Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

“My question is this: why did you feel like you had to wait on Dan that way?”

I scoff. “Because that’s all I saw growing up. I’d internalized the bullshit idea that, as women, we owe the world for the space we take up. And I thought that doing everything for everyone was a normal part of that. I swore I wouldn’t end up like my mom, but I guess toxic gender roles die hard.”

“They do die, though, Stevie.”

Looking at the sun, I squint. “They do. But I think it’s harder—almost impossible—for them to die in a marriage. There’s a reason Oprah never married Stedman.”

“So do what Oprah does, and do whatever the hell you want. There are no rules. You don’t have to marry Hank, and you definitely don’t have to wait on him. See? Nothing to worry about.”

She’s right.

I tell myself she’s right.

The heaviness in my chest lifts. Allowing the flutter in my belly to spread all over.

Chapter Fifteen

Stevie

Hank is working out when I get home, so I touch base with Ria about the tasting and Blue Mountain’s potential order. Then I jump in the shower.

I’m curling my hair at the sink when Hank walks into the bathroom. My mouth goes dry. He’s wearing shorts, sneakers, and a University of South Carolina tee with the sleeves cut off. His skin glistens with sweat, and his shirt is plastered to his broad chest and torso, revealing mountains of thick, bulging muscle.

His biceps are huge. Veins snake down his forearms, shiny with sweat.

I don’t realize I’m staring until I smell burning hair.

“Shit!” I unwind a curl from the iron, releasing a puff of smoke.

One side of his mouth kicking up, Hank yanks his shirt over his head. “How was your hike?”

Rivulets of sweat work their way down his barreled chest. His nipples are tiny pink points on a broad expanse of skin and hair.

“Go-od,” I yelp when he gives my ass a quick swat. I’m wearing a robe, but I feel the contact as if I were naked. The zing goes right to my clit, and my breath catches. “Your workout?”

“Good.” He toes off his sneakers and socks and pulls down his shorts.

He’s hugely, unashamedly erect, and he’s walking around the bathroom—opening a drawer, grabbing a condom—like it’s no big deal. Steadily, like he’s in no rush.

There’s something sweet about it. So sweet, knowing we’ll be together tonight at a fabulous party, and together after that in his bed. And together tomorrow and part of Monday too.

We’re simultaneously running out of time and swimming in it.

“Question for you,” he says.

“Go for it.”

“You killed it at the tasting. You’ve got your beers in bars across the country. You own your own business. Clearly you’ve got a lot on your plate. But you’re also . . . relaxed?” I laugh, and he holds up his hands. “I hope you don’t take that the wrong way—I mean it as a compliment. I’m just wondering how the hell you kill it at work but also stay sane. I mean, you were able to take some time off to come here, right?”

Something lovely unfurls inside my chest. I laugh, if only to help me brush it aside.

“I was, yes. And do you mean how do I balance work and life? Because I do have a life.”

“That’s obvious. And yeah, I guess that is what I’m asking. Because when I was working, I thought I had one. But seeing you . . . I didn’t have much of a life at all.”

I lift a shoulder, like I didn’t fail at that same thing for years. “Takes a lot of practice. Lots of trial and error. Don’t forget, I’m a whole decade older than you, so . . .”

He grins. “So you’ve not only got more life experience, you’ve got fewer fucks to give.”

“Exactly.”

Exactly.

I look down and pick at my terrycloth robe. “I had to work around the clock when I started Lady Luck. Years of fifteen-hour days, no weekends, no vacations. But even when we were up and running, and I didn’t need to work that way because I had the resources to hire help, I still did the fifteen-hour days. And I got so run down I finally went to my therapist and was like, ‘please help me, I can’t keep doing this, but I don’t know how to change.’ She got me to question why I worked like a maniac. Who won? Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his short hair, still wet with sweat. “That feeling of being run down. I know it well.”

“That how you felt working guest relations?”

“Absolutely, yeah. But I guess I thought that was normal? I spent seven years playing pro ball. The kind of intensity that requires, the all-out dedication—I don’t know how to live any other way. It’s balls to the wall or nothing.”