Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

“Sounds rough,” I say, heart skipping. “So what did you do? How did you fix it?”

She shakes her head. “Wish I had the answer for you. That’s something only you can figure out—how you’re gonna fill that hole inside you, and what you want to fill it with.”

Stevie’s deflecting. But damn.

I never thought about it like that. I knew my father wasn’t the only thing I lost when Daddy died. But I hadn’t considered how that hole wouldn’t just heal on its own—it wouldn’t close up and scar over with time, the way my incision did after the ankle surgery I had freshman year.

I need more than time.

I don’t need to make a joke about filling Stevie’s holes.

Looking at her, I wonder if I need—

“Look at y’all, being all cozy and cute,” Samuel says, striding into the pavilion. He’s got Emma on his arm and a grin on his face. “Hope we’re not interrupting?”

I put on a smile and grab Stevie’s hand, twining our fingers. “Not at all.”

“Hi, guys,” Stevie says. “Thanks again for last night. Emma, the wine was insane, and that cornbread? Samuel, I’ll be dreaming about it for months.”

Emma and Samuel exchange a glance. A grin too. They’ve mentioned cornbread before—think it’s some kind of pervy inside joke they share. Before it would annoy the hell out of me when they’d do this, exchange a private joke in a public place.

Now? Not so much. Maybe because I have Stevie to turn to and say, “I’ll be dreaming about that tambourine. Specifically you playing it, shaking your—”

Stevie presses a finger to my lips. “Don’t make me use that tambourine on you.”

“You mean you wanna—”

“Yes. Specifically, I want to use it on your—”

“Very fine ass, Daphne?”

“Ew, y’all,” Beau says, appearing at my elbow. “Who the hell is Daphne?”

Stevie’s eyes flash. Real? Fake? “We should start the tasting, no?”

“Right.” I clear my throat. Turn to my brothers. “So. Hey. Stevie set up this amazing spread. I’m just her right hand man today, but I want y’all to know that this tasting isn’t some bullshit exercise in nepotism. I didn’t offer her this chance because she’s my girlfriend. I offered it because she’s kick-ass and so is her beer, and I genuinely believe in the awesomeness of her product. Lady Luck is special, just like its CEO. I’ll turn it over to her.”

Stevie rewards me with a smile—I’d bet my bottom dollar it’s real—and, curling an arm around my waist, nods at the table. “Y’all take a seat. First beer up is our Peanut Butter Porter. I know, I know, it sounds bizarre, but trust me when I say it’s good.”

“Starting strong,” Emma says, folding her napkin on her lap. “I like it.”

Stevie cracks open a tallboy can and begins to pour us each a generous taste in a miniature stout glass. “I typically like to move from darker, heavier beers to lighter ones. That way you’re not trying to cram a heavy porter into an already full stomach.”

She pours herself a smaller taste and holds up her glass. “The company you keep is just as important as the beer you drink. Cheers, y’all. Thank you for having me, and thanks for the opportunity to introduce you to the great love of my life—beer.”

Everyone laughs at that. It’s a great line, and she delivers it breezily. If I didn’t know Stevie any better, I’d think it was a joke too.

“Going back to the Peanut Butter,” Stevie says as we bring the beer to our lips. “Subjectively speaking, it seems random, and even a little off-putting. Who wants peanut butter with their beer? I thought a lot about doing our porter the way I’d seen it done before. You know, hints of coffee, or chocolate, or maybe coconut if we were feeling extra adventurous. But none of that spoke to me, and over the years I’ve learned to trust my instincts.”

It’s cold and flavorful, exactly the right beer for exactly the right moment—the time before a meal when you’re hungry and thirsty, and have room for something indulgent. I take another sip, wanting to experience the complexity of flavor again. The porter taste is there. Bitter. Bright. And then there’s just the tiniest hint of peanut butter, sweet and rich. Even a little salty.

Totally satisfying.

“Goddamn,” Emma says, licking her lips. She takes another sip. “The peanut butter is there, but it’s not overpowering. Just that hint of sweet to balance the bitterness.”

“The balance is perfection,” Samuel adds. “That is really good. I’m not a porter guy, but I’d definitely order this. I love peanut butter.”

Stevie sips her beer. Her tongue darts out to grab a slick of foam on her upper lip. “So do I. The flavor is different, but.” She shrugs. “I like different.”

“Different is what we’re all about up here on the farm.” Samuel drains his glass. “We like to stand out. Service, accommodations. Food and wine. And this beer? It stands out. Well done.”