Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

“I got the leeks and the carrots,” I say, grabbing a knife from the wooden block beside the stove.

Stevie lifts the short ribs, wrapped in brown butcher paper, off the counter. “I’ll prep these bad boys. Salt, pepper, and some garlic powder sound good?”

“Fuck yes.”

Sam Hunt croons about sinning with his lady. I get a little buzz from my first IPA of the evening. Stevie moves her hips in time to the beat: small, almost mindless circles as she sears the ribs in the biggest cast iron pot I could find.

“Why are you mouthing the words?” I wipe my knife on a towel. “Sing ’em, honey.”

She points her tongs at me. “You’re the one with the voice.”

“Yours ain’t so bad either. Sing.”

Another song comes on—oh, Lord, it’s the sexy one about speakers and making out in pickup trucks—and Stevie doesn’t miss a beat.

I can’t help it. I sing with her. Thinking about how I wanna have her in the back of my truck tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that.

Stay.

The song ends, and she changes the playlist. Duets, from what I can tell. I burst out laughing when “Islands In the Stream” comes on. She’s got the Dolly parts, and I do Kenny Rogers. It’s cheesy and perfect, and when “I’m Real” comes on next, I about die as Stevie attempts the J.Lo verses.

I, of course, nail Ja Rule.

“God, that smells good,” I say, leaning over to glance at the pot. Stevie’s taking the short ribs out one by one and setting them on a plate to rest.

“Wanna hit me with that garlic?” she asks.

I sidle up behind her and kiss her neck, pressing my groin into her ass. She shivers, grinning. She’s soft and happy, warm too, and I can’t help but wonder if we’d grope each other while making a delicious meal every night if we were together.

Sounds pretty fucking nice to me.

“You got it.” Turning back to my cutting board, I gather the minced garlic on the edge of my knife and use my thumb to slide it into the pot. “Shit, that smells even better.”

“Right? Delish. Time for the cover.”

I lift said cover off the counter and drop it on the pot. Stevie slips on a pair of oven mitts and grabs the handles of the pot. I leap to open the oven door.

“Wow.” She slides the pot into the oven with a grunt. “This thing is pristine. When was the last time you used it?”

I actually have to think about this. “Uh. Never?”

Standing, she shoots me a disbelieving look. “Really?”

I think some more. “Actually, yeah. Anytime I cook, I do it with my mom, or I’m over at Samuel’s house helping with Sunday supper.” I shrug. “It’s always just been me here. And cooking for one isn’t exactly exciting.”

“Not when you can have food delivered from one of the best restaurants in the South.”

Crossing my arms, I say, “Exactly. Although I do enjoy it. This—cooking. Sharing a homemade meal with someone. It feels nice, right?”

Stevie looks down at the oven mitts. She’s quiet for a second.

I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry. It’s just easy to get carried away with you.”

Shaking her head, she lifts her head and puts the oven mitts on the counter. “Should we get started on the soup? I’ve made it a few times before, and it doesn’t take too long.”

She’s right. Between the two of us, whipping it together doesn’t take long at all. I take sink duty, washing pots and knives and cutting boards as she discards them.

We turn on Netflix while we wait for the short ribs to cook, snuggling on my couch. As the sun sets in the windows behind us, she plays with my hair while I massage her legs and feet.

I light candles on my kitchen table, where we stuff ourselves silly as we sip our beers. The food is delicious, the smell of it filling the room.

My kitchen looks like a bomb went off inside it.

“What?” Stevie asks when she catches me looking around.

Smiling, I shake my head. “Nothing. Just thinking about how my house feels fucking homey. For the first time ever, I think.”

“You know how much clean up homey requires?”

“I’m not afraid.”

We finish our plates. Go back for seconds. The short ribs are amazingly tender, the meat falling off the bones.

We cuddle on the couch again, both of us dozing off for a few hours. I wake up to see that Stevie’s still tucked into my side, eyes thoughtful as they search my face.

“Hey.” My voice is rough with sleep.

She dips a finger inside the waistband of my sweats. “Hi.”

“Whatcha thinking?”

She bites her lip. “I need something.”

“It’s yours.”

“Let’s get it all out of our system. Leave nothing on the table. I don’t know how much energy I’ve got left, but there’s still something we haven’t done. In bed, I mean.”