Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  “Wait.” Samuel drops his fork. “Annabel gave you a love bite?”

  “A love bite? What the hell is—I don’t—Jesus Christ…” I say, covering what’s left of said “love bite” with my hand.

  He smacks my hand out of the way. “Jesus Lord! Y’all have definitely been rollin’ in the hay. I knew something was going on, but I had no idea you guys were into that.”

  Mama gasps, and Milly laughs. Hank claps his hands, proclaims, “I knew it!” and promptly holds out his hand to Samuel, who gets out his wallet and, with a grumble, sets a hundred-dollar bill in Hank’s outstretched palm.

  “Really?” I ask, turning to my sister.

  “What?” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Like secrets stay kept all that long around here anyway. Besides, you really think you and Annabel are gonna do all this cool stuff together without falling head over heels for each other?”

  “I sure as hell do,” I spit out a little too quickly. Milly’s reading my mind—saying my biggest fear out loud—and I don’t like it. “We’ve been doing cool stuff together for years without crossing that line. Hell, I took the woman on a Mediterranean cruise on George Clooney’s yacht. Twice. Did Napa Valley, just the two of us. All super romantic shit, but not once did Bel and I so much as kiss. We’ve done it before, and we can do it again. The other night—the lov—hickey, it was a mistake. A one-off thing. Neither of us was in our right minds.”

  I say it as much for Milly as I do for myself. If I keep hearing it, then maybe I’ll start believing it.

  Mama reaches out and curls a hand around my forearm. “If that’s what you truly think, I’ll buy it. I know how much Annabel means to you as a friend. Just don’t hold back out of some misguided notion that you’re not worthy because of your possible diagnosis. You still deserve to be happy, John Riley.”

  She’s the only one who can get away with calling me that. It’s Daddy’s name. Ever since he started to get sick—this was back when I was in high school—I’ve refused to share it.

  “I am happy,” I say. “How could I not be, with my lovely family around to bust my balls?”

  Hank holds up his glass. “Proud to do it.”

  Mama keeps looking at me. Serious. A little sad. Breaks my fucking heart. After everything she’s been through, I’d do whatever it takes to put a smile on this woman’s face. I know she wants me to open up, give Annabel and me a chance. But then I’d just end up breaking everyone else’s hearts.

  In the long run, keeping my distance is the right thing to do.

  “I mean it.” I pat her hand. “I got this, okay?”

  “You don’t always need to put us first, you know,” she replies. “No one asked you to make that sacrifice. Just as I’m pretty sure Annabel would never ask you to sacrifice your happiness to keep her safe.”

  I swallow hard. “I know she’d never ask, which is one of the many reasons I need to do it. Anyway…” Drawing a breath, I square my shoulders. “I’ll get all of you your marching orders by tomorrow morning. Sound good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yup.”

  “We’re on it, Beau.” Samuel meets my eyes. “You just focus on Annabel. What kinda activities are you gonna do together, anyway? Besides give each other hickeys.”

  So much for my attempt to change the subject.

  “One more mention of the hickey and I’m firing all y’all. As far as activities go, I’m not sure yet. Getting outside helps my mood a lot, so I thought we’d maybe start with some fly fishing? A hike, maybe, so the baby can come with us.”

  “You know I’ll happily watch Maisie while y’all are out and about,” Mama says. “I had so much fun hanging with her and Lizzie the other night.”

  Mama would never say out loud that she wants grandbabies. She’d never put that kind of pressure on us. But I know she’d love to be a grandmother. She’d make a really great one, too. I bet she’s already attached to Maisie.

  If only—

  I shove the thought from my head. Can’t go there.

  “Thanks, Mama. And Samuel, you think you can hook us up with a cooking lesson with Chef Katie?”

  “Be happy to.”

  “I can set the scene for the lesson,” Millie offers. “Make it pretty for y’all.”

  My chest swells. My family may be a gigantic pain in my ass most of the time, but they come through when it counts. I’m lucky to have them.

