The next morning, I wake up earlier than usual, bone tired, my knees and head screaming. The memory of Annabel all over me.
My dick is hard as a tree trunk.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. I have dozens of texts, per usual—most from work people. Updates from my head of partnerships. A text from Samuel, probably another saga about how Emma is a pain in his ass. A text from my sister, Milly, probably bitching about so-and-so client changing their mind again about their color scheme.
And a text from Annabel. I open that one first.
Annabel: Sorry for texting so early. Maisie’s 3 AM feeding got me like [red-face emoji with bleeped-out curse word]. But I can’t stop thinking about last night. Our friendship means the world to me. I’d never intentionally do anything to wreck what we have, and I understand if you don’t want a repeat of what happened at the dock house. But I felt better being with you than I have in ages. You made me feel good, Beau. So whatever you’re feeling right now, I just hope it’s not guilt. You didn’t hurt me, and I sincerely hope I didn’t hurt you either. I’m sorry if I did. Call me in the AM [kissy-face emoji].
My stupid heart swells with hope, but I do my best to stop that swelling in its tracks. So what if I made her feel good? It’s not like anything can come of it.
Annabel is not herself right now. She’s said as much. This is just the fucked-up shit inside our heads making us do stupid things we wouldn’t otherwise do.
Tugging a hand through my hair, I groan when I pivot my hips and set my bare feet on the floor. Then I groan again when I settle my elbows on my thighs, cradling my phone in my hand.
Mornings, before I fuel up on my usual gallon of coffee, are the hardest. Glamor and glory surround the careers of pro football players like me, but there’s this conspiracy of silence around the aftermath. My body—and my head—took a brutal beating in the decades I played ball. The soreness and stiffness and outright pain I wake up with most days make me feel a hundred years old.
A reminder of why I cannot, under any circumstances, touch Bel again.
I take care of my hard-on in the shower, ashamed that I think about Annabel while I jack off, but I’m too tired—and too fucking horny—to care.
I imagine her sucking my cock.
I imagine her in my bed with her legs spread, her pink pussy hot.
I imagine playing with her, tasting her, getting her soft. Then fucking her hard, the kind of sex that makes you sweat.
I get dressed, feeling like the world’s biggest scumbag.
I’m heading to the kitchen when my phone vibrates in my hand. I know, without looking, who it is, and what she’s calling about.
“Milly,” I say, tugging my fingers across my eyes. “Kingsley already here?”
“Yep. An hour early, just like the son of a bitch he is. I’m watching his headlights down in the valley.”
I groan. “Meet you out front in five.”
“You don’t have to come. I’m only calling you because you asked me to. I can handle him on my own.”
“Course you can hold your own. But I wanna be there. I don’t like the way that man looks at you.”
“Cut the caveman crap. Also, you sound like hell.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Don’t worry. I just turned on the coffee pot.”
“Praise the good Lord above. I’ll be right over.”
I throw on a jacket. Hands shoved in my front pockets, I make my way to Milly’s house. Out of all of us, she has the fanciest one. I wish I could say it’s because I like to spoil her—I do—but she’s the one who built an uber-successful wedding-planning business from scratch. She’s among the world’s top planners, taking on only a handful of seven-figure weddings each year.
My sister’s waiting on her front porch, holding two steaming mugs in her hands.
From this vantage point, she looks just like Mama—curly blond hair, petite build—but don’t let their size fool you. They’re both tough as nails.
“Hey,” I say.
She holds out a cup. “Hey.”
The strong, velvety scent of coffee fills my head as I wrap my hands around my mug, the sudden warmth making my palms prickle. I settle my shoulder against the nearest column. We take our first sips in silence, eyes glued to the incredible view she has of the Great Smoky Mountains. The sun’s not up yet, but a gray-green glow breaks over the peaks on the horizon.
I straighten when headlights cut across Milly’s front yard. A second later, an enormous Ford pickup—new, white, emblazoned with an all-too-familiar emblem—pulls up in front of us, tires crunching on the fine pea gravel.
