Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance Page 2

  “Then bring your mom to help. I miss Lizzie. How’s her shoulder, by the way?”

  “Better.”

  “As for work, can you extend your maternity leave?”

  I blink, feeling another flutter of hope inside my chest. “I mean, I guess I could. It might not be paid—”

  “Don’t worry about the money.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Bel, you’re an investment banker.”

  I roll my eyes. “Banking money is a far cry from professional-athlete money.”

  “Exactly. So don’t let money be the thing that holds you back. Call your boss and ask for more time. Explain your situation if you need to. Then come up to the mountain.”

  I chew my lip as the idea takes shape. The bank I work for actually offers very generous leave. I just didn’t want to take it because the culture on my desk is pretty cutthroat when it comes to the importance of face time. I know there will be grumbles—some subtle, some not so much—about me taking more leave.

  There’s also the risk I could lose clout and become one of the heads that roll in the next round of layoffs.

  But let’s be real, there’s no way I’ll be able to go back while I’m in such bad shape. My gut is usually right about these kinds of things, and it’s telling me I’m going to fall on my face if I attempt the working-parent juggle right now.

  Am I really considering this?

  I’m really considering this.

  But all the baby stuff we’ll need to bring. Can Mom get the time off? How will Maisie do on the drive? Asheville is only about two hours from Charlotte. But I’ve never driven more than five miles with her, and getting us ready for that is exhausting. I can’t imagine packing us up for…how long? A weekend? A week?

  “Look. I know you have a fuck ton on your plate right now, but my door is always open, Bel. You’ve been takin’ care of that sweet baby, and now it’s time to let someone take care of you. If you’d let my family treat yours to some Beauregard hospitality while you get back on your feet, I’d be much obliged.”

  I smile. “Shameless.”

  “C’mon. I know you can’t say no when I talk like Clint Eastwood-as-a-cowboy. Oblige me. I would really, really love to see you. So would Mama and Milly and the rest of my crazy fucking family.”

  “Your family’s not crazy.”

  “You say that because they’re not your family.” He lets out a long breath. “I want you to really consider this, Bel. I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m worried about you too,” I say. “You sound tired.”

  “I’m always tired. Tell me you’ll consider it.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow, then open them when the pharmacist calls my name.

  “I will,” I say. “I promise. I gotta run, but—thank you, Beau. For the invite. But also for listening.”

  “Don’t thank me. It’s what friends do.”

  Friends.

  If there’s one thing we are good at, it’s friendship. And he’s right, a change of scenery would be really, really nice.

  So would some comfort food and a massage.

  I could also use some of that confidence Beau seems to have in my ability to handle whatever’s thrown my way.

  The logistics are hairy at best. But by the time I walk out of the pharmacy, Zoloft in hand and a box of diapers underneath my arm, I know Maisie, Mom, and I are heading up to Blue Mountain Farm.

  To: John Riley Beauregard (JRBeauregard@unc.edu)

  From: Annabel Rhodes (ARhodes@unc.edu)

  August 22, 2003 7:23 AM EST

  Subject: Re: Nice meeting you

  Hi Beau,

  I have to admit I was kinda surprised to get your email. In a good way, don’t get me wrong. But I would think the star football recruit (yes, I googled you) had better things to do than email a freshman nerd like me. Could be my hangover anxiety talking, but how long did I go on about poetry? Not as long as you went on about Pirates, granted. But Jesus, I need a babysitter.

  Glad you had fun. I did too. Maybe this makes me sound like a jerk, but you’re not at all what I expected. Not saying that jocks can’t have a sensitivity to great literature and the finer points of porn, but…yeah. You took me off guard a little. In a good way. I literally knew no one when I stepped on campus last week, so it’s been really great meeting cool people. My boyfriend, who goes to college out west, hasn’t had the same luck.

  Another surprise? That you remembered I brought up my parents’ separation. I try not to think about it too much, because it’s just…yeah. Pretty awful. But thanks for offering to talk. I just might take you up on that.