  “That’d be great. Really great. Thank you, guys.”

  Hank grins. “Don’t think we aren’t winners here, too. We get you out of our hair for a bit. I’d say that’s a win-win for everyone.”

  “Hey. I’m a fucking great boss.”

  Mama shoots me a look. The same one she’s been giving me for as long as I can remember. “Language, son.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. These fools make it all too easy to forget my manners.”

  The five of us sit and talk about what needs to be done around the resort for another hour. By the time we’re done and dinner is cleaned up—I do dishes, Hank dries, Samuel talks, and Mama and Milly have another glass of wine at the island—it’s nearly nine and dark outside. My family leaves one by one until Milly’s the only one left.

  She’s typing furiously on her phone, a small smile working at her lips.

  “Who’re you texting?” I ask. I try to get a better look at her phone.

  “Nobody.” She hits the button on the side of her phone, blanking the screen. She stands. “It’s nothing. Are you really mad I told them? About you and Annabel? You know they would’ve found out anyway.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “You sexting with that nobody?”

  “I vastly prefer phone sex to sexting. Are you mad?”

  I decide to let the texting go. For now, at least.

  “Nah. I just—I don’t want to get everyone’s hopes up.”

  She picks up her wineglass and drains it, then heads to the sink where she sets it down. “What’s wrong with hope?”

  Tilting my head, I give my sister a you-know-why look. I nudge her out of the way and get to washing her glass.

  “The impulse control.” I turn on the water. “What if me making out with Bel is a symptom of that?”

  Milly leans her hip against the counter and crosses her arms. “What if you making out with Annabel is just your friendship blossoming into something it was always meant to become?”

  I wince at how hot the water’s gotten, then reach for the knob to turn on the cold tap. “I’m done talking about this.”

  “All right.” Milly holds up her hands. “But I feel like it’s my job as your sister—your friend—to tell you not to give up on yourself just yet.”

  I drop the sponge and set the glass on the drying mat beside the sink, then turn off the water. Drying my hands on a towel, I turn around to face my sister.

  Milly looks at me with her eyes narrowed. I look back.

  “What?”

  She keeps looking for another beat, like she’s deciding whether to say something.

  “I wouldn’t wish what happened to Daddy on anyone, Beau. But in the end at least, he had his family around him. He had us. We’ll be there for you, too, but I hate to think of everything you’re missing out on by holding yourself back.” She straightens. “I think you’re gonna regret it.”

  “You saw the way I acted the other morning, Milly. Whether or not I regret the choices I’ve made is a moot point. What if I’d hurt Nate Kingsley? What if I hurt someone else?”

  “One, you didn’t hurt Nate. And two, what if you’re hurting someone by holding back?” She pats me on the shoulder. “I’m gonna leave you to chew on that. Night, Beau.”

  I kiss her cheek when she wraps her arms around my neck. “Night.”

  Something to chew on—not happening, sweet sister.

  What I do work out are meeting times with my CFO and COO for the next morning. I also make a note to go over a few spreadsheets with our accounting team and put a call in to my head of marketing. I schedule meetings with
Chef Katie, Samuel, Hank, and our web developer.

  I’ll put out any fires and get everyone on the same page.

  And then, for the first time in years, I take time off. Because it’s what Bel wants.

  I’ll do anything for her while I still can.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Annabel

  The water is freezing.

  I’m wearing fleece-lined leggings underneath my waders, these goofy waterproof overall things. Wool socks underneath the rubber boots they gave me at the tack shop back at the farm.

  But even through all those layers, I still feel the chilly press of water against my legs and butt as I make my way into the stream.

  Sucking a breath through my teeth, I must make a face because Beau laughs.

  “If you don’t like it, we can stop. But I promise this gets more fun.”

  I cut him a look. “And you wonder why you’re still single with lines like that.”

  “Feisty this morning. I like it.” He pokes my hip with his rod, flashing me a wide, white smile.

  “I thought we agreed, no poking.”

