Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

I want to put my mouth on this man so very badly.

“Game on. But seriously, I don’t want you breaking those legs, okay?”

“Ha,” I say. But the universe must really be conspiring against me because my left leg buckles.

My knee literally gives out, and I feel myself going down like a heroine in a Regency novel. I didn’t think swooning was a real thing until this moment.

And just like in a Regency novel, Samuel curls an arm around my waist and holds me up—holds me against him—the motion quick and effortless.

“Whoa,” he repeats, brow furrowed. “Emma, I was joking, but if you’re really not okay, let’s sit you down and get you some water. If you tell me this involves a protein bar—”

“No protein bars.” I put my hands on his chest and gently push him away. “Just busy. I’ll see you around.”

I hobble into the cellar and leave Samuel staring after me. It’s rude, and it’s weird, but I’m worried if I stood there one second longer, I would’ve done something stupid.

I almost run into Samuel again upstairs. And again, in the hallway outside our offices when I’m shrugging into my coat after a meeting with our managers to make sure everything goes smoothly tonight. My nose somehow ends up in his shirt again.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re trying to sniff me. I smell that good, huh?”

He’s smiling again, real and warm.

It shouldn’t be this hard, not wanting to strip your coworker naked and fuck him six ways to Sunday.

It shouldn’t be this hard not wanting someone, period.

“Get over yourself,” I mutter and dash out of there like the barn’s on fire. My pulse is hammering, and I feel lightheaded.

I see flurries on my short walk home. It’s also windy. The sky is getting dark, and the smell of cold stone and dampness fills the air. I’ve lived in the mountains long enough to recognize it as the smell before a good snow.

My stomach twists, and I walk faster. I know the worst of the storm isn’t supposed to hit until later tonight. But the weather changes quickly at higher altitudes, and the farm tops out at almost four thousand feet above sea level.

Shit.

I hurry inside my cottage. I throw my jacket, boots, and bag on the bench beside the front door and make a mad dash for the bedroom. I have my outfit picked out, but I didn’t have time to pack an overnight bag in case I get stuck. Truth be told, I also didn’t want to jinx myself. Is packing for a night away bravely optimistic or embarrassingly naïve?

Either way, I didn’t do it yet, so I scramble to throw something together.Protein bars: check. Samuel would not approve, but this isn’t about him. In fact, this is about forgetting him. Plus, if I really do get stuck, it can’t hurt to have some food on hand.

Aquazzura heels: check. I’ll wear boots on the way there, then slip into the stilettos when I get to the restaurant.

Condoms: most likely checking the embarrassingly naïve box, but whatever. If Blue and I are gonna bone, we’re gonna do it safely.

I throw on some eyeliner and lip gloss. Then I wiggle into my jeans. It’s the first time I’ve worn them since I came to the farm, and they’ve definitely gotten tighter.

Gotta be all that food Samuel keeps feeding me. Despite the fact that these jeans are cutting off my circulation, I smile.

Worth it. That quiche he left on my desk the other day? The stuff of dreams.

So I leave the button undone and plug in my curling wand. I feel sexiest when I’m rocking long, loose waves, so I’d planned to curl my hair after work. Glancing out my window, I see it’s getting dark, and the snow is really picking up.

I try to be quick, but I also want my hair to be perfect. I don’t know what it says about me that a great hair day gives me a bigger boost of confidence than pretty much anything else, but I don’t care.

Only when I’m halfway done with my head, I lose power. Literally. As in the lights go out and the heat cuts off and the world goes dark around me.

“What the hell?” I say out loud. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

I come up with plan B. I’ll pack my wand, cross my fingers and toes there’s an outlet in the restaurant bathroom, and finish my hair there. But I have to leave now if I’m going to have time to do it.

I don’t realize just how hard it’s snowing until I’m making a run for my car but find a golf cart instead.

Because my car is parked in the lot up by the main house. Of course. Hank took it up there when I arrived, and I haven’t needed it since. How did I forget that large detail? Maybe because being on Blue Mountain makes you forget the real world and all its conveniences—cars, men who aren’t distractingly beautiful—even exists.