Elle Dupre walked down the jetway and ticked off the reasons her mother approved of Carter Williford. She could practically hear Caroline rattling them off, iced (and spiked) sweet tea at hand.

The boy comes from a good family.

Meaning his family was southern and belonged to one of Caroline's clubs or societies.

He's the kind of man who'll provide for you.

Because of course Elle would quit her job as a research librarian once she was married, which made Carter's six-figure salary a must.

You know he appreciates the finer things.

Caroline liked people who liked to spend money. It made her feel at home. Unfortunately, in addition to liking designer clothes and fast cars, Carter’s list of finer things included women. Not even a minute ago he’d been making eyes at a redhead. Acting as if Elle weren’t standing next to him.

And it wasn’t the first time.

The line picked up and Carter strode before Elle down the jetway, wearing a tailored dove gray suit jacket over a crisp white button down and freshly pressed linen pants. His blond hair was swept back in a gelled wave, his skin tanned and unlined. The man oozed charisma and charm, and his rounded vowels were the coup de grâce; Carter was the epitome of a fine southern gentleman.

Women couldn’t help but fawn over him. According to Carter, there was nothing wrong with a little harmless flirtation. Elle wasn’t so certain.

They'd been dating for six months, and Elle wanted this trip to be the one. By the time she hopped on a plane back home, she fully expected to have a rock on her finger.

Mrs. Carter Williford.

Her sister’s wedding was a real step toward the future Elle had always wanted. Lucy had chosen Asheville, a small town in the North Carolina mountains, as her wedding location, and Elle couldn’t imagine a more romantic scene.

How could Carter not propose?

Even better, Elle would get to see her college roommate, Theo, who lived in a small town not far from Asheville. Theo’s family ran an inn, and Elle had booked what was sure to be a romantic night—perhaps the night?—later in the week.

She was so busy planning potential opportunities for Carter’s proposal that she didn't pay attention to her feet. Elle took a wrong step in her heels, and the shoe went one way and her foot the other. A moment later, and she was airborne. She threw out her arms, ready to hit the floor.

But the crash landing never happened.

Two strong arms wrapped around her. Soft flannel rubbed against her cheek. A cozy smell, like clean soap and a touch of spice, embraced her.

"You okay, ma'am?" a deep, gravelly voice asked. It was so close, she shivered.

Elle caught her breath. She looked up.

The guy she was clutching like a life preserver was staring at her, and he was gorgeous. Dark hair sticking out from beneath a beat up baseball hat. A strong jaw, shadowed by what her friend Isabelle would deem oh-so-sexy stubble. And—oh, heaven help me—he watched with deep brown, gold-flecked eyes from behind thick-rimmed glasses.

Elle died.

Or, she felt like she died. All the air left her lungs. Her heart zinged and started beating like an overactive puppy with a chew toy. Heat rushed to her cheeks. And, sure, she felt a rush of guilt too. Did happily almost-engaged women swoon like this for other men?

Surely, this wasn’t normal.

"Hi," she breathed at the guy.

He quirked up one side of his mouth.

"You okay?" he repeated. "Took a tumble there. I wasn't sure I'd catch you." Now that she wasn't dying, Elle could detect a soft southern drawl in his voice.

Save me, Jesus, she thought, he's a southern boy.

"Yes," she said, still breathing like a Marilyn Monroe impersonator. She cleared her throat and told her lungs to get with the program. "Fine. So fine. I mean—I’m fine."

He raised an eyebrow, which only drew her attention to his glasses.

Could ovaries swoon? Because hers were pulling a Scarlet.

"Think you can stand on your own?" he asked.

Elle realized she was still cradled in his arms. More, she was plastered across the man's chest. Had she actually rubbed her cheek against his flannel?

Her flush deepened. She straightened and stepped back, already missing the mystery guy's heat.

The people behind them looked annoyed, and after a quick glance, she realized the line had kept moving. Carter included. Which made her feel slightly less bad about drooling over the stranger.

"I'm so sorry," she said, brushing imaginary dirt off her pencil skirt. "Thanks for catching me."

He smiled and leaned over to pick up the handle of her rolling bag. It might not be in the Junior League handbook, but Elle was certain ladies weren't supposed to ogle rough-looking men. So she checked out his butt super fast. It was like a fly by scoping. Totally appropriate.

Straightening up, he cut her a glance.

Busted!

Elle glanced down. Ink peeked out from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his worn flannel. He oozed a rough and tumble edge that made her quake in her heels. This man was the opposite of the gentlemen she'd been trained to set her sights on, and she could hear her mother's voice saying, look all you want, honey, but men like that aren’t fit for good company.

The thoughts passed in a few moments. Moments she hoped she hadn't been staring at him, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

"It was no trouble, ma'am," he said. "I was in the right place at the right time."

"It's Elle," she said. She smiled, then caught herself. "You can call me Elle."

Was she flirting with him? Because that was a bad, very bad idea. And not just because of Carter. The messy hair, the dirt-smudged baseball hat, the tattoos—if Carter were the epitome of a southern gentleman, then this guy would be every southern mama's worst nightmare.

"Name's Justin," he said. He held out a hand. His palms were warm and dry, with rough spots that made her shiver.

Hot or not, Elle needed to pull herself together. This was not how an almost-engaged woman should act. She knew how it felt when Carter flirted with other women; nothing in the world, not even her mother, could make her feel that small. She checked to see if Carter had been watching, but he’d already stepped onto the plane.