  He laughs, and the fact that we can joke about this now—this silent agreement that we’re at least going to pretend we’re back to normal—is a relief.

  “Unfortunately, or, no, fortunately, poking is an essential part of fly-fishing.”

  “No, it’s not,” our guide, an older gentleman named Larry who I swear to God looks like Robert Redford circa 1995, says.

  “You must be doing a different kind of fishing then,” Beau replies. “Because I’ve really honed my poking skills over the years on this river, and I’d like to show them off to my friend Annabel here.”

  I poke him back, feeling the tickle of childish laughter—real belly laughter—up and down my sides.

  Inside my chest, my heart makes a quarter turn. Just a nudge, really, against my breastbone. A flutter of something pleasant I haven’t felt in forever.

  I want to explore it, take a beat, but Beau is leaning into the tip of my pole. He’s leaning into me. The ultimate distraction. “Don’t listen to Larry. Poke me all you want.”

  He’s wearing the same ridiculous waders and boots I am, but he makes the whole getup look insanely good. Baseball hat, sunglasses with blue mirrored lenses. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed up to his elbows, revealing those thick, tan forearms.

  He’s equal parts hot country boy and gentleman fly fisher.

  I dig it.

  “You know,” I say, “out of all the things we could’ve done, fly-fishing was not at the top of my list. But it was the first thing you mentioned when I called you to work out what we wanted to do. Dare I ask why?”

  Beau shoots me a smirk. Cocky ass.

  “I wanted to do something fun. And what’s more fun than being thigh-deep in ice-cold water on a Tuesday morning?”

  Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Think our moms will be okay with Maisie?”

  “Please. They’re in heaven. Hey, at least it’s a beautiful day.”

  He’s right. The air isn’t warm, but the sun is high up in a sky so vibrantly blue it almost hurts your eyes to look at it. The light glints off the surface of the water. It makes you squint, even with sunglasses on, but the water is clear and clean enough to see straight to the bottom.

  And the smell of it—it’s like fresh air, but better. Could be the trees around us that are in bloom with bright green buds.

  Everything is light and new, including this feeling inside me.

  I’m on day twelve of my medication. I don’t know why I’m hesitant to attribute my feeling slightly better to taking it. Maybe because I just can’t fathom how something so simple as taking a pill every morning could change my mood. I don’t quite get the physiological mechanism.

  But whatever it is, I think it’s starting to work.

  Larry has us stand in a slow-moving spot in the middle of the creek. He patiently explains how the whole thing works. The tools we’ve got, a simple rod and net, are more primitive than I imagined. I thought I’d be waving this, like, fancy twelve-foot rod in the air, casting long lines left and right.

  “Like Brad Pitt in that movie,” I say.

  Larry laughs. “You know, every woman I bring out here mentions that guy and that movie. We’ll do our best to get you there.”

  But really, I have a short rod that’s pretty much just a stick with some fishing line attached to the end of it. The net is wide and shallow.

  Soon we start to see fish—trout, according to Beau—dart around our legs. Larry shows us how to cast the line in the right spot. How to be still as you wait for a fish to take the bait and your line to go taut. Quickly but calmly, he dips the net into the water and scoops up the fish.

  “I’d say that looks simple enough.” I eye my own rod. “But I’m pretty terrible at this kind of thing.”

  Larry grins. “I’ve got you covered. We’ll cheat a bit and give you minnows as bait. That should help.”

  “Larry, I kind of already love you.”

  We get to work.

  In less than an hour, Beau nets what Larry calls “the triple crown”: brown, rainbow, and brook trout. Meanwhile, I catch one measly brook trout that’s small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.

  Of course Beau does look like Brad Pitt with his fancy casts and elegant body language. It’s like watching a dance: line swirling over his head, muscles in his forearms roping against the skin as he gently lifts his rod, then sets it back down. Serene concentration written all over his face.

  He looks happy. The happiest I’ve seen him in a while.