  But I do love to think about changing the world. Doing something I love, traveling all over, having a big family in this big, rambling house. Thanks for listening.

  I’m actually swamped with work now that classes have begun. But, because I’m a nerd, I’ll tell you that I’ll be at the library tonight around eight tackling my econ homework if you’d like to join. Greer, second floor, far corner.

  Random question, but why don’t you go by your first name?

  I also want to hear more about this farm you keep talking about.

  —Annabel

  PS: Shirts AND pants are essential library wear (fight me)

  PPS: I’ll bring my copy of The Secret for you. Maybe you and I could start our own little book club or something? Some poetry, some fiction? We could call it Word Porn.

  Chapter Two

  Annabel

  We’re in the sticks.

  Way, way out in the woods, a good twenty miles from where we exited I-40 just past Asheville.

  “You sure this is it?” Mom asks as I make a sharp turn onto Blue Mountain Road.

  It’s bisected by double yellow lines, so technically it’s two lanes. But there’s no way you could fit two cars side by side on the narrow pavement.

  Makes me a little nervous.

  Going slowly, I duck my head, trying to get a better look through the windshield of my Volvo. The ribbon of blacktop stretches out before us, disappearing up, up, up into the trees ahead. “Pretty sure. Last time I came up here, Beau drove, so…”

  “Almost two years ago, right? In the Bentley?”

  “Of course.” The memory of the freedom I felt on that drive—freedom I didn’t fully appreciate until it was gone—makes my eyes prick. I swallow, blinking hard. “That man loves his toys.”

  I haven’t been up to the mountain since. “I want to make sure we have all the kinks ironed out,” he’d said when the resort first opened. Then I got pregnant, and was so sick my first and third trimesters that I wasn’t really up to the trip.

  I glance at the rearview mirror to see Mom looking at me. “I always thought it was cute, how he loved showing off his cars to you. He always tries so hard to put a smile on your face.”

  “He tries hard at everything.” I carefully guide the car around a hairpin turn. “That’s how he can afford the Bentley. And Blue Mountain Farm.”

  “I thought you said he and his siblings inherited the farm from his dad?”

  “He did. But his dad was sick for a while, so the property was pretty neglected by the time the kids got their hands on it. Beau was always determined to fix the whole place up. He had a vision for what he’d wanted to do with it back in college. And now he’s made it happen, with a slight detour along the way.”

  I can hear the grin in Mom’s voice. “I wouldn’t call what he did a detour.”

  My ears pop as we crest a hill. I work my jaw side to side, trying not to get distracted by the pretty mountain vista that stretches out to our right. It’s a sunny spring day, bright and crisp. Carolina blue sky above, smoky blue mountains below. The trees are in full bloom, bright green everywhere; pollen coats my windshield, and for the third time since we left Charlotte, I spray some wiper fluid to clear the view.

  After I talked to Beau at the pharmacy, I called my boss, Matt. I pretty much laid it all out for him. Having him agree to another month of
leave was like a weight being lifted off my shoulders. I have a new start date of April 1.

  I don’t exactly love my job, but I do like my boss. I got lucky in that department.

  It took Mom and me a week to pack up ourselves and the baby. I figure we’ll stay at the resort for a long weekend. A week at most. Long enough to feel rested, but not so long that we miss home.

  I also don’t want to take advantage of Beau’s already-generous invitation. Knowing him, he’d have us staying on the mountain for the entire month.

  We should be getting close. My GPS tells us we have five more minutes to go.

  We go up a hill, then up another, each one steeper than the last.

  Maisie starts to fuss in her car seat beside Mom. My stomach clenches and my shoulders tense, the way they always do when she cries. I feel the creep of overwhelm rise inside my gut: a quiet tide of exhaustion and shame and anger.

  As if reading my mind, Mom says, “She’ll be fine. My ears are popping so hers probably are, too. Paci will help.”

  I look up at the rearview mirror again. “Thank you, Mom. For coming with us. I really appreciate the help.”

