Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

It’s a look, certainly, but it’s one Hank and his brothers somehow pull off. Maybe because they’re former athletes? Ridiculously buff? Cocky as all get-out?

Whatever it is, I don’t hate it.

Hank, however, clearly feels differently.

“Whatcha drinking?” he asks, turning his head to glance at the massive bar setup on the far side of the pavilion.

“Hmm.” I think about it for a minute. “You know, I just might start with a beer. I had some champagne earlier getting ready with the girls, so I should probably take it slow.”

Emma’s only bridesmaid is her sister, Lindsey. But being the awesome person she is, Emma invited me to get my hair and makeup done with them back at the main house today. We spent the day getting pampered and sipping excellent bubbly.

“Same. Samuel broke out the Appalachian Red before lunch, so . . . yeah. Beer sounds good to me too.”

We gawk at Milly’s handiwork as we head across the pavilion. She pulled out all the stops: long farm tables are set with fine china, taper candles, and enormous flower arrangements, all done in shades of apricot and green. Candles glow from inside the fireplace (it’s too warm for an actual fire), and a string quartet plays in a corner. The ceiling is draped in swaths of apricot chiffon, giving the space the feel of an elegant, if slightly rustic, ballroom.

It’s romantic in the extreme. I find myself swaying against Hank in time to the string quartet, our hands clasped between us.

Waiters bearing trays of gorgeous appetizers stop us along the way. I sample a potato-and-bleu-cheese soup “shot,” while Hank and I both help ourselves to the mini-fried chicken biscuits.

“Wow,” Hank says around a mouthful of biscuit. “Just . . . yeah. That’s fucking good.”

I nod, finishing my own. “Perfect for carb loading too. Can’t start a night of drinking on an empty stomach.”

Hank looks at me. I look back.

“Should we?” he asks, tilting his head toward the server, who’s still holding out his tray to us.

I grin. “We definitely should.”

We grab seconds and eat them on the way to the bar. I smile hard when I see a guy sip his beer and hold it out, scanning the label.

“Goddamn,” he says. “Best IPA I’ve had in a long-ass time.”

“Let me guess,” Hank replies, resting his elbows on the bar. “Hop Girl Summer?”

The guy, one of Samuel’s former teammates from his mile-wide shoulders and towering height, nods. “Yes. How’d you know?”

Hank glances at me. “I know the girl who makes it.”

“Well, give her my compliments.”

“You can do that yourself. She’s right here,” Hank replies and nods at me.

I hold out my hand to the man. “I’m Stevie, and that’s my beer. I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.”

“It’s the most popular beer on Blue Mountain’s menu,” Hank explains. “Ever since we started stocking it, we can hardly keep up with the demand.”

“I see why.” The man takes another sip. “IPA hangovers are the worst, but this beer’ll make it worth it. Cheers, Stevie.”

Hank and I take our beers to our table. We’re seated with the rest of his family, and we play footsie under the table while chowing down on filet mignon, fancy mac and cheese made with gouda, and collard greens. The wine is out of this world too, servers supplying us with glass after glass of some of the best stuff I’ve ever tasted.

It’s part country cookout, part fancy pants meal.

It’s Samuel and Emma in a nutshell.

The Van Halen cover band starts. Like the food, the décor, and the drinks, the band is incredible. The guitarist nails the riffs while the lead singer absolutely slays David Lee Roth’s eighties screech.

“Not sure you can twerk to this,” Hank says in my ear. “But I’d love to dance.”

“Sure.” I let him help me to my feet. “I’ll save my twerking for later.”

Hank gives my ass a slap, grabs my hand, and leads me to the dance floor. Everyone’s going crazy as the band launches into a very loud version of “Jump.” I’m full and tired and buzzed, and when Hank grabs my hip and pulls me close, I can’t help but close my eyes and smile.

Heaven.

This is heaven.

The past four months haven’t been all smooth sailing. It turns out long-distance relationships require a constant balancing act that I don’t think we’ll ever master. But we are making it work, and we’re happy—and together—more often than not.

The best part? We’re able to enjoy a wedding without wanting one ourselves. Hank radiates genuine joy as he dances his ass off with me, going so far as to pull Samuel onto the dance floor so they can sing “Hot For Teacher” together.

It’s hilarious, and I laugh so hard watching them my ribs ache.

I ache all over. A good kind of ache—the one that lets me know I’m exactly where I need to be, with exactly the people I should be with.