Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

But most of all: who do I think I am, turning down a guy like Hank Beauregard?

Not that he’s offering marriage or anything. But I can tell he’s starting to see the possibility of something deeper—something long-term—between us.

Am I seeing it too? The confidence he has in me is the sexiest thing ever. You’d be great at anything you did, Stevie. That’s something I noticed in him from the start, his genuine belief in me and what I’ve accomplished. I bet having a cheerleader like that in my corner every day would be pretty damn lovely.

I shove the idea from my head.

Slowly, the landscape around us starts to take a more formalized shape. The road is narrow, a single lane of blacktop, and we wind our way through copses of moss-covered trees and clearings filled with lush gardens. A drop to our left reveals a bubbling stream that glints in the early afternoon sunlight. Stone walls, darkened with age, line the road.

This place has the feeling of history.

I decide to gently push my existential angst aside for the rest of the day. This is a special place. A special moment. Maybe I’m feeling a little muddled on what I do and don’t deserve. But I know both of us deserve to enjoy this not-so-little field trip.

“I wonder what life was like when the Vanderbilts lived here,” I say, straining to look around when we suddenly break out into an area of cleared rolling hills. A visitor’s center stands court on a slope to our left; Hank keeps driving, stopping only to hold out his phone for a quick scan at another gatehouse. “Can you imagine owning all this? Oh wait, you do own a gigantic and insanely luxurious farm.”

Hank grins. “Our little farm is a drop in the bucket compared to Biltmore.” He gestures outside the window. Cows graze in neatly kept fields; a sign at a fork in the road directs visitors to Biltmore House, a hotel, a winery. “This is Queen of England shit.”

I keep waiting for the house itself to come into view, but no dice so far. Just more hills and forest for another mile or two. Signs for parking lots appear, along with guys in bright orange vests directing visitors to certain lots. But Hank drives right past them, flashing a piece of paper.

“What’s that?”

“Ticket for valet.”

I roll my eyes, biting back a smile. “Only the best for Hank Beauregard.”

He swings his head to look at me, the light catching his eyes and making them look almost green. They’re flirty, playful, and I grin, relaxing into my heated seat.

Just when I think I’m drowning again, Hank lightens the mood.

“Only the best for you, blackjack babe. I’m just trying to maintain your high-roller lifestyle.”

“I’m not the one driving a hundred-thousand-dollar car.”

“It’s closer to four hundred,” he says, flashing me a smile, “but I get your point.”

The amount of money these Beauregards have—it’s starting to feel closer to that Queen of England shit than Hank and his siblings let on.

It’s a different world. Even if I hadn’t sworn off men and monogamy, I’m not entirely certain I could make a relationship with Hank work. His family isn’t pretentious, but people with that kind of wealth exist on a different plane. They live by different rules and run in different circles.

That kind of wealth also means Hank is heavily invested in Asheville. Financially. Personally. Professionally too.

My life, though, is in Tennessee, and will be for the foreseeable future with the new brewery going up.

Approaching a towering gate, a charge of excitement has me sitting up in my seat. The gate is thrown open to a wide drive, and we pass through it, Hank hanging a quick right.

The house comes into sudden, startling view, and the breath leaves my lungs.

It’s like something out of a fairy tale. An enormous lawn stretches out in front of us, punctuated by a circular pond. At the end of the long, U-shaped drive is the biggest, most beautiful castle-like home I’ve ever seen. It’s awe-inspiring: turrets, towers, total decadence.

“What do you think?” Hank says.

“I think this has the Duke of Hastings written all over it.”

“I aim to please, Daphne. By the way, when are you going to start calling me Simon?”

I throw a saucy look his way. “Don’t you think we have enough nicknames for each other? It’s getting weird.”

“I think it’s cute.”

“Of course you do.” I duck my head to get a better look as we approach the house’s front entrance. It’s truly enormous—a mall-sized, gilded-age beauty that’s take-your-breath-away spectacular. The gray stone façade is a beautiful counterpoint to the dark roof, tinted green-blue with age. Dozens of chimneys dot the roofline while metal spires soar into the winter sky.

We pull right up to the entrance. Hank gets out of the car, and I can’t tell if it’s the famous football player or the ridiculous car that flusters the attendant more.