The truck’s diesel engine throbs as it idles, a sinister sound that cuts through the stillness like a knife. I hope it doesn’t wake any guests.
“What the fuck is this guy’s problem?” I murmur.
Milly just slowly shakes her head, sighing. “Besides the obvious? No clue.”
“This Hatfield and McCoy shit has gotta stop. At some point, Kingsley has to let the past go. Why do we need to pay for the sins of our asshole ancestors?”
“I already said it. Because y’all are cavemen. Daddy wasn’t exactly a saint toward the end. You remembered all the shit he said to Old Man Kingsley. Wasn’t in his right mind, of course, but how could Kingsley know that?”
In the recent past, I’ve made several efforts to smooth things over with Nate Kingsley. Redneck mafia shit is bad for business. And honestly, who has the time? But no matter how many olive branches I offer—money, words, deeds—the man still hates my guts.
I’ve tried to figure out why, but his kind of hate transcends old wounds. For a while, I thought he and his brothers were just bitter and maybe a little jealous, too. My dad, John Riley, was a star NFL linebacker, and all four of his sons would go on to play pro ball.
But the Kingsleys came into their own fame and fortune over the past couple of decades, turning what was once a bootleg operation into a full-fledged whiskey behemoth. What Pappy Van Winkle did for Kentucky bourbon, Nate Kingsley did for North Carolina corn mash whiskey.
Around here, that family has always been known as the whiskey kings. But now, that’s how they’re known all over the world. A bottle of their rarest stuff can go for upward of five grand.
So, yeah. I can’t imagine Nate’s jealous. We do what we can at Blue Mountain Farm to support his business. It’s why he’s here this morning—he’s dropping off a batch of his famous Appalachian Red Whiskey for that celebrity wedding Milly’s planning next month. The groom is apparently a whiskey fanatic, and his one request was to have a case of Appalachian Red on hand. The bride was all too happy to agree, as it clinched the deal on booking her top venue pick—our farm.
But even throwing thousands of dollars in his lap doesn’t make Nate hate us any less. As exhibited by the glare he shoots me as he climbs out of his truck
The tightness in my chest burns to anger. My mind begins to spin.
Name the emotion. Breathe through it.
My therapist’s words dart through the swirl inside my head. They seemed so simple when I was on her couch, but now, in the moment, I’m finding it’s hard to get a grip on what I’m feeling.
“You’re early,” Milly says to him, setting down her mug on the porch railing. “Good thing I was up.”
Nate’s eyes flick down Milly’s figure as she trundles down the steps. His expression hardens.
“Got a busy day. Wanted to get this delivery out of the way.” Nate looks away, rounds his truck, and flips down the tailgate. “Didn’t trust anyone else to get it here safely.”
Another guy—his brother Silas, I can tell from the guy’s massive build—climbs out of the passenger door to help him at the back of the truck.
Milly just scoffs, crossing her arms. “If y’all didn’t make such good whiskey, I’d kick your asses back down the hill.”
I bite back a smile. My sister can be full of piss and vinegar, and I kind of adore her for it.
She de
finitely doesn’t need me here. Still, it makes me feel better to help out and be a part of the action, especially when that action includes ancient grudges.
Damn you, Shakespeare. Now I’m thinking about Bel, and the several Word Porn meetings we had about Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet.
Must. Focus.
“Whiskey talks,” Nate grunts, hauling a crate off the truck bed. “Where do y’all want this?”
Milly’s eyes are glued to him as he and Silas approach the house. “Wine closet in the kitchen. Beau will show you the way.”
We don’t normally keep inventory at Milly’s private residence, but this stock is too valuable to risk theft, accidental or otherwise, at the resort’s cellar underneath the restaurant. She promised her client she’d personally oversee the safety of his purchase.
So into her wine closet it goes, where it will be under lock and key until the wedding itself.
The Kingsley brothers follow me inside. I take note of their every move. Nate throws a few more looks to kill my way. Wish I could say I didn’t care, but I do.
