Chapter 1
ONE
The Drift Bar: Sylva, North Carolina
Aubrey Langford
Somewhere between Asheville and Sylva, Aubrey Langford’s phone had surrendered completely.
No signal. No email. No texts. To Aubrey, it felt vaguely apocalyptic.
She’d caught the first available flight out of Philly, landed in Asheville after sunset, and spent the last forty-five minutes navigating the slick, aggressive twists of the mountain highway.
She was running on airport coffee, frayed nerves, and exhaustion. Coming back here wasn’t part of the plan.
By the time the lights of Blackwater Lake Lodge appeared through the trees, Aubrey’s shoulders ached from tension, and her jaw hurt from clenching.
She had spent the last few days answering to a corporate board in Philadelphia that was dismantling her department piece by piece; indefinite leave was corporate language for you're already gone.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, she parked, grabbed her overnight bag and trench, and followed the glow of warm light and low music down a side path toward the bar the front-desk clerk had called “The Drift.”
The Drift Bar felt like a sanctuary of reclaimed timber and low amber light. Quiet booths tucked into the corners and wide windows overlooking the lake made it feel a world away from everything outside.
Aubrey sat at the far end of the bar, her coat draped over the stool like a shield. She didn’t look at the menu; she couldn’t handle another decision.
She wanted something that burned enough to quiet the noise.
“Blackberry margarita,” she told the bartender, her tone clipped. “Half-sugar, half-salt rim. Three muddled blackberries—not four. I don’t want it syrupy. And please tell me you have a top-shelf reposado. I’m not in the mood for well water.”
A low, gravelly huff came from the man two stools down.
He was hunched over a glass of amber liquid dark enough to be jet fuel.
His dark hair was a mess, his flannel shirt rumpled, and his attention was fixed on the grain of the wood like he was trying to memorize it.
He looked like sleep had given up on him two days ago.
Aubrey turned slowly. “Is there an issue?”
The man didn’t look up. He swirled the ice in his bourbon, the glass clicking against the counter. “Just wondering if the blackberries have a preference on how they’re executed, or if any old blunt object will do.”
Aubrey stiffened. She was too tired for this, which only made her sharper. "Some people actually care about the details."
“And some people use details so they don’t have to think about reality,” he muttered, finally throwing a bloodshot look her way.
A flare of annoyance tightened Aubrey’s neck.
“What?”
“High-maintenance,” he said, sliding his glass toward the bartender for a refill.
“Nosey,” she snapped back. “Is it a requirement in this town to narrate everyone’s order, or are you the self-appointed critic of the Blue Ridge?”
“Just a man trying to drown a bad day without a chemistry lecture,” he grumbled.
The bartender set the deep purple drink in front of her.
Aubrey took a long, defensive sip. It was cold enough to ache.
She was halfway through her drink when a tall, bald man with an easy grin stepped behind the bar.
He looked like a retired linebacker who could throw a refrigerator into the back of a pickup and still ask if anybody needed help moving the couch.
“Bennett! Good to see you, man,” the man said, wiping down the counter.
Bennett—the jerk—actually managed a half smile. It was brief, but it transformed his face, softening the rough edges of his scowl. A traitorous jolt tightened her chest. He was handsome in a rugged, broken sort of way that came from living, not trying.
The newcomer turned his attention to Aubrey, flashing a warm and friendly smile. “I’m Kelly. My wife, Emily, and I own the place. Welcome to Sylva.” He glanced back at Bennett. “Ben, you going to introduce me to your friend?”
His gaze lifted to hers, lingering a beat longer, sweeping over her champagne-blonde hair and tailored suit before settling briefly on her cool green eyes.
“She’s not my friend,” he said, voice cold and flat.
The words landed like a slap. Aubrey felt a flush rise into her cheeks, the tequila making her feel reckless and raw.
“Clearly,” Aubrey said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Friends usually have manners. This one seems to have left his in the woods.”
Kelly’s eyebrows climbed toward his bald head as he looked between them.
“Well then,” he said. “You staying here at Blackwater?”
Aubrey nodded.
“For a few days.”
“Welcome to the lodge.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck with him,” Kelly said, jerking his thumb toward Bennett.
“I’m starting to think I’ll need it.”
