Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

I sidle up to her right, resting my foot on the brass railing underneath the bar. Raw interest floods my body, gathering low in my core, and I want to get closer to her. But she hasn’t given me permission—yet—so I keep a little distance between us.

“What can I get you guys?” Ben asks after we shake hands.

I gesture to Stevie. She narrows her eyes at the taps on the wall. Then she grins. “I’ll take a Blackjack Babe Hefeweizen, please.”

“Blackjack Babe?” I arch a brow at her. “Is that named after you?”

She grins, eyes lit up and all. “Yes.”

“I’ll have the same,” I say to Ben.

Ben brings us our beers in frosty pint glasses. I tap mine against hers. “To splitting aces and eights.”

“And doubling down on eleven.” She points at me. “Don’t forget that.”

Stevie doesn’t sip her beer. She drinks it, tipping her head back as she takes a long, slow pull that has ninety percent of the bar staring at her now.

Fuck the guy who set rushing and receiving records his first year in the pros and was voted Offensive Player of the Year twice.

This girl is the truly spectacular one.

She closes her eyes before she swallows, the lines of her throat working in smooth, sinuous motion.

Does she suck dick like that? I’m suddenly, viciously eager to know the answer to that question. I set my beer down with a thud, making Stevie swallow again and lick her lips.

“You okay?” she asks.

“You always drink beer that way? Like you’re tasting wine or some shit?”

“I do.” She turns her head to face me, moving in such a way that her hair swings over her other shoulder, tousled and perfect and smelling like some kinda girly shampoo. “I’m a brewer.”

I blink. “That’s fucking awesome.”

“I know,” she says, grinning, and I decide right then and there I’m not letting this girl out of my sight until she leaves for the airport. “You like it? The beer?”

“I do.” I take another sip. It’s clean, cold, crisp for a wheat beer. “I don’t usually drink Hefeweizen, but this is good. Really good.”

“I’m glad you think so, because it really is named after me. I made it.”

“You made it?” I blink again. “As in, you really made this beer at your really awesome brewery?”

She laughs, angling her legs toward me as she crosses them. “How do you know Lady Luck’s Brewhouse is awesome?”

My gaze rips down her body, rips back up. “Don’t play coy with me, Miss Carter. One, that’s the best name ever for a brewery. And two, I just saw you dominate that blackjack table. I imagine you dominate the brewing scene too.” I hold up my glass. “This what brought you to Vegas? Your beer?”

“I lobbied for a solid two years to get Lady Luck’s products into places like this.” She tips her chin at the bar. “I finally made it happen last year—one of my biggest goals for my company is expanding our distribution, especially in states outside of Tennessee, where we’re based.”

“Nashville?”

“Yup.”

“Love that town. I actually caught Greg Allman at the Ryman a few months back.”

Her eyes go wide. “Stop it. I was there!”

“No shit.” I smile, and her eyes flick to my dimple. “I like your taste in music.”

Those eyes flash. “I like yours too. So, I always enjoy drinking my favorite beer in my favorite city, but I’m actually here for a different reason. Two reasons, really.”

“Which are?”

“I just turned forty—”

“Happy Birthday!”

“Thank you. Forty feels pretty freaking great.” She sips, then swallows. I want to scream. “I also finalized my divorce, thank God. My ex and I have been separated for nearly three years, so this is a big win.”

The way she says it, how she lets out a breath that makes her shoulders fall back—relief and joy are written all over her. Because she’s over it, whatever went down.

Whatever she felt for that guy and that relationship.

For a second, my mood dims. When am I gonna get to the other side?

When am I gonna get over the girl who wasn’t meant for me so I can be with one who is? A girl my family loves, the way they love my brothers’ partners?

But then nine months’ worth of platitudes and pep talks flood my thoughts. She wasn’t meant for you. Meeting new people is the best way to move on. Time heals all wounds.

So does hanging out with gorgeous girls who know their games of chance and their classic rock.

“You have a lot to celebrate then, Stevie. What are your plans for tonight?”

She nods, taking another pull of beer. “My girlfriends and I are doing dinner at Sinatra’s—”

“Excellent choice.”

“And then we’re going dancing.” She looks at me. “I want you to come.”

I’m digging my phone out of my pocket before the sentence is out of her mouth. She sure as hell doesn’t beat around the bush, which makes this whole exchange feel refreshingly easy. Fun.