Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

The perfect excuse to quietly slip away. I know it makes me an asshole to leave Blue Mountain without properly saying goodbye to everyone, but I don’t think I can do it.

Then again, does it make me an asshole? Maybe me not saying goodbye will leave a bad taste in the Beauregards’ mouths, so they’ll be that much less heartbroken when I don’t come back to Blue Mountain.

“I have to take this,” I say.

But I try to make my escape a beat too late. Samuel pulls me into a hug and presses a scruffy kiss to my cheek. “You come back to the farm soon, you hear?”

I nod, the lump in my throat making it impossible to reply.

“Guys, quit it,” Hank says. “CEO of her own company, remember?”

At that moment, I almost wish Hank would stop being such a great guy.

Everyone hugs me. Well, except Maisie, who’s apparently having a serious case of stranger danger this morning. She shies away from me, emphatically shaking her head, and I can’t help but laugh as tears prick my eyes.

“She’ll get used to you,” Annabel says. “The more often you come, the easier this’ll get.”

“And then you’re gonna wish you never came at all ’cause once you’re in Maisie’s circle of trust, you are in.”

“Exhibit A.” June points at Maisie, who’s clinging to her, head tucked into her shoulder. “She doesn’t want me to put her down. Like, ever.”

Hank’s people—they’re wonderful. If I were to do the whole in-law thing again—which I’m not—I’d want to do it with them.

Giving Rhett one last hug, I scurry to the bedroom and close the door. I need to call Ria back. First, though, I let the buildup of emotion finally break free.

Through a blurry film of tears, I take in the rumpled sheets on the bed, the ashes in the fireplace, and the guitar leaning upright beside it. The clothes on the floor, lube and condoms on his nightstand, and empty coffee cups on mine.

It’s a delicious, ridiculous mess. But Hank and I want different things, and not even the exhilaration of the past three days can change that.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Hank

I drive Stevie to the airport, ostensibly because my siblings would think it was weird if I didn’t.

The real reason? I’m still in denial that Stevie’s leaving.

I take the Rolls because she seems to like it. But she’s quiet on the drive, and there’s this low hum of tension between us that’s new.

I hate it.

I hate everything about this. I wanted to make metaphorical messes. But I ended up making a real mess out of something I never should’ve, er, messed with.

Why does this keep happening? Honestly, fuck me for life.

I can’t tell if I’m angry or sad or horny as I take the familiar route. I just feel hollowed out.

And the fact that Stevie isn’t talking to me . . .

“I’m sorry if that whole breakfast thing upset you,” I say when I can’t take it anymore.

She doesn’t look away from her window. But I see her eyes blinking frantically, and my chest tightens.

“I feel like an asshole,” she says. Her voice is thick.

Letting out a breath, I reply, “I can relate. I’m sorry, honey.”

She looks down at her lap. “I’m sorry too. Your family is great.”

“They can be, yeah.”

“But they’re going to crucify you when they find out.”

“They’re not gonna find out.”

“Yeah, they are.” She finally looks at me. Her eyes are glassy. “Y’all made that mistake in the past—not paying attention—so now they’ll be paying more attention than ever. And what’s happened—like your sister said, it’s written all over your face.”

“What’s written on my face?”

Stevie tilts her head, looking at me from underneath her lashes. “Everything,” she replies softly. “You hide nothing, Hank. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

“I don’t hide anything because I used to hide everything, and it got me in trouble.” I smile tightly. “Guess trouble finds me no matter what choice I make. About my family—I’ve got it handled.”

We approach the airport. Stevie’s flying private, so we’ve got time. I pull into the cell phone lot and put the car in park. The throaty purr of the engine fills the silence between us.

My heart is pounding.

She reaches across the center console and puts her hand on my thigh. “You’re a great guy, Hank.”

This is where you and I end.

I’m becoming an expert at deciphering what she’s really saying.

I thumb a tear off her cheek. “If you mean that, why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” she says, sniffing, and we both laugh.

Her skin is warm and smooth against the pad of my thumb. “It’s okay to cry, Stevie.”

“I know.” She nods. “I just feel—God, I feel silly. I don’t want to create a scene.”

I manage a smile even though I feel like dying. “But you’re so good at it. We’ve made so many scenes. All of them excellent. In fact, I thought about writing to Shonda Rhimes and telling her just how good we are at Bridgerton shit. Maybe she’ll write us into the show or something. I hear there’s going to be more seasons.”