Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance Read online

  It’s my turn to groan. “I try with Nate, I do, but he just doesn’t like me. At all. I feel like he’s always trying to provoke me, you know? The way he looks at Milly—”

  “I know. But the groom is into rare whiskeys, and few are rarer than Appalachian Red, which is why we’re taking delivery of it four weeks before the wedding. When it’s available, you gotta jump on it.”

  “God, I wish that stuff wasn’t so good,” Hank says.

  “No shit,” I say. “It’s against the laws of the universe for a douchebag like that to make some of the world’s best whiskey.”

  “You ever figure out why he hates you so much?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Fuck if I know. Feud’s been over for decades now. I wish he’d get the memo.”

  Back in the day—I’m talking pre-American Revolution here—our families, the Beauregards and the Kingsleys, had a little Montague-and-Capulet thing going on here in the Great Smokies. The details are obscure and probably embellished to the point of ridiculousness. But each family occupied one side of Blue Mountain. Apparently, a Beauregard son had the bright idea to fool around with the daughter of his father’s enemy, Mr. Kingsley. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, forbidden love was too juicy for these backwoods babies to resist, and the girl got pregnant. When the dude’s daddy refused to marry him to the chick, a war of tit-for-tat broke out that lasted centuries and claimed tens of lives.

  Shockingly enough, the feud only petered out for good after my daddy died back in 2006. Not a coincidence, as Daddy could be mean as a snake in his later years. Especially toward Old Man Kingsley.

  Nate, though? He’s Old Man Kingsley’s first son, and he’s had it out for me as long as I can remember. We’re the same age, and we went to school together, so I’d remember if I ever crossed the guy. No way he could be mad at me for shit my Daddy said how many years ago.

  Then again, change happens slow in these parts. Sometimes that’s a good thing. But others? Not so much.

  I can tell my brothers are thinking about our father, too, by the way they get quiet.

  So many years later, and his death is still a weight we grapple with daily.

  “All right, y’all,” I say, forcing cheeriness into my tone. “I gotta get to this meeting. But I’ll see you at the bonfire, all right? Samuel, make sure that cider’s nice and strong.”

  “Always do,” he says. When you’re paying as much as you do to stay at the resort, a heavy pour in your cocktail is the least you should expect.

  Samuel heads inside the restaurant, and Hank heads for the pavilion at the bottom of the hill to do his sound check.

  Me? I’m off to meetings.

  All the while counting down the minutes until I get to see Annabel again.

  To: Annabel Rhodes ([email protected])

  From: John Riley Beauregard ([email protected])

  September 29, 2003 11:11 AM EST

  Subject: Blue Mountain Farm

  I’m sitting next to you at the library right now. I’m bored, but you’re *shockingly* engrossed in a textbook, so instead of annoying you in person, I’ll annoy you in an email.

  So, my family farm. I have big plans for it. We’ve got a hundred acres located ten or so miles outside Asheville. It’s been in the Beauregard family for generations. My parents have kept it up, but ever since my dad’s been unwell, the property’s kinda become a bit of a mess. It’s just too much for my mom to handle on top of caring for him, plus, you know, her five kids. She’s got some help coming in a few days a week for Dad, but she’s still doing the heavy lifting.

  Here’s what I’m thinking. Recently when I was traveling with the team, I stayed at this five-star hotel out in Arizona. Bel, I’ve never been anywhere like it. It wasn’t just a hotel. It was an experience. The property was huge. It had hiking, shooting, biking. Pools and restaurants and just this scenery that made you wanna die. Service was top-notch, too.

  The whole time I was there, I was taking notes. I thought, hey, what if I turned Blue Mountain Farm into a resort like this? I could turn our old barn into a restaurant, and build these, like, cool guest houses and cottages. Make it feel like a destination, you know? With activities my siblings and I grew up loving. Fishing, shooting. EATING. We’ll hire the best chefs and have the best food.

  You’ve known me for a month, but you already know how much I love my food. Mama is a great cook, and my brother Samuel is following in her footsteps.

