Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

“Wait, wait,” I say, head throbbing as I try to keep up with all these bombshell revelations. “That little place you own in Asheville—it’s Blue Mountain Farm?”

He clears his throat. “It is.”

“Jesus Christ, Hank. That’s not a ‘little place.’”

“Well, it used to be. When I grew up there, it was the fuckin’ sticks.”

“It’s not anymore.”

“That, it is not,” he says, a little sheepishly.

I fall back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. Not only is this guy famous, gorgeous, and generous; he also owns the South’s premier five-star resort. That place has a cult following thanks to its luxurious accommodations, incredible food, and impeccable service.

Wow.

Just . . . wow.

Granted, I probably could’ve discovered this nugget of info if I’d googled Hank. I was tempted to look him up after our fling, but because I don’t blur lines—not anymore—I decided to let what happened in Vegas stay in Vegas.

I kinda regret that now.

“I’m a big fan,” I manage, blinking. “I’ve never been to Blue Mountain, but the resort is mentioned a lot in the hospitality scene. Y’all are the best of the best—I’ve had several friends stay at the farm, and they all rave about it.”

“I’m the best of the best in bed too, right?”

I’m laughing again, even as my mind continues to spin. “I’d give you five stars there too, yeah.”

“I need you to know what you’re getting into,” he says, his tone suddenly serious. “What the rest of my story is, I mean.”

I should stop him right there. This is veering into dangerous territory. But before I can open my mouth, he plows ahead.

“I retired from the pros almost three years ago, and I never really got a break between playing ball and working at the resort. Needless to say, I got burned out, so after that shit went down with my brother and his girl, Rhett and I decided to jet off to the Caribbean. Officially we called it my ‘retirement tour,’ but it was also . . . yeah, it was a much-needed escape from a horrible situation. Granted, it was a situation I one hundred percent got myself into. It’s not my family that was horrible, or my job—it was the whole love triangle thing with Samuel and Emma. I had to get out of there, away from the farm. Now, though, I’m ready to go back. I have to go back. That’s where you come in, Daphne.”

I blink again at the Bridgerton reference.

“If you want to hang up on me, I wouldn’t blame you. It was a piece of shit thing to do, going after my brother’s girl, and it’s kind of a shitty thing I’m asking of you now too.”

I shake my head. “I’m not going to hang up on you.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sure you had your reasons for what you did. You were clearly very, very hurt if you had to leave your family for, what, how long?” I cringe as the question leaves my mouth. The information it would require him to reveal is too personal. Too private.

“Nine months and seventeen days.”

Yet I still can’t help asking, “You know it down to the day, huh?”

“I’m tight with my family. Or I used to be, anyway. And I did have my reasons. Samuel—he’s really great, but he and Emma, they weren’t exactly honest with me when they, you know, fell in love. They had their reasons too, though.”

A beat of silence. The hurt and the history that fills it from his side of the phone practically vibrates between us.

“So,” I say, finally having the presence of mind to veer the conversation back to Bridgerton, “you need a fake girlfriend.”

“Something like that. Yeah.” Another pause. “You haven’t hung up on me yet.”

“I haven’t.”

“Daphne, dear,” Hank says in a terrible British accent, “do I dare hope you’re considering my scandalous proposal?”

Am I considering this?

Why wouldn’t I? It’d be a weekend of great sex with a great guy at an incredible resort.

And yeah, now that I know the place Hank owns is Blue Mountain Farm, it could be an excellent opportunity to introduce Lady Luck to the powers that be there. He did offer to put together a tasting for me.

My heart thumps. It’d be a big fucking deal if Lady Luck got on Blue Mountain’s menu. The farm’s restaurant, The Barn Door, is a mecca for foodies across the south; it doesn’t get much more prestigious than that.

“You’re quite the devil, Hastings.”

“You haven’t the slightest idea, darling.”

I shake my mouse, bringing my computer back to life. “These fake relationship situations—both parties get something out of it.”

I hear the smile in his voice when he replies, “Of course.”

“I want to set up that tasting you mentioned. I’ll bring the beer, and you bring the suits.”

He laughs. “We don’t wear suits on Blue Mountain.”

“The boots, then.”

“That, I can do. The engagement party is on Saturday night. I’ll try to schedule the tasting Friday night or earlier Saturday.”