Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

Stevie goes stiff. My face burns.

“You smile more. You actually laugh. You look like you’re having fun. Maybe pretending to be in a relationship is fun.” He shrugs again. “Or maybe y’all really do light each other up. Ever thought about that?”

“This—” Stevie sucks in a breath. “It’s an arrangement, that’s all. A weekend thing. Fling. Whatever.” But the way she says the words on her exhale is like a balloon deflating.

“Are you?” Rhett asks me. “Over Emma?”

“Yes,” I say.

“That was quick.”

“Well, quick to respond to you now, but not quick to get over her. Let’s not forget I was away for a solid ten months—it took that long. But now I can honestly say I’ve moved on because it’s true.”

“So if you’re over Emma.” Rhett looks at Stevie. “And you’re single, and you guys have a great time together, why not make it real? That’d tie this whole thing up in a neat little bow.”

Why not?

“Because,” Stevie says. We wait for her to continue. She’s blinking hard.

My heart falls, and I wonder if I’ve ever felt more like an asshole in my life. I want to take her hand, touch her, let her know I’m the one who keeps fucking up. That she’s not to blame for doing her job and doing it extremely well.

She’s doing exactly what I asked her to. I just had no idea how hungry I was for something real until I got a taste of what that actually felt like.

“Were you ever gonna tell us?” Rhett asks me. My brother may be going through a fuckboy phase right now, but he’s smart and self-aware enough to know when not to push Stevie.

Unlike me, apparently.

I run a hand over my face. We’re playing a game that could end in tragedy.

“Eventually, yeah. When the dust settled, and Emma and Samuel were riding off into the sunset.”

“You want me to go?” Stevie’s voice is thin. “I should go—”

“No,” Rhett says.

“Don’t,” I say.

Despite how upset she is, Stevie laughs. “Okay, then.”

“He’s the dipshit.” Rhett lifts his chin in my direction. “Not you, Stevie. You, we adore. Stay. As a matter of fact, stay forever.”

“Rhett,” I warn.

“Hear me out.If y’all are faking it, then why are you writing music together in front of a fire on a Sunday morning?” His eyes move to the fireplace. “That doesn’t look fake to me.”

Stevie looks at me. I look back.

Neither of us has an answer. Or maybe we both do, but we’re afraid to say it out loud. Her, for . . . reasons. Me, because I’m trying not to break every promise I’ve made.

Lie to everyone I know.

“Also, why is your house such a mess?” Rhett continues. “Looks like a pack of banshees had an orgy in your bed. How the hell did that pillow end up on the fan?” He glances up at the fan that hangs a good eight feet above the bed. A king-sized pillow teeters on the edge of a blade, feathers spilling out of its seam. “And why are the sheets wet? Actually, don’t answer that.”

I bite back a smile. Stevie and I may or may not have brought another bottle of whiskey into bed.

But Stevie isn’t smiling.

In fact, her face crumples, and my heart keeps falling. And for the first time in a long time, I feel helpless.

I fucking hate feeling helpless. Last time . . . was when Samuel caught me kissing Emma? The time before that, when Daddy died?

I am coming out of my skin.

“Guys, I’m sorry,” she says, pressing her fingers to her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

I watch her scurry out of the room, hair poking out of her messy ponytail.

I give my brother a death stare.

His face falls. “Hank—”

“You go. You’ve made enough of a mess as it is.” Heading for the door, I stab a finger into his chest. “Don’t you fucking dare tell anyone, all right? Let me figure this out. So help me God, if you end up hurting Stevie—”

“I wouldn’t. I promise. I’m sorry, brother, but I know how much the lies hurt everyone last time. I don’t want it to happen again. That’s all.” His eyes are wide. “I’m looking out for you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing a half-assed job of it. Just like you half-ass everything else.”

The look of hurt on his face makes my stomach contract. That was uncalled for. But Rhett’s fucking up an already fucked-up situation, and I can only handle one shitstorm at a time.

Stevie comes first.

“We’ll talk later,” I growl, and then I dart after Stevie.

Rounding the corner, I see one of the doors to the back patio close shut. A heartbeat later, I feel a gust of cold air.

Grabbing the throw blanket off the back of a nearby chair, I head outside.

The sting of the cold hits me head-on. My skin tightens, and the soles of my bare feet burn against the bluestone pavers.