  Now, I know the budding economist in you will want to know where the money for all this is coming from. Lest you forget, I have big plans for my football career, too. I’m hoping I’ll get drafted so I can play for a pro team, make pro money, and save my pennies. Then when I’m retired, I’ll start my second act as CEO of Blue Mountain Farm Resort.

  Fancy, right?

  Maybe I could even convince you to come work side by side with me. Is there such a thing as dual CEOs? If there isn’t, there should be. Because we all know you’re a hell of a lot smarter than me. I really, really hope we’re still in each other’s lives then. Can you imagine your world without me in it? Didn’t think so.

  By the way. I never want you to apologize for falling apart like you did the other day. It’s okay, seriously. I’m happy to listen. Always. Whether it’s about the divorce or the d*ck you saw in your latest favorite porn or those big dreams you’ve got, I’m here, all right?

  I’ll let you get back to your textbook. Wanna watch a movie later?

  Beau, your friendly future CEO (& shoulder to cry on should you ever need it)

  Chapter Four

  Annabel

  I glance down at the tiny blue pill in my palm.

  Glance up at the mirror.

  I look fucking tired. I feel it, too. This bone-deep, dreadful exhaustion that is so terrible it borders on numbness. Like I’m disassociating from it or something because it’s just too awful to face.

  To feel.

  I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but now I just hope these little pills work. I’ve been taking them for a week now, but the jury’s still out.

  After popping the pill in my mouth, I wash it down with a big gulp. The water tastes different up here. Cleaner. Colder.

  Hanging one of the fluffy white robes I found in my closet on the hook beside the shower, I climb in. My legs ache from this morning’s drive, but I’m determined to go out tonight. The bonfire sounds fun. Plus, I really do want to catch up with Beau. Something’s going on with him; I can feel it.

  I also feel a familiar sense of overwhelm as I get ready. I always have a handful of different perfumes on hand—which I brought with me, but God knows why as I haven’t worn any in months—and I can’t pick one. I smudge my eyeliner and have to re-do it twice. Since I never wear it anymore, my makeup skills are rusty. None of my clothes really work the way I want them to on the new body motherhood gave me.

  A lump forms in my throat. I close my eyes and think about the advice my friend Shannon gave me. You’re focusing on the right things. Give yourself grace until it gets better. It does get better.

  To be honest, I haven’t had that much time to think about or look at my body. Between keeping Maisie and myself fed, I barely have time to shower, much less ponder the enormous physical transformation I’ve undergone.

  But now that I’m staring myself down in the mirror, I’m confronted with an unpleasant reality. Nothing looks right.

  Nothing feels right.

  Yes, I’m focused on my baby and on survival. It’s been nice, having a break from focusing on the size of my jeans. Still, I thought my body would be mine again after I delivered Maisie. I didn’t hate being pregnant, but I didn’t love it either, and I was very much looking forward to having my physical freedom back.

  Now, though, I’m realizing I’m still not free. Not while I’m nursing, anyway. I’m in this weird limbo phase where my body is and isn’t mine. I’ve lost most of the weight I gained while pregnant, but my tits are enormous, and they still leak so much I hav
e to wear extra padding in my ugly nursing bras. My stomach is soft and kinda saggy. I have this lovely little fupa—basically an extra roll of chunk—hanging over my C-section scar, a visible red grimace that cuts across my pubic hair. I’ve lost the muscle tone in my ass and legs. They’ve gotten smaller while everything else on my torso has gotten bigger, making me look like an upside-down pear in my jeans and sweater.

  And the hair loss? I only have to look down at the sink, currently filled with handfuls of my hair that came out while I blow-dried it, to be reminded of the male-pattern baldness starting to appear along my scalp.

  No one talks about these things.

  Rationally, I know I can’t be the only one who’s struggling. But the silence that surrounds the difficult reality of new motherhood makes me feel as though I’m alone on my own little leaky, balding island.

  It makes me feel like a failure.

  The baby starts to cry in the next room, and a beat later, my milk lets down. The sensation is like hot fingers pressing down on my breasts, reminding me it’s time for Maisie to eat again.