On his way out, I stay on his heels. He narrows his eyes at me.
“What?” I spit out.
“What the hell do you think we’re gonna do in here? Trash the place?” He wipes his hands. “I got better things to do. Unlike you, apparently.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. He’s baiting me, I know he is, but that does nothing to stop the burn inside my skin.
We step out onto the front porch.
“How about a thank you?” Milly asks as he moves past her. “Your whiskey’s gonna be the talk of a very high-profile wedding.”
He pauses at the top of the steps. Head bowed, he glances back at her. For a split second, something flashes across his eyes. Sadness, maybe. Regret.
Whatever it is, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced by that stony look he’s perpetually wearing.
“How about you thank me? It’s my whiskey y’all needed to land that wedding. You’re lucky I had some to sell you.”
I’m hit by the distinct impression that Nate’s a bit like a Carolina version of Tom Hardy. Gruff. Growly. Bad tattoos all over the place.
Except that shit somehow makes Tom Hardy that much more likable.
Nate, though? Not so much.
I set down my mug on the porch railing.
“For fuck’s sake, Kingsley. Enough.”
His dark gaze flicks to me. “So much for your famous hospitality.”
“Nate,” Silas warns.
He heads for the steps. But before he does, Nate pauses and turns his head. “Asshole, just like your father.”
Something inside me cracks.
Before I even know what’s happening, I’m lunging for him, hand clutched in a fist, arm curled back. Anger like I’ve never known propels me forward. I grab the neck of his shirt. “You son of a—”
“Beau!” Milly’s voice cracks like a whip. “Jesus Christ, stop!”
At the very last minute, I’m able to halt my fist mere inches from Nate’s nose. I blink, the feel of his shirt in my hand coming to life and grounding me. His nostrils flare as he stares up at me. His eyes unafraid and angry.
Daring me to make good on my fist’s promise.
My heart is beating so loudly in my ears I don’t hear Milly approach until she’s wrapped a hand around my arm.
“Go,” I hiss to Nate, dropping my hand from his shirt.
Nate gives his shirt a tug. With Silas at his side, they make for his truck. But not before I hear Silas mumble, “Stupid fuck.”
Me? Or his clown of a brother?
I have no clue. Don’t give a shit.
Nate guns the engine, a roar that raises the hair on my arms, and his taillights disappear around the far bend in Milly’s driveway.
My hand is shaking when I run it across my mouth.
“Sorry,” I manage. “That was not okay. I’m so sorry, Milly. I don’t—I don’t know what came over me.”
She gives my arm a squeeze and rubs my back in quick, small circles. “I’m not gonna tell you it’s all right, because it’s not. But you didn’t hurt him. Nothing happened, Beau, other than you putting that jackass in his place. This isn’t you turning into Daddy, you hear me? Just…let me handle Nate from now on.”
I don’t reply. Mostly because I don’t know what to say. I’m shaken up and more than a little scared.
I don’t believe in violence as a means of settling scores, my threats to my family notwithstanding.
“Impulse control,” I say. “I think mine’s finally slipping, Milly. The old me—he wouldn’t have acted that way.”
She looks at me, brow curving upward in sympathy. I can tell she’s trying not to cry. “You don’t know that. And even if it was, you stopped. If you couldn’t control yourself, don’t you think Nate Kingsley would be bleeding on the ground right now?”
“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t know. I feel like—”
“Oh my God.” Milly’s eyes go wide.
My heart stutters in my chest. “What?”
She peers at my neck. “Is that a hickey?”
“What? No.” Immediately my hand moves to cover said hickey. “It’s—”
“Totally a hickey.” My sister’s face breaks out in a smile, and the tension in the air dissipates. “Who gave it to you?”
“It’s nothing,” I say gruffly, pulling up my collar. Shit, I thought this shirt covered it. Desperate for a change in subject, I say, “Bonfire looked great last night.”
Milly crosses her arms, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “Of course it did. I organized the whole thing. Tell me about the hickey. I’d ask if Gretchen was back, but that”—she points to the offending spot—“is not something she’d do.”
