Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Besides, I have my date with V to look forward to. Who’s to say we won’t hit it off? I’m really, really hoping it goes well. If only so I have someone else to think about besides Emma Crawford.

“Three,” Emma says softly. “You hate all your siblings. Only because you love them so much that you smother them with your curiosity and your cooking, which makes them lash out at you often and with great vehemence.”

Bianca furrows her brow. “Samuel, you like the m word? Ew!”

The table’s laughing. Emma’s lit up.

And me? I keep finding more reasons to dig the woman I can’t have.

I throw the casserole dish onto the range and coat it with butter.

Tossing a cutting board onto the counter, I mince a couple scallions while I wait for the spinach to cool, cursing when my knife comes down on my thumbnail.

It makes me think of the time Emma cut her thumb with her wine tool. Her lips had ducked out ever so slightly as she sucked on it.

She’d be great at sucking dick. I know she would be. The idea of being at her mercy with my dick in her mouth—she’d be on her knees, but I’d be the one begging—makes my balls tighten.

Why does everything have to make me think of her? I need to be moving away from this shit, not toward it. This isn’t high school, and we aren’t hormonal teenagers with questionable self-control. I can defeat these feelings if I try hard enough.

But that’s the problem. I am trying. I try every fucking minute of every hour not to think about Emma, not to feel what I feel for her. But it seems the harder I try, the more I realize I’m a hopeless case.

I throw the knife across the island. It skitters across the countertop and lands with a bang on the floor.

Hank, who’s apparently let himself into my house, bends down to pick it up.

Holding it in his hand, he says, “Rage cooking again?”

Wrapping my thumb in a paper towel, I cut him a glare. “What do you want?”

He nods at a stool. “Why don’t you sit and let me handle the scallions?”

“Fine.” I sit. “You know what you’re doing?”

Hank sidles up to the cutting board and shrugs. “Not really. But better I mess up the garlic than you lose a finger. What are you making, anyway?”

“Quiche. Chef Katie just harvested our first crop of spinach, and we’ve got that ridiculous house-made feta. Thought it’d make a nice combo.”

His eyes rove over the pantry’s worth of eggs, sour cream, butter, and half-and-half I have set out. “Are you cooking for the staff again?”

I deflect. Because I’m cooking for Emma even though I shouldn’t be. “How do you know about that? The breakfast I made for everyone, I mean.”

“Dude, the whole restaurant won’t shut up about your scones and how you like the word moist.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Who are you, and how, as manager of guest relations here at Blue Mountain Farm, can I get you to stay?”

“Throw in the scallions.” I nod at the dish on the stove. “I’ll add the eggs next.”

Hank scoops up the scallions and tosses them in the pot. Half of it ends up on the floor. What-the fuck-ever.

“A lot of the staff also mentioned you and Emma have, uh, a special rapport.”

I can’t tell if it’s the heat from the range or if it’s emotion that’s making Hank’s cheeks turn red. Is he embarrassed? Does he have something he wants to say?

“Say it.”

He doesn’t look up from the pot, gathering a few stray chopped scallions from the cutting board. “Say what?”

“Whatever you came here to talk about.”

Dropping the scallions into the dish, he turns around and crosses his arms. “Is there something going on between you and Emma?”

“No,” I say a little too quickly. “Absolutely not. Why?”

He scratches the underside of his clean-shaven jaw. “No reason. Just wanted to make sure we, uh, didn’t have a…situation on our hands is all.” He looks at me. “You sure you don’t have feelings for her?”

“That’s not what you asked.”

“Well, I’m asking it now,” he says. Hank’s an easygoing guy, so it surprises me that he’s getting angry. “Do you have feelings for Emma?”

Be honest.

But what if I’m honest about how I want to feel? Does that count?

“I don’t, no.” Self-loathing crawls up my throat as the words leave my mouth.

Still. Maybe if I say them, I’ll actually start to believe them. I’m that desperate. And Hank doesn’t need to know about how I really feel.

What if confessing it somehow blows back on Emma? I’d trust Hank with my life. But I’ve been around long enough to know shit like this grows legs and gets around more often than not.