Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

The second thing I notice is the towering guy standing at the range. He’s got a pair of tongs in his hand and a kitchen towel tossed over his shoulder. He’s chatting with the other towering guy beside him, who’s pouring maple syrup into a steaming pot of what appears to be mashed sweet potatoes. A woman—has to be Emma—is shoving her nose into a wineglass, while another woman with a toddler in her lap sips wine from her perch on a barstool at the island. I glimpse two others setting the table in the nearby dining room, both blondes, the clatter of dishes and clink of flatware just barely audible over the hearty, strangely familiar laughter of the big guy with the tongs.

My heart does a happy little leap. There are a lot of stereotypes out there about people with accents like ours. But it’s obvious Hank’s family is evolved. More than mine ever was, at least. You’d never, ever see my dad hanging out in the kitchen, much less making a meal there. The same goes for the rest of the men in my family. On holidays and at family gatherings, they’d be sitting in front of the TV while the women, me included, chopped and stirred and scrubbed, stopping only to refresh the men’s cocktails or calm a screaming child.

It’s heartening to see that script flipped. Of course, this is a special occasion; who knows what the Beauregards’ lives look like on a daily basis? But it’s cool to see a woman sit down for a change. It’s cool to see everyone in the family helping out. No one seems frazzled or resentful, the way my mom and aunts always did while waiting on their husbands.

The way I waited on mine too.

The guy with the tongs turns around. My stomach flips. He’s much bigger than Hank, with lighter eyes and a bushy, dark beard, but they share the same square jaw, straight nose, and full lips. And that laugh I heard—they share that too.

I can tell by the way he looks right at Hank, brow creasing ever so slightly, that this must be Samuel.

I can also tell by the way Hank goes stiff beside me. Lacing my fingers through his, I lean into him, making our arms brush. A silent reminder that he’s not alone. I’m not interested in being Hank’s real girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a good friend to him.

Lucky for me, being a good friend looks a lot like being a good fake date.

This time he’s the one who gives my hand a squeeze. A silent thank you.

“Hey, y’all,” Hank says, even though he’s still looking at his brother. “Hey, Samuel.”

All chatter and noise come to a sudden standstill. I can practically hear everyone holding their breaths as Samuel wipes his hands on his towel and drops it on the counter, moving toward us. “Hank! You made it. Welcome home.”

“It’s good to see you, Samuel. Thanks for having us.”

Hank untangles his fingers from mine and goes in to hug Samuel. Hank is still stiff, and Samuel is still frowning a little, so the hug is awkward. But they hold it for a long beat, Samuel closing his eyes as he pounds Hank’s back once, twice.

I can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for each of them. I glance at Emma, who’s set down her wineglass and is looking at the guys with a tired expression. There’s still some hurt here. The kind that will probably take more than a long weekend to fix. But I’m glad I came to help in my own small way. There’s something about seeing Hank like this, surrounded and scared but still showing up—

Nope. Not going there.

Hank steps back, and I step up. We move to slide our arms around each others’ waists at the same time, Hank circling his hand around my side. He slips his pinkie finger in the back pocket of my jeans. Grinning, I glide my hand up his back, the starched fabric of his shirt sighing as I settle my palm on the ridge of his shoulder blade.

I sense the kitchen letting out the proverbial breath it proverbially didn’t know it was holding.

“Samuel, I’d like to introduce you to my girlfriend, Stevie. Stevie, this is Samuel. He’s the director of Blue Mountain’s food program and one hell of a cook—hence the insanely good smells coming from those ovens over there.”

“It’s great to finally meet you,” I say, holding out my hand. “Thanks for having us. Your home is beautiful.”

Samuel takes my hand in the paw of his own. “Stevie. Welcome. We’re so glad to have you. Here, let me introduce you to my fiancée, Emma.” He glances over his shoulder and gives Emma a nod. She smiles and walks over to us. “Look, Emma, Stevie’s real.”