Elle glanced back at the man who’d caught her and schooled her features into a polite smile.

"Nice to meet you, Justin. Thank you, again."

He smiled.

"Well I better get going," she said, awkwardly backing away from him before turning, rolling bag in tow.

Elle caught up with Carter and the rest of the line and stepped onto the plane. Just ahead of her in the narrow aisle, Carter paused to let the curvy redhead pass by. He didn't step back to give the woman room, and she had to brush up against him to slip into her seat.

He caught Elle watching and lifted his shoulders in a silent, “So what?”

She kept telling herself that she’d say something if he ever crossed the line. But his flirtations were harmless. Weren’t they? Just like the man on the jetway. He was handsome, sure, but she wasn’t going to marry him. That was what mattered. Wasn’t it?

So she bit her tongue and promised herself Carter would be better. Once he proposed, everything would be different.

* * *

Justin Tate moved past the small, officious blonde he'd caught on the jetway, and down to his seat at the back of the crowded plane. Two minutes with a woman in his arms and he was more excited than a pre-teen on his first date. Maybe his brothers were right. Maybe it was beyond time to start getting out again.

Too bad even the idea was exhausting.

He settled back and pulled his hat low. After a week with his older brother, Evan, in Raleigh, Justin was more than ready for home.

Evan had forgotten the meaning of the word relax, and Justin craved time outside, time to watch the sky change colors with a cold drink in his hand. He was even looking forward to the long drive back to the inn. He'd roll down the windows and let the rich mountain air welcome him back while he sped down the winding roads.

His phone buzzed.

Justin sighed but answered.

"Yeah," he said.

"Justin, sweetheart. How are you?" His mom’s voice was brisk but warm.

"My flight's about to take off. What's up?"

"There's been a little snag, and I was wondering ..."

He sighed. "What snag?"

"Well, I don't want to worry you, but the car is still in the shop."

The car was a slick black SUV they used to pick up and drop off guests. Since their inn was tucked into a rural part of the North Carolina mountains, offering guests a shuttle was a necessity.

"In the shop? It didn't need any work when I left."

"Well, no. But that was before."

"Before?"

"While you were gone it broke down." He had a feeling there was more to the story, but she rushed on. "I wouldn't have called, but I knew you'd be at the airport anyway and there are guests expecting a ride. Would you mind ...?"

The vision of his long, quiet drive home vanished.

"You want me to pick up guests."

Justin worked at the inn, but he liked to stay in the background. The less he had to make nice, the better. His mom spent much of her time in the kitchen preparing the baked goods and southern-style breakfast dishes that kept people coming back, while Justin worked in the office or on the grounds. But from time to time he would step in to help. He'd do it, but he didn't like it.

"Sure," he said. "No problem."

"I owe you," she said. "It’s a couple from Raleigh. Staying for a family wedding. Some big affair in Asheville."

Justin bit back a groan. Great. It just got better and better. Not only would he have to give up his peace and quiet, but it would be with some snotty twosome. Likely one of those couples who finished each other's sentences and thought it was romantic to go antiquing.

He might have growled.

"Be nice," his mom said.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm always nice."

She snorted. "Oh, is that what you call it?"

This made him grin.

"Have you heard from the old man?"

"Don't call Mr. Vanhelt that," his mom snapped.

"Yes, ma'am."

She sighed. "He's not that old, either. I don't know why you kids insist on using such an unflattering nickname."

The old man, more commonly known as Nathan Vanhelt, owned Oak Bramble Inn, the inn his mom now managed. She started at the inn as a maid when he and his siblings were just kids. She worked hard to keep it running, even when Mrs. Vanhelt got sick and Mr. Vanhelt stepped back to care for her. Mrs. Vanhelt passed away years ago, but the old man never seemed to get back into running the inn.

The last two years marked a turning point, though. Justin moved back from the west coast and he’d put his time and energy into helping his mom with the inn. Together they’d put Oak Bramble on the map. They were finally getting to a point where they were pulling enough profit to start making plans for the future … And that’s when old man Vanhelt pulled the rug out from under their feet.

He wanted to sell. Fast.

Justin knew a big developer would swoop in and his mom would lose the job she loved.

Which was why Justin was determined to buy the place for her.

With money he didn’t have.

"Well, has he said anything about giving us a break?” he asked Jess. Before he’d left to see Evan, he’d started putting out feelers, trying to see what the banks could do, and how much leeway old man Vanhelt might have. The answers to both were the same: not much.

She clucked her tongue. "Do you think he’d tell me?"

"Maybe you can get cozy with the guy," he teased. "Make him some of those apple tarts he loves."

She laughed. "He's out of my league.”

"He'd be lucky to have you," Justin said, annoyed she'd even think it. His mom was worth ten of the old man. Twenty, even. She'd raised Justin, his two brothers, and their sister, and had taught herself to make the best damn food in all of North Carolina. She was out of Vanhelt’s league, and not the other way around.

"Oh, Justin. You know what I meant. People like that don't even see people like me."

"We're not living in the fifties," he said.

"Feels like it sometimes,” she said. Her voice was soft, reflective. "I remember bringing you kids up here, thinking it would be a good change from the city. Not one of you had an easy time of it."

He grunted. "Wasn't your fault."

She sighed.

The flight attendants started closing the overhead bins.

"Look, Mom. I have to run. Text me the name and number and I'll take care of the guests."

"Okay," she said. Then, "Mind your manners."

"And my mother."

"That's my boy," she said, laughing.

He was smiling when he ended the call.