Southern Seducer (North Carolina Highlands 1)

Despite the soupy feeling inside my head, Bel’s idea is one I can grab onto: that I’m all right as is.

The stuff inside my chest reacts immediately by softening and swelling. This is why I adore Bel so damn much.

She’s always liked me for me. She knew me, and valued me, as Beau, broke college student and self-professed porn expert, before I became JR Beauregard. Top ten draft pick. Pro football’s highest paid linebacker.

Bel doesn’t care about any of that shit. She cares about me. And in my world, that’s a rare fucking thing.

Trouble.

But what am I supposed to do? Leave my best friend standing here with her heart in her hands? Before any of this happened—the postpartum depression, the make-out session, the brain injury—I was a good friend to her. She was a good friend to me.

Friends don’t run when things get hard. Unless we’re talking literally. Then I should definitely be running. Far, far away.

For now, I’ll stay. Because even though I’m still embarrassed that I can’t be my best self right now, Bel doesn’t seem to mind.

I obviously need to practice being okay with, well, not being okay. And who better to practice with than Annabel?

“Thank you,” I say. “For being you.”

Her fingers glide down my arm to capture my hand. She gives that a squeeze, too. Her hand is small, but her grip is firm, and something inside me cracks open.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers. “Mostly because the house I’m staying in is much nicer than the one I have back home.”

I laugh, the tension in my shoulders and neck dissolving as butterflies rise in my belly. I squeeze her hand back. “Stay as long as you’d like, Bel.”

Chef Katie emerges from the pantry then, grater in hand and a smile on her face. “Y’all ready?”

“Hell yes,” Annabel replies.

“Let’s get to it. So now that y’all have these beautiful piles of riced potatoes, we’re gonna add the good stuff. Eggs from the farm, house-made ricotta, flour. You combine it all, and then we’ll shape the dough into ropes. Roll up your sleeves—it can get messy.”

Grinning up at me, Annabel unbuttons my sleeves and starts to roll them up to my elbows.

“I can do that.”

“I know. But I wanna do it for you.”

The feel of her hands on me—a gentle but confident touch that’s familiar, nice—I couldn’t say no if I tried.

It keeps me rooted in the moment. My mind doesn’t wander like it did before. It’s focused, finally, on her.

The feel of her fingertips brushing my skin.

The quiet, starchy sound of my sleeve being rolled up. Bel’s breath on my neck. Just a barely there whisper.

Trouble.

Chef Katie pours more wine. This time a fresh, French-style chardonnay. It’s tart on my tongue, delicious.

Even more delicious? When Annabel downright hums after her first sip.

“Heaven,” she says. “I have died and gone to heaven.”

Chef tells us to each make our own dough, but Annabel steps in, asking if we could make it together. I can tell Chef is trying hard not to smile as she helps assemble a big, messy pile of ingredients in front of us, cracking eggs right into the mountain of potato and flour and cheese.

“Use your hands to mash it all together,” Chef instructs. “Then we’ll roll the dough into those ropes.”

Annabel digs in first. The unspoken agreement between us is that I’ll follow her lead. Flour and egg coat her fingers as she gets to work, face a mask of concentration, cheeks a little pink. She kneads with a bit more force, gaining confidence as the dough comes together. Kinda. The muscles in her forearms bunch against her freckled skin.

She lifts a hand, using her thumb knuckle to push her hair back from her face. The hair doesn’t move, but she does manage to mark her cheek with a swipe of purple-tinged flour.

“Shit,” she murmurs.

“Here,” I say, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“And my cheek?” She offers it up to me. “I have something there. I can feel it.”

“Nah, I think that’s gotta stay. Makes you look like a baking badass.”

And because it’s fucking cute. But saying that out loud feels too risky right now.

“You saying Paul Hollywood would approve?”

“I don’t get why you have such a crush on that guy. He’s a total tool.”

Chef Katie gasps. “Blasphemy!”

“Right? Thank you.” Annabel glances at me. “You wish you could bake a brioche like him. The way that man has with pastry…ugh, can’t go there. But speaking of dough, it’s your turn, Beau. Get involved.”

I eye said dough. It’s gooey. Sticky-looking. Bright purple.

I’m about to protest, but then Annabel is moving around me. She settles behind me and shoves me forward with a bump of her hips.

“What are you doing?” I ask, laughing.

I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s wearing flats today, so the top of her head doesn’t even come up to my neck. But that doesn’t stop her from sneaking her arms underneath my own and grabbing my hands, her tits brushing the middle of my back.