  I start to cry, too. How, I wonder. How do people think this is fun or magical or fulfilling?

  I grab a tissue from beside the sink. “Stop. Stop. My eyeliner. Please.”

  My doctor named this as a symptom of my depression: always being on the verge of tears. I feel like my fuse is so, so short these days. The smallest things, like messing up my eye makeup, overwhelm me to the point that I lose my shit.

  Just—

  Ugh. I put so much effort into getting dressed up. I wanted to feel sexy and carefree and confident.

  I wanted to feel like me, but I’m starting to think that person doesn’t exist anymore. For the first time since my divorce, I’m starting to question if I’m headed for a happy ending, or if I’ve irreparably ruined my life.

  Whatever the case, I definitely don’t feel like going to a bonfire concert tonight. I’m too tired. Too overwhelmed.

  “Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Mom asks, furrowing her brow when I come out into the cavernous living room. She has Maisie in a football hold—part of our bag of tricks for when she gets fussy during her witching hour, which ironically lasts not one but three hours, every day from four PM until she goes down after seven—and is breathlessly bouncing her.

  “Nothing. Everything.” I blink, hard. “You know, the usual. I think I’m gonna skip the bonfire tonight. I was an idiot to think I could swing it.”

  Mom cuts me a look as I take the baby and settle on the couch, pulling up my sweater. “I really think you should go. You can’t rely on the meds alone to make you feel better, Annabel. Seeing your friends and getting away from Maisie for a bit will be good for you. You’ll be glad you went.”

  Maisie arches her back, refusing my nipple. She’s going through this weird phase where she does that sometimes. I asked the pediatrician about it, and she said it could be acid reflux, or the baby getting distracted, or something I’m eating.

  Or it could be nothing.

  I wipe at my nose with the back of my wrist. “I know. It’s…man, this is—”

  “Hard.” Mom sits on the arm of the sofa and smooths back my hair. Thank God for moms, right? “I understand. It’s a lot, which is why you need a break.”

  “I’d go if I could stop crying already. And if this kid would just take the boob.” I try again, but Maisie howls. My breasts are so full they hurt.

  I’m gripped by the urge to hand her to my mother and quietly but quickly slip out the door to run away forever.

  Mother of the year right here.

  “Be patient,” Mom says.

  “I’m trying.”

  Just when I’m really about to lose it, Maisie clamps down on my nipple and starts to suck. I let my head fall back on the sofa.

  “I do need a break. And a cocktail. Too bad you’re not supposed to drink when you’re on antidepressants.” Another cherry on this shit sundae.

  “You took the Zoloft?”

  “I did.”

  “Good girl. And you don’t need to drink to have a good time with Beau. Go.”

  Right on cue, my phone chimes.

  Beau: You’re thinking about blowing me off. Don’t. I have a cocktail and a seat by the fire with your name on it. Unless you’d prefer a mocktail? Not sure what your status is with nursing and all that stuff.

  I grin. The man knows me, I’ll give him that.

  Annabel: Is your seat next to mine?

  Beau: Always. Now get your ass down here.

  The sun is setting when I leave the house. A few long, thin clouds float across an otherwise clear night sky. It’s chilly enough to need a jacket, but not so cold that I’m uncomfortable. The kind of fresh spring air that makes this season in the South so magical.

  I follow a footpath down to the outdoor pavilion. Set into the hillside beside a small lake, it’s about as picturesque as it gets. Fairy lights in Mason jars light the path leading up to it, and an enormous bonfire crackles in front of the stage.

  People have set out picnic blankets on the lawn around the fire. Kids roast marshmallows at what looks to be a s’mores station. The air smells like burning wood and bourbon. To the left of the stage, a long farm table is set with coffee, hot chocolate, and cocktails, plus trays of appetizers and desserts.

  A figure, dark in the fading light, waves to me from near the fire. As I get closer, I recognize a familiar set of broad shoulders. Beau steps closer to the fire, and it lights up the cocky half-smile, half-smirk thing he puts on when he’s happy but wants to play it cool.

