Page 4 of The Southern Thirst Trap

“He called you ma’am,” Paloma snorts, coming up on my left and digging her elbow into my side.

We have been friends for a decade, practically growing up together in the fashion industry. She styled many of the shoots I modeled on and became my best friend. She was supportive enough to follow me back here when I retired from the business, though it feels like ages since either of us saw that life. But I’m only twenty-nine years old. That doesn’t really qualify as ma’am territory. Although, this is the South, and he’s probably a good ol’ boy relying on his manners. I shake it off and nod.

“It’s been that kind of morning, that’s for sure,” I say, feeling the weight of responsibility and my schedule sitting heavily on my shoulders. I rub my neck and look at the traffic slowly creeping past us. There’s a weariness I hadn’t anticipated clinging to me, and that is almost more distressing than the accident, though a sore neck certainly won’t help.

I’ve been doing non-stop press for a week leading up to the release of the cookbook, and there are still a few more weeks of events to keep the momentum up now that it’s released. Alicia says we may be entertaining a cooking show option with a major channel because the pre-sales have been so high, but they want to see more engagement with my Foulmouthed Foodie YouTube and social channels.

I’m known for dropping F-bombs and maybe an ingredient or two on my tits on occasion. I make people laugh and salivate with both my food and my body. It’s a narrow line to walk of funny and sexy, but it’s won me a loyal following of men and women who enjoy my content. It’s taken me years to embrace who I am at my core—a woman who now loves her body despite years of hating it, who wants others to embrace themselves also, and who makes damn good food that everyone can enjoy while saying the shit everyone is thinking, anyway.

It’s that channel that got me the book deal in the first place, as I have grown my audience to several million subscribers who interact regularly with my videos and social media. It’s been a full-time job just managing that alone, and now I have to wrestle with all of this.

“Come around back so we can get you out of here as quickly as possible,” the man says, taking control of the situation as kindly as possible. Definitely a high-level businessman of some sort, if that’s how he can manage even an accident.

I follow him around the back of my black Audi SUV, the girls on my stilettoed heel, and I keep my eyes trained on the bumper, looking for damage.

“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, seeing the smashed-up right side of the bumper. It’s completely crushed, the paint around the back hatch also scraped.

“Holy shit!” Callie shrieks.

“That’s it?” Alicia drolls at the same time. I look between them and shake my head. Two sides of the same coin, these two.

“I think it’s still drivable, but that’ll definitely need to be fixed. I’m Javier Montero, by the way.”

I nod absently. My thoughts focused on how long the car will be in the shop, if I can get a loaner vehicle on short notice to get downtown tonight, and how much it’ll all cost. I do well on affiliate money and sponsorship deals with my channel and social media, and with my book advance, but there’s always the worry of what could happen in the future. This is a significant expense.

“She’s obviously not pleased to meet you, given the circumstances,” Paloma says for me, and I give her a look to keep out of it.

“Harlowe?”

I glance up when I hear my name spoken by a familiar resonating baritone that has haunted me for five years. My heart leaps into my throat when I catch sight of the passenger getting out of the Land Rover pulled up behind us.

“Zander,” I whisper, my already shaking hand coming up and covering my mouth.

I step back against Paloma, her fingers gripping my arms in support. Callie straightens in reflex next to me, her impeccably inflated chest turning to the man looking toward us. I’m not surprised by her reaction. Everything sits up and takes notice when Zander Olsen arrives. Even my nipples are straining through the lace of my bra and poking at my tight, dove gray top. His eyes clock the traitors and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips. My lips flatten in response, even if my nipples refuse to.

“Y’all know each other?” Javier asks, looking between me and the bad boy billionaire casually exiting the SUV’s passenger side like it’s a fancy exotic car and not a utilitarian vehicle.

Zander strides toward us with the confidence of an action movie hero walking away from an explosion scene. Too bad the explosion is the obliteration of my thong, because even my pussy is a traitor, and as much as I loathe seeing him, he still makes me impossibly wet with one fucking look, and I absolutely hate him for it.

Behind me, Paloma snorts derisively, Callie stands glaze-eyed and silent, and Alicia stays glued to her phone, uninterested.

“Barely,” I answer, lowering my hand and tearing my eyes from Zander’s perfectly chiseled face that has starred in far too many of my anxiety dreams over the last few years. How can he look exactly as I remember? Devastatingly handsome—the kind of beautiful that is life-altering—with eyes that take me in, yet hold no warmth for me now when they were once endless wildfires that consumed me.

Self-consciousness rises, and I’m acutely aware of the weight I’ve put on since he saw me last, the softness of my thighs that were once toned, the way my ass has grown and jiggles, the remaining hint of a momma belly that won’t quite leave despite all of my workouts. I can’t imagine how he would ever pick me now, because I’m so different from the naïve twenty-four-year-old swimsuit and fashion model he knew then. I chastise my own cancerous thoughts and repeat the mantra that has sustained me as my figure and life transformed.I am enough.

Fuck, I have to be enough.

I pull my eyes away from Zander and turn to answer Javier’s question. “I’m shocked he remembers my name.”

The coldness I’m able to infuse into my tone surprises me, given how rattled I feel, and Javier gets a look of understanding on his face. That’s right, I’m just one of Zander’smanyconquests. Have a laugh at my expense later.

“How could I forget it?” Zander asks, striding closer, drawing my attention again. “You weretheSports Illustrated Swimsuit model of the year and on dozens of mainstream ad campaigns. Your face and name were everywhere when I met you.”

His voice is unreasonably cool and collected, a hint of humor barely keeping his recitation of facts from sounding banal. I clench my teeth but manage to plaster on a perfectly calm face. We had so much more than my professional accomplishments, but why would he care to recite those facts? He doesn’tdoattachments.

“That’s not all you should remember, asshole,” Paloma says under her breath, defensively stepping up to shield me.

I lay a hand on her arm and shake my head. The less we engage Zander, the better.Not now.Maybe not ever.

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