Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

“Listen, Bill Clinton, I’m not sure we’ll be continuing said relations.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was an asshole, and I don’t deserve her. Also, there’s this other girl I’ve been talking to. Not sure what’ll come of it, but it’d be a hell of a lot less complicated than what’s gone down with Emma.”

Rhett nods. “That’s fair. But you still need to make things right with Em. I’ve only heard great things about her somm skills, so we don’t want to lose her.”

“Exactly.”

“So be thoughtful. Be intentional. And be you—the man Mama and Daddy raised.”

I look at my brother. “That was a pretty solid speech.”

“Thank you kindly,” Rhett says. “Just because I’m the youngest Beauregard brother doesn’t mean I can’t be the wisest.”

“You think it’s wise to keep playing the game that gave your father and your brother a degenerative brain disease?”

Rhett just rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to change the subject. This is about you. C’mon, let’s go win your girl back with some signature Samuel Beauregard hospitality.”

“She’s not my girl, and I’m not winning her back. But the short ribs did turn out pretty damn good.”

“Samuel, anything you make is good. Let’s go.”

My heart hammers as we wait for Emma to answer the door. I knock once. Twice. I start to sweat. I can’t just leave all this food on her doorstep. One, Dave and Eddie might catch a whiff and come visit. And two, I really want to see Emma outside of work. I want to look her in the eye and tell her how fucking sorry I am.

We get lucky. Just when I’m about to call it quits, Emma answers the door. Sheer terror flashes across her eyes at the same moment it darts through my chest.

She’s scared. I’m scared. The intense vulnerability of the moment makes me want to run and hide.

Instead, I stand still with a bowl of collards in one hand and a Pyrex dish of cornbread in the other.

The first few seconds are excruciating. But I know I’m on to something good when the terror in her gaze dissolves into confusion.

“What’s this?” she asks, brow furrowing as she takes in the dishes.

“Dinner. And, hopefully, lunch tomorrow and the next day. I made enough to last most of the week, actually.”

Emma blinks. She looks cute as hell in her leggings and hoodie. Her hair is loose, falling in waves past her shoulders. For half a heartbeat, I can taste her pussy in my mouth. Sweet, salty, and hot.

“Why?”

“Because I won’t have you living off garbage protein bars when you’re on our farm.” I intentionally use the word our. Judging by the way Emma’s eyes flick up to meet mine, she notices. “I’d like to feed you proper food. I made short ribs in pecan-bourbon sauce, my mama’s collards with bacon and butter, and, because I know you’re curious, my famous cornbread.”

Her lips twitch. I love it when they do that. “You make it extra you-know-what?”

“For you? Always.”

Rhett barks with laughter. “Who are you, and why don’t I know you yet?”

“I’m Emma.” She extends her hand. “You must be Rhett.”

“Yes, ma’am. So, about this cornbread—”

“We should be going,” I say, cutting my brother a warning glance. “I don’t want to interrupt your plans for the evening, Emma. Everything here is warm and ready to eat.”

We load up Emma’s arms. Rhett, actually being wise again, heads for the truck, leaving me alone with Emma on her porch.

I don’t waste a second. Sliding my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, I say, “My turn to apologize. I am so fucking sorry about last night. I acted a fool, and I have no excuse. Baiting you like that, using your apology against you that way—it was wrong, stupid, and mean, and I feel horrible about hurting you. I’m sorry, Emma. Really, truly sorry.”

Moving in the right direction feels like giving Emma time to absorb what I’m saying. Time to respond. So I let uncomfortable silence bloom between us, melting into a Wicked Witch of the West puddle inside while trying my damnedest to keep it together on the outside.

She’s studying me with a thoughtful expression on her face, like she wants to ask me more probing questions. Deeper ones. Like why I acted the way I did.

A part of me yearns for questions like that.

Another part wants to run from them. What if I don’t like the answers? What if they push me up against something I’m only just now learning to let myself have?

“You were awful,” she finally says. “That stunt you pulled was shitty in the extreme. And the things you said…”

I reach out and take the collards back. All this shit is heavy, and she shouldn’t have to carry it alone while I beg for her forgiveness.

“I’m sorry. I can’t take them back, but I would if I could. You’re not annoying, and you’re not a pain in the ass. You’re just doing your job. Doing it really fucking well, might I add. After seeing you in action at the restaurant and at the Charleston Heat event…Emma, you’re remarkable.”