  He’s wearing his signature baseball hat, but it’s backward this time, with a puffer jacket, unzipped, and jeans.

  But it’s his eyes that get me. He may be wearing a carefully calibrated smirk, but nothing’s fake about that hunger in his gaze. That burning vulnerability.

  “Stop that,” I say with a shiver, tucking my chin into the collar of my jacket.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop not smiling,” I say. “None of this smirky celebrity bullshit with me, all right?”

  He rewards me with his smile, a real one, and when I stop in front of him, he wraps me in his arms. I melt into his warmth. I’m not petite by any means, but my head still only comes up to his chest. I rest my cheek against that chest, large and solid. The smell of him surrounds me. Woodsy. Hint of smoke. He’s worn the same cologne for as long as I can remember, and it makes me think of good times.

  Happier times.

  “How ya feelin’, Mama?”

  “Better.” I let out a breath into his shirt, closing my eyes. “Better now.”

  He kisses the top of my head just like he always does.

  And like I always do, I say, “Hey, friend.”

  “I keep waiting for you to say, ‘Hey, handsome.’”

  I grin, my lips whispering over the fabric of his shirt as I open my eyes to meet his. “Don’t hold your breath. I refuse to add any more ammunition to that ego of yours.”

  He pulls his brows together, eyes going wide in feigned bewilderment. “I have an ego?”

  “A big one, yes,” I say, giving his chest a little shove. “Nice Robin Hood Men in Tights reference, by the way.”

  He holds up his hand, and I give him a high five.

  “We should watch that while you’re here. I know I for one could use a good laugh. C’mon,” he says. “I got us some chairs and that cocktail I promised you.”

  I follow him to a pair of Adirondack chairs that face the fire and the stage.

  Best seats in the house.

  Of course.

  A low table between the chairs is set with a plate of chocolate chip cookies—my favorite—and two copper mugs of steaming cider.

  I look at him. “Beau.”

  “What?”

  “You know what. This—and the house, and the wine—”

  “Let me treat you.” His eyes bounce back and forth between mine, his smile fading. “I don’t know who taught you that you shouldn’t b
e treated—no, I do, and he’s a piece of shit. But this is my way of saying you do deserve this. Okay?”

  I bite my bottom lip, teasing. “Fine. Agreed.”

  “Sit,” he says, and we both laugh when we settle into the chairs with pained sighs.

  “What’s hurting you?” I ask.

  Leaning back, he laughs. “Good Lord, everything. You?”

  “My back, mostly. Maisie’s doing this fun thing where she doesn’t want to nurse, so every time she eats, it’s a wrestling match. I know I need to stretch more, but I just don’t have the time. Or the energy.”

  “I’ll get you into the spa for a massage tomorrow.” He hands me a mug. “In the meantime, this’ll help.”

  The spiked cider warms my hand as the smell of it—apples, cinnamon, whiskey—wafts up to greet me. “I’m not supposed to drink on my meds, but this smells too tasty not to try.”

  “You sure?” Beau cuts me a look. “I can get you the regular cider if you’d like.”

  I tap my mug against his. “I’ll just have a few sips.”

  “Cheers, Bel. I’m glad you came.”

  “Me too.” My eyes water when I take a sip. It’s sweet, tart, and very strong. “Whew. That dog’ll hunt.”

  Beau grins. “Isn’t the expression ‘that dog won’t hunt’?”

  “Yeah. But I kinda like my version better. Especially when you’re talking about cocktails. Matt says it all the time.”

  “I’m glad he was so cool about you taking more leave. Are you looking forward to going back to work? Once you feel better, I mean?” Beau asks, meeting my eyes over the rim of his mug.

  Lifting a shoulder, I settle my drink in my lap. “Yes and no. I’m looking forward to having some measure of freedom back during the day. I miss my co-workers and miss not having my day steamrolled by a crying baby. But my hours on the desk are really long—”

  “Still seven to six, right?”

  “Yup. Plus, all the travel… I’m not sure how I’m going to pull off that schedule with a baby. I’m terrified of it blowing up in my face. And I’m nervous about leaving Maisie with someone else all day.”