Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

If only she knew how wrong she is on that point.

Wiping my eyes with the flat of my fingers, I manage a tight smile. Then I shrug into my jacket—by some miracle, I did remember it, along with an umbrella—and head out in the rain.

The walk clears my head. So does a latte. I’ve always liked Larry’s coffee, but now that I’ve experienced Blue Mountain’s special brand of caffeinated magic, his espresso leaves something to be desired.

Has Hank legitimately ruined me for life? First, it’s coffee. What if it’s sex? Carbs? Air travel? Everything I experienced with him was top-notch.

Everything I experienced showed he valued me.

Respected me.

My hands shake on my way back to the office, latte in one, umbrella in the other. I’m getting worried that this is not just a case of day-after bumming.

But I don’t have the luxury of wallowing in whatever this feeling is, so I do as my therapist told me and give myself a gentle pep talk.

I tell myself that it’s the lack of sleep making this feeling in my belly worse. It’s the comedown from a really great weekend. It doesn’t mean I’m in love with this guy. Anyone would feel this way after a stay at Blue Mountain Farm; it’s a five-star vacation.

It always sucks coming home from vacation.

Tomorrow will be better. I just need to be kind to myself in the meantime—go slowly, eat real healthy food, and rest. All I need to do right now is put one foot in front of the other, and that’s enough.

My pep talk actually does make me feel better. Then my phone rings and my stomach somersaults, and I’m right back to square one, thinking about Hank, if it’s him, what he’ll say. What I’ll say, despite the fact I know, rationally, I’ve already said it all.

Why, then, this urgent need to talk welling up inside me?

Why this urgent desire that it’s him?

My hand shakes so badly as I try to dig my phone out of my jacket pocket that I drop it on the ground.

“Shit,” I breathe, bending down to pick it up.

I turn it over, discovering not only is the screen cracked, but it’s my mom. Disappointment settles heavily in my center.

Again.

Interior design is one of my passions. I’m not very good at it—hence why we hired Jeremiah’s firm to help us out with Lady Luck’s new space—but I still get a kick out of sorting through fabric samples and ogling floor finishes.

“Jeremiah.” Taking in the spread of fabric, hardware, and tile samples on the table in front of us, I let out a low whistle. “You’ve done good. Real good.”

The designer, a ridiculously handsome thirtysomething guy with a Gatsby-meets-Robert Redford vibe, crosses his arms and smiles.

“I’m thrilled you like it. We really amped up the pretty elements with this round.” He points at a square of pale gray leather and another of turquoise wool. “You’ll still get that casual feel, but with a slick, feminine edge.”

My project manager, Janice, meets my eyes and smiles. “I hope you’re ready for this, Stevie. What we’re doing here is really different, but I think it’s going to get a great response.”

A pulse of longing moves through me as I remember how Samuel talked about doing things differently at Blue Mountain Farm. We like to stand out. Service, accommodations. Food and wine. And your beer? It stands out.

“I do too,” Jeremiah says. “This brewery is going to be top-notch quality all around—the beer, the interiors. And these bathrooms?” He holds up a zellige tile that gleams like mother-of-pearl. “They’re going to be bananas.”

Despite the dumpster fire that is today, I manage a smile. My pulse leaps with genuine excitement.

My team and I are knocking it out of the park. I’m so proud I could burst.

But on an off-beat, my pulse randomly crashes instead of leaps. My stomach clenches, and I feel sick all over again.

Stop. I can’t keep letting myself get down like this. This meeting, and all the goodness that will come of it, is yet another sign from the universe that I’m making the right call by insisting on a clean break with Hank.

Even if we didn’t want completely different things—even if I was open to his white picket fence dreams—how would we ever make a relationship work? Neither of us can “work from anywhere”; neither of us can quit and find something else. We love what we do. We love the people we work with. I’d never ask Hank to quit Blue Mountain to come live with me. Same as he’d never ask me to give up Lady Luck.

Taking a deep breath, I roll my shoulders back and reach for a sample of the custom glassware we’re having made by a company down in Charleston.

“I’m ready to double down,” I say. “Sounds like y’all are too.”