Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

Beau taps his glass to mine. “As you should be. I ran into Eli Jackson this morning, and he said it was hands down the best meal he’s had all year. Y’all absolutely killed it. Now if the two of us can just refrain from actually killing my brother, we just might have a win on our hands.”

“Y’all talking shit about me again?”

Samuel appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He’s wearing the same jeans and ivory sweater as before.

And just like before, he looks really fucking good.

As I take him in, my stomach bottoms out. He fills out the sweater to perfection, looking like an especially beefy Ralph Lauren model. Because I’m clearly a pervert with no self-control, my eyes flick to the fly of his jeans. I remember the shape and size of his dick in my hand. How he growled when I tugged the velvety skin back and forth, his eyes going hazy.

At that moment, I had him. He was mine. I felt powerful and beautiful and in control.

“Hey, Emma,” he says.

Honestly, why do my nipples get hard every time he says my name?

I cross my arms. Samuel watches me do it, his eyes flashing darkly.

“If you didn’t want us to talk shit about you,” I say, “then you should behave yourself.”

“Good luck,” June says, taking the baby from Beau. “I’ve been trying to get him to behave for thirty-five years.”

The number catches inside my head. Samuel and Blue are the same age. Go figure. Maybe the fact that they were born under the same star or something explains why I’m insanely attracted to both of them.

“If I behaved, I’d be boring, and y’all would like that even less.”

“I’d take boring over boorish.”

“I’d take bossy over boring,” he replies steadily, “but you already know that.”

A tingly, almost glittery rush fills my skin. He’s being honest, and it’s so damn hot. As hot as the fact that he really does like to be bossed around. The kind of bossing I like to do.

But so does Blue. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Just because he’s out of sight doesn’t mean he has to be out of mind.

It’s just hard to think about someone I’ve never met when Samuel Beauregard’s eyes are on my face.

I try to remember what a jerk he was last night. The things he said and how awful they made me feel.

Annabel looks between Samuel and me, a knowing grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You two seem to be equally matched. Conversationally speaking, anyway. Which makes you very fun to watch.”

“We’re here for your enjoyment.” Samuel keeps his eyes on me. “I’d love your help with the wine, Emma. I brought a few options and I can’t decide what would work best with the short ribs. I was thinking a Merlot, but then I just got this Amarone—”

“I love Amarone!”

He grins. “Thought you might, you grape weirdo. C’mon, let’s give it a try.”

I follow him inside, the tingles growing stronger as my eyes rove over the expanse of his back. Heaven above, the way the muscles there press against his sweater, how they move—

I close my eyes.

Remember he was a jerk.

Remember you made him promise to keep it professional.

If only my body would get the memo. But that’s difficult when this man has given me, hands down, the best orgasm of my life not by my own hand. I had no idea I could come so hard with someone else.

Ugh, can’t go there. I’m at Sunday supper. There will be absolutely no thoughts of orgasms or penises in hand or fucking gorgeous bodies.

None. Zero. Zilch.

We head into the kitchen as I try to get a grip on my raging libido. I pause on the threshold, heart beginning to pound as I take it all in.

The island is covered in cutting boards and casseroles. The skins of onions, carrot peels, and a freshly grated mound of cheddar cheese crowd a large cutting board. Something bubbles in a pot on the stove; the oven lights are on, and I can just glimpse an enormous cast-iron pot through the door.

The smell is insane. Butter and braised meat and the starchy-sweet smell of roasted vegetables.

Samuel navigates the fray effortlessly. Pointing me toward the case of wine set on the far countertop, he lifts the lid on the pot and gives whatever’s bubbling a whisk. Then he grabs the knife on the cutting board and gives a bunch of parsley a quick, expert chop, the muscles in his massive forearm flexing as he moves.

“You always cook for Sunday supper?” I ask.

“Yup. Everyone pitches in, but I don’t mind doing the heavy lifting. It’s fun cooking for a crowd. It’s also relaxing. After brunch service on Sundays, I go home, throw on some jeans and a playlist, pour a glass of something good, and then get to work.”