  I smile. I’m glad I could do this for my friend. I’m glad I get to see him in his element.

  “You’re so good at this,” I say. “But I suck.”

  “Lemme help you,” he says, taking a step sideways toward me.

  I stick my tongue into the corner of my mouth, right where my lips meet. “Nah. I don’t want to get poked again. I’ve had enough for one day.”

  “No poking, promise. Here.” Beau takes off his sunglasses and hands them to me. “The polarized lenses will help you see the fish better. That’s step one.”

  I notice he’s letting his scruff grow out on his neck.

  I like it, this laid-back, PTO version of Beau.

  “Larry, is he right?”

  Larry looks at us and smiles. “Yes ma’am, he sure is.”

  I take off my own sunglasses. Beau grabs them from me and slides them into one of the seventy pockets on his fishing vest thing.

  I put on Beau’s glasses. The fish swirling around my ankles are suddenly—almost magically—visible. I can even see the way the sun glints off their scales.

  “Step two. You gotta loosen your wrist a bit.”

  “What? How—”

  “Can I?” Beau holds up his free hand.

  “Okay,” I say, swallowing a spark of anticipation at the thought of Beau touching me again. “Show me how to do this sports ball thing.”

  “No balls involved in this sport, I’m afraid.”

  “Shoot. I just got a lot less interested in fishing.”

  Larry lets out a bark of laughter.

  The water swishes around Beau’s legs as he positions himself behind me. Awareness rips through my body, gathering in my shoulders of all places, pulling them back. This settles my shoulder blades against Beau’s chest. It’s almost as if there’s an invisible string between my back and his front, keeping us close.

  He covers my hand with his on the rod. His palm feels warm and calloused against my skin. He folds his fingers around mine, tightening his grip.

  “Step three, be patient with it. Soft touch,” he says, and together we cast a line into the middle of the creek, right where the fish are gathering.

  He guides the pole a little to the left, a little to the right. The world is quiet around us, but my heart is thundering in my chest. For a second, I close my eyes because it’s all just too damn much.

  Here it is, the break I needed more than I k
new.

  The pleasure, too.

  It’s the pleasure of being with my dear friend. The pleasure of allowing myself to be cared for.

  The pleasure of enjoying the day, rather than just surviving it.

  Even with Beau’s help, it takes a while before I feel the tug on my line. I gasp at the fish that flips on the surface of the water. Beau shushes me, a smile in the sound, and together we begin to reel in the fish, tipping the rod up, up again. Beau’s grip is still firm on mine, and pleasure hums in my veins. A big smile spreads across my face as I net the fish, a decently sized one this time, just like Larry taught me. I even hold the fish in my hands, trying very hard not to gag at the slimy feel of it.

  We release it back into the creek.

  My shoulder bumps into Beau’s chest as I give him a high five.

  “Now you try on your own,” he says, setting me up with another minnow as bait. “I’ll be right here if you need help.”

  I glance at him over my shoulder. “But—”

  “Nope.” He nods at my pole. Rod. Whatever the fuck you’re supposed to call it. “You got this.”

  You got this. Beau said the same thing to me when I talked to him after my PPD diagnosis.

  I probably don’t, but it’s worth a shot anyway.

  Taking a deep breath—my back brushes against his front again—I turn around and get to it. I peer into the water through Beau’s glasses, then cast my line where I see fish gathering.

  “Remember to be patient,” Beau murmurs. “There’s no forcing it. Just feel your way through.”

  It’s hard to take that advice when his attention is wholly focused on me. Larry’s, too.

  But I keep breathing. Keep waiting. Seconds slide by in splashes of water, the chirp of a bird.

  And then, just when I’m getting frustrated, the tug comes.

  I go through the motions Beau showed me. I reel in the fish, patient. I get my net ready. Patient. I drop it, of course, but Beau is there to grab it for me before the creek washes it away. Our fingers brush as I take it from him.

  I net the fish again, although I don’t hold it this time. It’s another brook trout, a little bigger than before.