  After my parents divorced, Mom quit her job at the white-shoe law firm where she’d worked for decades (“white-shoe” meaning an established, elite firm that’s among the best of the best in the business). She landed an executive position at a local nonprofit specializing in women’s advocacy.

  Yes, she’s a rock star. And yes, I hope to make a similar career change at some point in my life, mostly because I see how much happier Mom’s been since she made the jump.

  I just have no clue what the hell I’d do outside of finance. I went into bond sales because I liked economics and, frankly, wanted a job that paid well. I figured the more money I could save in my twenties, the more time it would give me to chase that second act I always dreamed of but couldn’t quite figure out.

  The pay is great. So are my co-workers. I’m well liked, and I’m good at what I do, but I don’t see myself doing it forever.

  That being said, I’m not sure if I have any real skills that might translate to another role, one that’s ideally more fulfilling, with less-insane hours and more flexibility.

  “My pleasure.” Mom is focused on the car seat, one hand holding in Maisie’s paci. “I want you to feel better, Annabel, and I’ll do what I can to help you get there. Doesn’t sound like it will be much hardship staying at the farm anyway. Tom and Marianne were just up here and said it was fabulous. Best food and wine they’ve had in the South.”

  “The Beauregard boys always loved their food,” I say.

  We round a bend, and a clearing comes into view. A wide creek—river—not sure what it is—ambles along sun-bleached boulders. A trio of figures stands in the water, fishing poles in hand. One of them, a tall guy with broad shoulders, casts a line as we pass. The sun glints off the thin thread of his line. For a second—the time between heartbeats—I feel summer: hot sun, cold beer, lingering sunsets.

  For a second, I feel a glimmer of something that doesn’t hurt.

  “I feel like I’m in a Brad Pitt movie,” Mom breathes. “The one where he’s on that river.”

  “I think we’re really going to like it here.”

  She laughs. “I think you’re right.”

  We approach a white slatted fence that stretches out on either side of the road. Gas lamps flicker from aged stone posts on either side of a wooden gate. A simple yet elegant sign greets us.

  BLUE MOUNTAIN FARM EST. 1752 ELEVATION 3700 FEET

  And behind that, another sign, this one smaller: Follow Signs To Check In At Main House

  I gawk as the forest opens up around us, slowing down to a crawl to take it all in. The property has been completely transformed. An enormous sloping hill rises ahead. A few stone buildings are set into the hillside, their white shutters and wide windows open to the spring air. Horses roam in a field to our left, while an impressive garden is on our right. A woman in a chef’s jacket is bent over a row of something green.

  A big blue barn tops the hill. Its shape is irregular, rambling, like it’s been added on to over the years. Rustic but perfectly restored. Through its open doors I glimpse guys in aprons setting tables. Must be the famous Blue Mountain Farm Restaurant, named one of Bon Appetit’s most exciting new restaurants in the world last year. It’s barely been open two years, and I have yet to give it a try.

  I feel a pang of hunger, right on cue. Breastfeeding around the clock has made me ravenous. No one tells you you’ll be nursing your infant every two to three hours until you’re actually holding said infant in your arms. I can’t wait to try this food I keep hearing about.

  We follow the signs past the barn, pausing along the way to let a group of smartly dressed horseback riders cross the road. I guide my car onto the shoulder when a blue vintage pickup, shiny and restored, approaches from the opposite direction. The man driving it holds up his hand in greeting, then motions for us to pass first.

  Pulling closer, I see a familiar face behind the wheel. Big guy, bigger smile.

  My chest lights up. I roll down my window and resist the urge to catapult through it to hug him. “Samuel! Oh my God, it’s so good to see you!”

  “Annabel Rhodes, as I live and breathe.” He shoves the truck into park. “It’s good to see you. We’re glad y’all decided to come up to the mountain. How was the drive?”

  I’m hit by just how much Samuel looks like Beau. They’ve got the same blue eyes that crinkle at the edges when they smile. Only Samuel smiles a lot more than his older brother.

