Southern Seducer (North Carolina Highlands 1)

“I’m sorry,” I blurt.

Chef Katie turns around from the range. “Sorry for what?”

I hold up the ricer. “I think I broke this thing. I didn’t mean to scare y’all.”

“What? Beau, the only thing you scared was that potato right there.” Bel nods at the lovely little arrangement of purple smears in front of us. “Lemme tell you, that thing was terrified. I was trying to save it, but alas, it was too late.”

Dropping the broken ricer, I spear a hand through my hair. My anger, the frustration, it all spikes. Fast and hot.

And just like that, I’m overwhelmed. My thoughts are moving a million miles a minute and not at all. I don’t know what to do. So I run.

“I can’t do this,” I say. “I should go before—”

Before I ruin everything.

I’m turning, untying my apron with fingers that fumble. My mind is a white whirl, thoughts blurry, pulse thumping in my ears. I feel like a big, dumb animal. A bull in a china shop when the bull is halfway through a bullfight: mostly dead but in agony and angry as hell.

As I’m attempting to yank the apron over my head, I feel Bel’s hand on my arm. She’s squeezing it again, more firmly this time.

“Hey,” she says. “So you bludgeoned a potato to death. I’m sure it happens all the time in the kitchen. Isn’t that right, Chef Katie?”

“A daily occurrence,” Chef says. “And no big deal.”

I look at Annabel. She looks back. How do I explain to her what’s going down inside my head?

Do I even try? A part of me really, really wants to tuck tail and run. But another part—the better part—knows I should explain myself before I go. I don’t want to ruin her day or the remainder of her stay by blowing out of here without an explanation like a jerk.

So I take a deep breath, then flick my eyes to Chef Katie. She must sense my need for privacy because she excuses herself to the pantry, claiming she forgot a hand grater for the hazelnuts.

I go with the simple truth. My face burns the whole time.

“I’ve been having a hard time focusing,” I say, my voice low, “and staying on task. It’s why I carry around that clipboard. It helps me keep the shit in my head straight. Some days—most days—I’m okay. Days like today, though, it’s like my brain is in this weird fog. It’s so—” I spear a hand through my hair again, looking away. “Bel, it’s so fucking frustrating. And embarrassing. Makes me feel so angry I just…yeah. I’m gonna go and let you enjoy this lesson because I’m just going to ruin it. I’m sorry.”

I turn to go, but Bel keeps her grip firm on my arm. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes—”

“Beau, look at me. Look at me.”

When I meet her gaze, I find a warm determination in her soft features.

“Stay. Please. The food is great—Jesus, Beau, it’s freaking insane—but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I want to spend time with you.”

My stomach does a somersault. “You really want to be with me when I’m like this? A fuckin’ disaster? Really?”

“Really.” She doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. “Why do you feel like you need to have your shit together with me of all people? I’m a mess. So are you. I know this is rich coming from me, but who cares as long as we can be a mess together? Dare I say it, the whole thing—life—might be more fun this way. When we have no one to impress. No pressure to be anything except our fucked-up selves. Depressed. Foggy. Falling down. What-the-fuck-ever we are, we still have each other. If we don’t have that, then we’re in trouble. But everything else? Let’s leave it. Just for today.”

The desire to stay hits me hard. I want to believe her when she says I actually might be better this way.

Broken beyond repair.

“But I need to take care of you. Not the other way around.”

“You and the paterfamilias alpha-hole control shit.” Bel rolls her eyes. “I say no to that.”

“What’s an alpha-hole?”

She pins me with a look. “Use those smarts you say you have and figure it out. Yes, you’re still intelligent and still worthy, even if you’re having a bad day. Since that’s the case, you’re gonna let me take care of you for once. Because I am good at the smarts, concentration—well, before PPD, anyway—just so happens to be a special skill of mine. So is carb loading. Helping you make sweet potato gnocchi and then eating it with you will truly be a pleasure.”

I search her eyes. She means every word she’s saying, and it’s making my heart turn over inside my chest.

“I’m not comparing my shit to yours,” she continues, “but I have to take a pill every day to keep my mental house in order. I can’t do it alone, and neither should you. Just be with me. That’s all I ask. All I want is you. Not the things you can do for me or buy for me and not the things you think you need to be. Just the real you.”