Southern Sinner: A Fake Relationship Romance (North Carolina Highlands Series Book 3) by Jessica Peterson

Author:Jessica Peterson [Peterson, Jessica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peterson Paperbacks, LLC
Published: 2021-04-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Stevie

I don’t notice the bruise until I’m in the bathroom early the next morning.

After I use the toilet, I wash my hands. Notice the overturned canister of Q-tips on the vanity. The rumpled towels on the floor and the mounds of bubbles still in the bathtub.

Smiling, I turn around and look at my backside in the mirror.

There, right in the middle of my left-butt cheek, is a bright purple bruise.

It’s shaped in a rough crescent. Some parts more red than purple.

A bite mark.

My smile fades. My throat swells, and my pussy floods with heat at the same time.

I’m drowning in you. It wasn’t just a line. I am drowning in Hank, and now I’m in over my head.

Panicking, I try on the lines Kate gave me. It’s just a weekend. Teenage infatuation. Who wouldn’t be bowled over? Eighteen hours ago, those lines fit. They felt right-sized for the situation I was in.

This morning, they feel laughably inadequate.

What is it about making messes with Hank that speaks to me?

The real question: how the fuck could I be falling for someone this quickly? It’s never happened before, and I never would’ve agreed to come to Blue Mountain if I knew it was even a remote possibility.

There were hints of it in Vegas—how intense my connection was with Hank. But I chalked it up to the excitement of a hot hookup in my favorite city. People do ridiculous shit there. Having a ridiculously amazing time is a logical result of that.

The end.

Only, it wasn’t the end. And now the control I’ve so carefully cultivated is disintegrating. I need to shore it back up. I need to do something to put some space between Hank and me.

Time to say blackjack. Only I don’t need Hank to rescue me. I need to rescue myself from him.

Meeting my eyes in the mirror, I square my shoulders. I’m tired as shit; we’ve barely slept a wink. Maybe I’ll take the almond milk latte Hank’s already ordered from the main house and camp out in a guest room, pleading exhaustion or, I don’t know, a need to answer some emails. I do have some notes to send about getting more Lady Luck swag up here for the Blue Mountain staff. And our contractor for the new brewery is due to give me a finalized schedule any day now, and once that comes in, I’ll have a flurry of instructions to send.

Whatever the case, I need some breathing room, and taking an hour or three for myself can’t hurt.

I wash my face, brush my teeth, then I wrap myself in a robe and march back into the bedroom, fully prepared to do the smart thing.

The right thing.

But then I take in the scene before me and draw up short, bare feet catching on the carpet.

A fire crackles in the fireplace (yes, there’s a fireplace in the bedroom), and the savory-sweet smell of burning wood is just starting to fill the room. Hank is in sweatpants, sitting on the floor in front of the fire.

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