  Beau used to smile like that. But as we’ve gotten older, he’s lost some of that easygoing mirth. Still cocky as all get-out, just more serious. I think it has a lot to do with becoming head of his enormous family after his dad passed when he was just nineteen years old.

  Then again, Samuel has always been the flirt. The hotshot playboy who dominated on and off the field.

  “Drive went surprisingly well,” I reply.

  Mom rolls down her window. “Hey, Samuel!”

  “Lizzie! How you been, girl?”

  “I’ve been well, thanks. We’re excited to be here.”

  “We’re excited to have you. You on baby duty in the back seat?”

  “Yup. Maisie did great, although she’s starting to—”

  She lets out a piercing howl. The crinkle around Samuel’s eyes deepens. “Poor thing. And poor Mama.”

  I sigh. “She’s hungry.”

  “Maisie, I hate bein’ hungry too. I won’t keep y’all. Main house is just ahead.” Samuel meets my eyes, his smile fading. “I’m glad you’re here, Annabel. I think you and Beau could both use a friend right now.”

  Before I can ask what he means by that, he puts the truck in drive and trundles away.

  Keeping my window open, we head to the top of the hill and follow the signs. A big stone house appears. Two stories, porches galore, and more white shutters. I pull underneath a wide portico, noticing the smoke that rises from a nearby chimney.

  The place is bustling. Valets dart across the drive to waiting cars. People sit in rocking chairs on the closest porch, sweating cocktails in hand. The murmur of their chatter meanders beneath the sharper sounds of birds overhead. Kids run across the manicured lawn beside the house, playing on the wooden swings that hang from the massive oak trees that dot the property. The clean, earthy scent of freshly mowed grass, undercut with the smell of burning wood, fills the car.

  A woman riding a gleaming chestnut horse trots by the portico, the horse’s hooves clapping merrily against the pavement.

  I’ve traveled a good bit in my lifetime. But I have never seen anything remotely like this. It’s like a farm fantasy. A place of rustic pretend, inhabited by muscled mountain men and million-dollar thoroughbreds.

  Only it’s real. Beau’s dream world brought to life.

  There’s a lineup of ridiculous cars—Range Rovers, a Maserati—beside the portico. I’m looking for Beau’s signatu
re black-on-black Bentley when a man approaches my open window holding a large envelope in his hand. He’s got the Beauregard smile and bulging biceps—all but the youngest brother are retired from pro football, and every one has stayed in pretty amazing shape—just on a smaller scale. For a second, I don’t recognize him.

  “Hank?” I ask, crinkling my brow. “Is that you?”

  He smiles warmly, running his fingers over his clean-shaven jaw. “Beau’s got me heading up guest relations these days, so he had me clean up a bit. I look like a goddamn baby, don’t I?”

  I’m smiling, too, and it feels nice. “You look great. So does the resort. Hank, y’all have done an amazing job up here.”

  Mom’s at her window again. “It’s truly breathtaking.”

  “Hey, Lizzie! Thank you kindly. We’re proud of the farm and hope you enjoy your stay.” He holds out the envelope, along with a pair of ice-cold bottles of water that magically appear in his hand. “We’ll catch up later. Beau’s expectin’ y’all up at Sugarhill Cottage. Just follow the signs up the hill. I’ll hop in a golf cart and meet you there.”

  “Sugarhill Cottage,” I say, handing Mom a bottle. “Sounds cozy.”

  I take a few gulps of water before putting the car in gear.

  “So that’s Hank,” Mom says. “The fourth brother?”

  “Third. Beau’s the oldest, then it’s Samuel—the guy we saw in the pickup—then Hank. Beau and Samuel are so close in age they’re practically twins. Hank is three years behind Samuel. Milly is a year younger than Hank, and Rhett is the baby. He was a ‘surprise’, as Mrs. B says, so he’s a lot younger than everyone else. Six years behind Milly, I think? He’s the one who still plays football.”

  “Right. So four boys and just one girl.”

  “Yep. She’s the only girl, poor thing. Although she sure as hell knows how to hold her own.”