Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

“Thank you for being the brave guest who stays in Pinehill Cottage.”

Emma furrows her brow.

“It’s the cottage closest to Samuel’s house,” Hank explains. “You’re practically in Broody Batman’s backyard.”

Emma’s eyes dart to my face. I run a hand over my scruff, averting my gaze.

Enough. I’ve had enough of her questions and her curiosity. I should go.

I need to go.

But I find myself rooted to the spot, two feet from where she’s resting a stockinged knee on the arm of a chair. The image pops into my head and stays there: her slowly rolling her stockings down, revealing bare skin. I take that knee in my mouth. Bite down. She slaps me.

I blink.

Holy shit that’s a bad case of wires crossing. Probably because I haven’t stopped thinking about last night. I’m the first to admit I’m no angel. I like casual sex. Or used to, anyway. It’s just gotten a little boring lately. I haven’t liked the way it’s made me feel. It’s not guilt or shame that haunts me the morning after. It’s more…loneliness, I guess. There’s this voice in the back of my head that always wonders if a girl is coming home with me because she enjoys my company, or because she just wants to fuck an athlete.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t hit it off with anyone recently. Or maybe I’m just a dick.

Either way, I’m sick of never being alone but always feeling alone.

“Would you get gone?” I snap at Hank, crossing my arms. I turn back to Emma. She’s taking too much pleasure in calling me out, and it’s pissing me off to no end. “One, Jennifer Lopez is married, and I don’t fuck married women. Although I did see her show in Vegas, and now I’m a big fan. Two, yachts are great. But their kitchens suck, and I like to cook.”

Emma blinks. “You do?”

“You know, first impressions can be deceiving. Just because I’ve got a—what did you call it? A big swinging dick?”

I don’t miss the way her brown eyes flick to the front of my trousers. When they move back up to my face, they’re different. Sharper.

“A big swinging dick wine list,” she corrects. “I said you had a BSD wine list.”

“Implying, of course, that I’m compensating for a lack in other, more private areas.”

Her lips twitch. “Private areas. Brain areas.”

“Right. Just because I’ve got a list of robust wines at robust prices doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy life’s simpler pleasures, like making the world’s tastiest bourbon braised short ribs or the best, moistest cornbread you’ve ever put in your mouth.”

“You used moist on purpose, didn’t you?” She spears me with a look. “Just to make me squirm.”

“Yup,” Hank says.

“What’s wrong with moist?” I ask.

“You know what’s wrong with—ugh, I won’t say it again.”

“I happen to think moist is a happy state of affairs. When it comes to cornbread and…well.”

She tilts her head. “You like to put that in your mouth too?”

I let out a bark of laughter. “I eat it all, yes.”

“But can you taste it? Really, thoroughly taste it? Tease out its nuances, appreciate its texture, name its flavors?”

What the fuck are we talking about now?

Cornbread? Pussy? Both?

I like both.

I like ’em a lot.

A tide of heat rises inside my skin. It gathers between my legs, morphing into this sweet, awful pressure, and my dick nudges against my zipper.

I promised Beau I wouldn’t lay a finger on Emma, and I mean to honor that promise. But a little borderline-inappropriate banter never hurt anyone. Miss Crawford may look all uptight in her pencil skirt and pulled back hair, but clearly, there’s a dirty mind at work behind those wicked brown eyes.

I want to know more. If only so I can maintain the upper hand in this game between us that’s clearly begun.

“Would you like to find out?” I ask.

She turns her head to look at me over her shoulder. “I would, actually. Tonight?”

“Aren’t you going to at least buy me dinner first?”

Her eyes rake down my body again. Then rake back up. This time, they flicker with appreciation.

Aw, yeah. She likes the purple suit. She may be a stuck-up sommelier, but the girl appreciates a well-dressed man.

“Yes, actually. I’ve got meetings with the finance team this afternoon, and then I’ll be in the kitchen tonight with Chef and her staff. What about tomorrow? Eight PM-ish? I’ll arrange a tasting of my current favorite wines. We could do it blind—see exactly what you can do to my…cornbread.”

“Y’all,” Hank says. “For the love of God, the explicit food metaphors have got to stop.”

I don’t know my way around blind tastings very well. But I do know I want to show this chick who she’s dealing with. I may be a pro athlete, and yes, I may be wearing a purple suit (that I am clearly rocking). But that doesn’t mean I’m not capable of crushing this little competition she wants to put together. I’ve been collecting wine for over a decade. I’ve tasted shit that was in Thomas Jefferson’s cellar. Trophy vintages of Chateau Lafite Rothschild, the best Chilean Carménère ever produced, and Screaming Eagle’s highest rated bottles.