Aubrey glanced toward Bennett. He didn’t look at either of them. Instead, he stared into his bourbon as if it had personally offended him. A muscle flexed in his cheek. Then he downed the rest of the drink in one heavy swallow and slid the empty glass across the bar.
Drift Patio
Aubrey Langford
By the time Aubrey carried a fresh margarita onto the patio, the lodge had grown louder behind her.
The mountain air was cool and damp, thick with the scent of rain and woodsmoke.
Aubrey leaned against the railing, the margaritas finally catching up to her.
The peaks of the Blue Ridge were nothing but jagged black shadows against the sky.
“You’re going to fall over if you keep leaning like that.”
Aubrey didn’t have to turn around. That low, gravelly voice was already etched into her brain.
She turned, finding Bennett leaning back against a heavy timber post. The fire from the stone pit threw long, dancing shadows across his face, catching on the hard line of his mouth and a slow, infuriating curve of his lips.
He looked like trouble wrapped in flannel and three days of dark stubble.
“What are you smiling about?” she challenged, her voice a little breathier than she intended.
“I’m smiling at you,” he said simply.
“Oh, really? Why?”
“I find people like you amusing.”
Aubrey’s blood boiled. “People like me? What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
She pushed away from the railing, intending to poke a finger into that broad, flannel-covered chest, but the wooden slats of the patio had other plans. Her heel caught on a groove, and the world tilted.
Before she hit the boards, Bennett was there.
He moved with startling, predatory speed, his hands snapping out to catch her shoulders.
She slammed into him, her chest hitting his with enough force to knock the air from her lungs.
He didn’t let go, keeping her pinned against the solid heat of his frame.
“Careful,” he muttered, his breath warm against her temple. “You may have had a couple too many of your perfect margaritas.”
Aubrey’s pride flared, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “Oh yeah? Well, I can tell you need a couple more bourbons too. Maybe then you’d be less of a—“
Bennett raised an eyebrow.
“Less of a what?”
Aubrey folded her arms.
"An arrogant ass who thinks he’s the only one with a valid opinion in a fifty-mile radius."
Bennett studied her for a long second.
“Yeah, well,” he cut in, his voice dropping into a dark, quiet register. "Hell, you need to be kissed."
Aubrey went still. “What?”
“You heard me.”
She swallowed, heat and outrage tangling in her chest. “Oh? And why is that?”
His gaze swept over her face, lingering on her mouth before coming back to her eyes. “Because you’re wound so tight you’re about to snap,” he said softly. “Because you need to be in control of every conversation, every drink, every damn detail.”
Her breath caught. She’d been holding herself together for days, and he was the only solid thing in reach.
“And I suppose,” she managed, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and something far more dangerous, “you think you’re the man for the job too, huh?”
Bennett leaned in, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his tired eyes, close enough that the heat radiated off him.
“No,” he murmured. “I don’t think it.”
His mouth curved, slow and sure.
“I know I am.”
Aubrey meant to say something biting. She meant to push him away. But her defiance melted into a hazy, shimmering heat.
Bennett didn’t give her a second to change her mind.
He claimed her mouth—hard, demanding, tasting of smoke and bourbon. He pulled her flush against him, all heat and corded muscle.
Aubrey went liquid in his arms, her hands tangling in the front of his shirt to stay upright. He pulled back for briefly, taking in the dazed look in her eyes, and then he went back in. This time it was softer, a slow, deep exploration that made her head spin.
Then, just as abruptly, he stepped back, letting his hands fall away.
Aubrey stood there, swaying slightly, her mouth open and her lips swollen. The cool air hit her skin like a physical shock. Bennett looked at her, his expression unreadable in the firelight.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “That’s what I thought.”
He turned on his heel and walked off the patio, disappearing beyond the firelight before she could even find her breath.
“Jerk,” she whispered, but her fingers were trembling as she touched her lips.
Turning back to the railing, she stared out into the mist, watching the red glow of his taillights fade down the road. Good Lord. She’d come out here for a quiet drink and a chance to forget and instead been blindsided by a rough-around-the-edges mountain man who clearly lacked basic manners.
You didn’t meet men like that in Philly.
As the wind brushed against her face, her skin still burned where he’d held her.
And God help her, it had felt good.