Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

She’s wearing leggings and neon pink sneakers, hands balled in the front pockets of her fitted black puffer jacket. Her hair, usually hidden in a coil, is gathered in a long ponytail at the crown of her head.

Her hair. It’s thick and shiny and wavy. When it’s kinda sorta free like this, she looks undone. A little wild.

She looks hot as fuck.

“I’d like to apologize,” she blurts.

I pull back, startled. “Apologize? For what?”

Her eyes flick to my bare chest. She swallows audibly, and then she trains her gaze on my face. Her mouth flattens, like it takes effort not to keep looking down. “For today. I’m sorry I walked away like I did, but I needed time to think. So I took this really long hike, and I got lost, and I…I don’t know why I touched you the way I did. You know, touching your arm and putting my head on your shoulder. I wasn’t thinking, and I-I just wanted you to know how embarrassed I am. And I think we should clear the air before, you know…”

I blink. Out of all the things she could’ve told me, I wasn’t expecting that.

I wasn’t hoping for that.

The fact that I was hoping at all means I should thank her, tell her we’ll figure it out in the morning, and close the damn door.

Instead, I open the door wider, and say, “Come in. Let’s talk.”

Yep, I must have a death wish. Or at the very least a masochistic streak. I know someone who would approve.

“You sure?” Emma asks, brow furrowing.

“Of course. By the way, I feel like I owe you an apology too. I touched you without asking—”

“You were just trying to do the right thing.” Emma’s eyes are steady on mine. “I appreciate that. No apology necessary.”

“Okay. Good.” I motion her inside.

Emma steps inside the foyer and glances around, eyes going wide.

“I thought your suits were ridiculous. But this—Beauregard, this is sick.”

“It’s baller, and I love it.” I close the door without bothering to lock it because this is Blue Mountain, and you’re more likely to run into Dave the Bear than a burglar. “By the way, how did you know this was my house?”

The color in her cheeks burns from pink to red. “Lucky guess. I picked the biggest one I could find and just…went with it.”

“Yeah, you did. I was going to open a bottle of something good to celebrate us not killing each other today. Want a glass?”

She cuts me a look, her eyes slipping to my chest again. “May I request you put on a shirt first?”

“You may not. Kitchen’s this way.”

Emma follows me, steps slowing as we cross from the soaring sitting room into the kitchen.

She gapes. I smile. The kitchen is incredible, and it’s the room I love the most in the house. The space is dominated by a pair of twelve-foot islands. One is for food prep, decked out with butcher block and two farm sinks, while the other is for dining, with several cushy barstools tucked underneath the marble countertop.

Emma is immediately drawn to the range, the centerpiece of the kitchen. Of the entire house, probably. At fifteen feet long, with two ovens, eight burners, a griddle, a warming plate, and a grill, it’s the best range money can buy.

“This is the most beautiful stove I’ve ever seen.” She gently runs her hand over the custom-made brass knobs. “Wow. Truly a work of art.”

“It’s the sexiest piece of machinery I’ve bought. The most expensive too.”

“Tell me more.”

“We had it custom-made in France. Took something like a month to build the whole thing by hand. I’d been dreaming about getting one of these beauties for years, so when I could finally swing it, I wanted it to be perfect.”

“Why a stove? Why not, say, a Lamborghini? Or a Caribbean island?”

I lift a shoulder, very much enjoying the way her eyes move appreciatively over my bare skin. I may like to eat, but I also workout like a motherfucker. I’ve always been a work hard, play hard kinda guy.

I’ve also been thinking a fuck ton about how trying on Emma’s honesty felt today.

I decide to try it again tonight.

“I love food. Grew up chubby ’cause my mama is the best damn cook this side of the Appalachians. Daddy wasn’t so bad either. Wasn’t long before I was bugging ’em to teach me how to make my own pancakes. Guess I just sorta took to it. I cooked for my siblings. Then my teammates and coaching staff. Now I cook for my family. Sunday supper’s my favorite time of the week.”

She furrows her brow. “That’s sweet.” She says it like she’s confused.

I know the feeling. Here I am, welcoming into my home the sommelier I swore I’d kick to the curb.

Makes absolutely no fucking sense. But it feels right, so I go with it.