Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

As I wait for her answer, my heart pounds. Not gonna lie. I really want her to stay. Like, really want that. I like how being with her clears my mind. She’s this wild mix of class and crass, confidence and vulnerability, and I want to know more.

I want more, period.

Rhett and I have traveled a lot of miles since April. Even though he was in Vegas for preseason and then the season itself, I went to Madrid, Mykonos, Macau, and Melbourne before finally landing here in Sin City. Along the way, I met plenty of women willing to throw down. I’ve rarely been lonely. But in the quiet moments between flights and fuck buddies and hangovers from hell, I’ve missed what I left behind at Blue Mountain. Emma included, pathetically enough.

But Stevie’s woken something inside me. Can’t quite put my finger on it. She’s so . . . alive. Real. She knows what she wants, and she goes after it.

I have a lot to learn from her, and I’m not just talking about blackjack strategy.

Something about her has shaken me from the guilt-ridden stupor I’ve been in, and I know enough about the world and how it works to realize a person with a touch like that is a rare fucking thing.

I also like having someone to do stuff with. Someone to look after. Maybe I miss my family more than I’m willing to admit.

“I came here to spend time with my girls, you know.”

“They get to go home with you tomorrow. I don’t.”

Stevie’s lips twitch. “True.”

“Why don’t you text them? Let them know you’re alive and very well, thanks to me. We can all hang out together if you want. Maybe some cocktails later and a game of chance or two?”

After a small eternity, Stevie smiles, and my heart works double for a different reason.

“I’ll take an iced latte, please. Almond milk if they have it.”

Stevie and I don’t sleep a wink the next night.

Still, I buzz with the high of a weekend well spent as I ride the elevator down to the lobby with her Sunday morning. I’ve got her suitcase in my hand, and she’s got an iced almond milk latte in hers. I slipped out earlier to grab our coffees while Stevie was in the shower. Thinking about someone else—someone besides Emma—makes me feel grounded. Helpful.

Good. It makes me feel good.

“Any idea when you’ll head home?” she asks.

I shrug. “Not really. Thinking I may head up to Aspen. Or Whistler. I’ve never skied out west.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles. “Is that where famous people winter?”

“Yes. Me and Mariah Carey and Kylie Jenner. It’ll be a hoot.”

Stevie’s girls, Kate and Lauren, wave to us from the revolving door at the front of the lobby. Yesterday afternoon, the four of us had a great time playing blackjack here at the hotel before Stevie and I left to get dinner at The Country Club, probably my all-time favorite restaurant in Vegas. Stevie loved it too.

I give them hugs, glancing over Kate’s head when a maroon Rolls Royce Phantom pulls up outside. The hotel has a few of them, reserving their plushest rides for high rollers and celebrities.

“Think y’all’s car is here,” I say, glancing at Stevie.

Stevie looks out the windows. Looks at me. “Stop.”

“It’s how famous people get to the airport.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. “I called in a favor.”

“I really wish you didn’t.”

“I’m really glad you did.” Lauren nudges Kate. “C’mon, we’ll hop in first.”

They say their goodbyes and head outside, leaving Stevie and me alone. The swoosh of the revolving door fills the silence between us as a small army of bellhops helps the girls with their luggage by the Phantom.

I smile. So does Stevie.

“Best Vegas trip ever?” I ask.

She curls her hand around my nape and digs her fingers into my hair. “Yeah. It was great. Really, really great, Hank. Thank you.”

“Have a safe flight. I’d tell you to keep in touch, but since you’re only using me for my fame, I won’t. Because this is just fun, and we left nothing on the table.”

“Only because I was your blackjack coach. Otherwise, you would’ve left a lot of cash on the table.”

“Fact.” I search her eyes. “So . . . have a nice life, I guess?”

She laughs again, giving my hair a little tug. “It doesn’t have to be like that. If you’re ever in Nashville, give me a ring.”

You do the same if you’re ever in—

Where? Where the hell is home? I wonder vaguely how my old assistant, Gregory, is doing as interim head of guest relations at the farm. He took over after I left, as Beau didn’t want to hire someone new.

“It’s not a matter of if you’ll come back,” Beau had said. “But when.”

“I might just have to make a pit stop in Music City, then,” I say to Stevie. “And, you know, my family owns a little place near Asheville—we’ve got a restaurant, and I’d love to see Lady Luck on the menu. I make no guarantees, but should you find yourself in the area, give me a call and I can set up a tasting or something.”