is Thanksgiving, after all. Don’t I get to see my son on holidays? We missed you down at the distillery.”