I grab my mug from the porch railing and take a scalding sip, turning away from my sister in the hopes she’ll take the hint and leave me alone. I feel like enough of a shithead as it is.
Milly looks at me for another beat. Then she gasps, hand going to her mouth as the realization dawns.
“You and Annabel,” she says. “Hank told me he saw y’all dancing. Oh my God, Beau. Oh my God! Are you guys, like, a thing now? I love her. I’ve been hoping for years you two would end up together.”
I roll my eyes, letting out a long, low breath. “It’s not—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me, Beau.”
I jam my tongue into my cheek and look at my sister. It’s no use. I should know better than to pull the wool over Milly’s eyes. She’s sharp as a whip and just as dangerous when she’s pissed off. Or lied to.
“Yes, the hickey is from Annabel. But no, we are not a thing, and we never will be.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because! Goddamn it, Milly, this is none of your business—”
“Of course it’s not. But I want you to tell me anyway. I get the feeling you need to talk about it.”
Because my sister is right, and because I’m tired as hell, I fall into the nearest rocking chair with a sigh. “The whole thing was a stupid mistake. I don’t want to lead her on. What Bel is looking for—I can’t give that to her. The white picket fence and dog and stuff.”
“How do you know that’s what she wants?”
I cock my head. “We’ve been friends for seventeen years, Milly. I know what Annabel is after.”
My sister’s eyes flick to my neck. “Looks like she’s after you.”
I slide my phone out of my back pocket.
I need to call Annabel, go see her and talk about what happened last night.
I’m gonna have to tell her the truth. All of it. Not just the bits and pieces that are easier to digest.
“I’m pretty sure she wants more than a hookup,” I say, voice low. “But we can’t. How do I let her down easy?”
Milly’s brow creases. “I’m confused. You want more, too.”
Before Duke, I did want more. I wanted a family of my own. A woman to settle down with. Lots of babies. Dogs. The big, full, boiste
rous house, like the one I grew up in.
But that dream was ripped from me the day I walked into the hospital at Duke a whole man, and walked out a broken one.
“I never said that.”
“No. But I’ve known you for thirty years, and I can tell just by how beat up you look that you’re in deep.”
I neither confirm nor deny this.
Instead, I sip my coffee in pained silence.
“Your life isn’t over,” Millie says. “Just because—”
“Please.” I hold up my hand. The one holding my phone. “I’m not saying this to be a dick, but please don’t try to convince me of anything right now. I know what I need to do. Putting an end to whatever is…uh, happening between Bel and me is the right thing, Milly. So please, please, just help me figure out how to do that without hurting her. All right?”
Milly looks at me, sympathy written all over her expression.
I hate it. The pity. Makes me feel small.
“All right,” she says softly. “I just want you to understand that I do not agree that this is the right thing. Not one bit.”
“Noted. Should I call her?”
“Yes. Invite her over for a drink. It’s kind, and big of you to do it in person.”
I glance down at my phone. “I’m not sure I trust myself not to blurt it out over the phone.”
“Then text her an invitation. Apologize for that, but, I mean, as long as you make up for it over the drink, I think you’ll be okay.”
“Milly,” I say, tipping back my mug so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “I’m gonna have to tell her. About my diagnosis.”
Milly grips my arm and squeezes. “Now that is the right thing. I’m proud of you, Beau.”
“Seriously?” I scoff. “I made out with my best friend with no intention of taking it any further, even though I knew—I had to have known, because she’s my good friend—even though I knew she wouldn’t want to leave it there. I almost just punched a guy for looking at me the wrong way. I’m keeping secrets. Playing sides. What, exactly, is there to be proud of about me right now?”
Milly just looks at me, a small smile on her lips. “You’re being honest about all that, aren’t you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“There. That’s what I’m proud of. Also, Nate Kingsley is a dick. We both know he’s done more than look at you sideways. If anyone deserves to be punched in the face, it’s him.”
Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance Page 8