Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

“Hard to get scared off by y’all’s insanely wonderful hospitality. Thank you, Beau.” She puts a hand on his arm. “And thanks for being such a good brother to Hank. He talks a lot about you guys, and I know he’s missed you like crazy. I see why.”

Stevie looks at me. I look at Beau. His expression softens, blue eyes glistening with genuine joy, and goddamn if I don’t have to rein in the impulse to—

To what? Hold my hand up to Stevie for a high five? Throw her over my shoulder and take her home and not let her leave until she promises to come back next weekend, and the weekend after that?

Because what she said just then was sincere. And sincere doesn’t square with what we’re trying to do here.

Or maybe it does. Just because we’re pretending to be in love doesn’t mean Stevie is blind to what’s going down between my siblings and me. I have talked to her about my family. I have missed them. She’s stating the truth. Just so happens to be playing a part while doing it.

There’s a rub there, I can feel it. I just don’t know how to phrase it yet. Or why it makes something catch in my chest.

I glance at Rhett. Don’t let me fall again.

Thank God I know better now than to dive headfirst into something that’s not real.

But sex? I can dive headfirst into that real easy, especially if Stevie’s involved.

The room is focused on giving Maisie good night kisses and hugs, so I take the opportunity to ask Stevie a few questions, leaning in to murmur in her ear.

“One, how the hell did you know all those verses to ‘Wheels on the Bus’? And two, where did you learn to be such an incredible pretend girlfriend?”

Stevie catches her bottom lip between her teeth, giving me that supermodel smolder that drives me fucking crazy.

“One, that song just so happens to be my nephew’s favorite. Last time I was at my brother’s, we listened to it nonstop. And two, did you really not think I would kill it as your fake love interest?” She leans back and pins me with a look. “I only make smart bets, Hastings. And when I do, I go all in.”

I smirk. “Poetry.”

“Shut up,” she says, giving my shoulder a flirty nudge. “Where did you learn to sing like that? You’ve got some serious Sam Hunt vibes going on.”

“You sayin’ I sing real sexy-like?”

“I’m sayin’ there’s a good chance you’re gonna get laid tonight, yeah.”

I catch Samuel’s gaze from across the room. He’s watching us, me and Stevie, eyes narrowed. Not like he’s pissed. More like he’s squinting, the kind of squint you make when you’re about to smile.

He’s buying it.

“All right, y’all, time for adult swim.” Taking a swig from the wineglass at my feet, I look up at Stevie. Someone’s lowered the overhead lights, and she looks lovely in the dimness. Soft. “Show me what you got, girl.”

She holds up the tambourine and gives it a saucy shake. “Bring it.”

It’s a ballsy choice, playing “Leather and Lace.” It’s not a deep track, exactly, but it’s not one of Stevie Nicks’s flashier hits.

It’s also a really sexy song.

But in the vein of Stevie Carter, I go all in. I play the opening chords, the strings singing as I move my fingertips over them, gaze on Stevie’s face all the while.

She’s not smiling but her eyes are, just like Samuel’s, and when she takes a long, slow sip of her own wine before raising the tambourine again, my heart nearly beats its way out of my chest.

I sing the first verse—Stevie Nicks’s part—and my Stevie starts out by tapping the tambourine against her knee. Steady. Quiet.

I sing, and she smiles, those dark eyes flicking to my mouth one time too often. Jesus Christ. I’m glad my guitar’s in my lap ’cause otherwise—yeah.

When I get to Don Henley’s verse, I figure I’ll keep singing. But immediately Stevie pipes up, nailing the lyrics perfectly.

And you know what? She’s got a real pretty voice.

Or maybe it’s her confidence that’s pretty. Or the way she knows every single fucking word to one of the best fucking songs ever written.

All I know is I stop singing and somehow manage to keep playing while I stare at her, shaking her head just like Don would, shaking the tambourine just like our favorite rock goddess. She closes her eyes and lets it rip, really getting into it. Feeling the music exactly how I like to. A little drama, some southern-inspired twang, a lot of emotion.

She ain’t afraid of any of it.

Milly hollers somewhere in the background, and Rhett lets out a half-assed hog whistle followed by a half-assed apology, blaming “a little too much wine” for his dry lips.

“There she is!” Emma says.