Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

“I love who you are,” he says softly.

Heat presses against the backs of my eyes. “I love you, Hank. I’m so fucking in love with you.”

“Oh, honey.” He leans in and kisses me, slowly, gently, and for several beats, I’m overtaken by the sensation of falling through space. “Honey, I love you.”

I’m dizzy when he pulls back, thumbing away tears that fall out of my eyes left and right.

“I’m sorry for putting you through hell.” I sniff. “But I had to be sure, you know? I wanted to be sure I could really do this commitment thing before I came back.”

His eyes dart back and forth between mine. “So you’ll consider it? A relationship?”

“A real relationship. Yes. And I’m not just talking about one that isn’t fake. I’m talking real—you want the picket fence? We can talk about it. A family? We can talk about that too. I make no guarantees, but I’m open to ideas in a way I wasn’t before.”

“Wow.” He blinks. “Wow, Stevie, that’s one hell of a one-eighty.”

I laugh. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. One thing I’m still not interested in is marriage. The whole exchanging vows and stuff. We still have a lot of talking to do, and a lot to figure out, but I’m willing to give it a try. Let’s make it up as we go along. Do happily ever after our way, not the way the world tells us we should.”

Hank grins. “I like this. I like it a lot.”

“But what about what you want?” I grab my whiskey and sip, steeling myself. “That kind of relationship means you’re going to have to compromise on some pretty big things. A wedding, for one thing. A wedding ring for another.”

“Are you shitting me? Yeah, I guess I’ve always thought I’d end up married, but really, what does a ring matter when you’re with the one? At the end of the day, that’s all I want, Stevie—I just want to be with you. You’re the one. You make me happy. You turn me on. You let me be who I am, only a better version of it.”

I smile, butterflies taking flight inside my torso. “A version who actually knows how to play blackjack?”

“Exactly.” His expression is serious. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be happy with you whether or not we wear rings or have a picket fence. Let’s just be together. In the end, that’s all that matters.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Light blooms all over my body, the poignant sensation clearing all thoughts from my head except I’m his and he’s mine.

We’re the one for each other. That’s stars-aligning type stuff, and it is lovely.

For so long, I’d only considered the pitfalls of love. How it would rob me of opportunity and freedom and contentment.

I’d forgotten love also comes with this—the opportunity to see and be seen in return. The freedom to be who I am. The contentment that comes with companionship and compromise.

Because I’m his equal, and he’s mine. I know that in my bones. I’m not going to be the second-class citizen I was in my marriage. He doesn’t see me that way, and now neither do I.

It’s refreshing.

Our relationship will never be perfect. Love’s a double-edged sword, but if Hank’s taught me anything, love can always be done differently. It can be done right.

I’m excited to try that on with him.

“Okay,” I manage. “Okay. Yeah.”

He looks at me. I look back.

“What?” I’m smiling so hard my face feels like it’s about to split open.

“My fake girlfriend just became my real girlfriend. I’m pretty fucking stoked about that.”

“Ever thought you’d end up writing songs about me when you sat down at that blackjack table?”

Hank nudges his knee against mine. “You wrote that song about me too.”

“Co-conspirators and co-writers.” I nudge him back. “We make quite the team.”

We keep looking at each other, my sweater absorbing the heat of the fire.

I want to live in this moment forever. But we can’t.

Before I can fully surrender, fully relax into the reality of our new situation, I need to talk through a few things.

I take another fortifying gulp of whiskey. “So, the logistics. We don’t need to get into the nitty-gritty tonight. But you and I ‘just’ being together won’t be easy. It’ll require a fuck-ton of legwork. How are we going to iron out the whole Nashville-Asheville thing? Neither of us can just up and move.”

Hank lets out a breath and thinks for a beat, then another. “Wish I had an answer for you right off the bat, but I don’t. Why don’t we do this—let’s come up with a preliminary plan. We’ll start by splitting our time between your place and mine? Set up a schedule? Something we can pencil in and modify as we go. Work’s been a little bit of a nightmare this week—I’m still figuring out what balance means—but because nothing’s set in stone yet, I’ve got lots of flexibility.”