Southern Charmer: A Charleston Heat Novel Read online

  “I’m okay with that,” she says at last.

  Oh, this girl is running from something all right.

  Hiding something, too.

  But it’s not my place to push her. If she wants to tell me, she will. When she’s ready.

  I’ll feed her in the meantime.

  She’s careful not to let our fingers brush as she takes the mug.

  “Jesus,” she says after taking a sip, her voice an octave lower with pleasure. “Do you make the best everything? This coffee tastes like liquid velvet.”

  I grin at her over the rim of my mug. What started out as another shitty morning in a string of shitty mornings is actually turning out to be pretty damn great.

  “It’s literally my job to make the best food on the planet, so…yeah. Glad you’re enjoying it.”

  Olivia looks down at Billy. “It’s not even noon, and already this might be the best Monday I’ve ever had. All thanks to food.”

  “Not me?” I say, arching a brow.

  She laughs, her blue eyes dancing again. “Maybe if you put a shirt on.”

  “Never.”

  “You don’t compromise on anything, do you?”

  I lick my lips. “Not on things that matter.”

  Olivia swallows. “I admire that, Eli.”

  Insert Robert Plant howl here. I like it when she says my name. Maybe it’s her accent. The sultry voice she’s still using as she finishes her coffee.

  “And I admire your appetite, Olivia.”

  Her gaze skips over my stomach. “Unlike me, you clearly keep yours under control.”

  “Not really.” When she spears me with a look of pointed skepticism, I grin. “I eat a lot. But I also bike all over town, and I’m rollin’ out my yoga mat whenever I can.”

  “You practice yoga?” she says, brightening. “Me too. Although I’m terrible at it.”

  “We should take a class together sometime.”

  I look at her. It’s not an invitation to a date. But it’s pretty damn close. Hey, I like hanging out with her. Like how she keeps me out of my head.

  I wait for her to turn me down. Tell me she has a boyfriend, a husband. A husband and kids.

  But I’m not seeing a ring on any of her fingers.

  Olivia runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “It’d be great if you could point me in the direction of a studio close by.”

  “Consider it done. We’ve got plenty of great studios in town. My favorite is probably Yoga First on Spring Street—hot yoga at its best. Take Peter’s class if you can.”

  Her eyes latch onto mine. A beat of unmistakable heat passes between us. How long has she been here? Half an hour? Half a day?

  I want her to stay. It’s only gotta be an hour or two until lunch. I’ve got some basil and fresh peaches—maybe have one of my prep guys bring some of that burrata we made yesterday at The Pearl—I’ve just got this feeling Yankee girl here would love my southern riff on a Caprese salad. We could eat it on the couch while catching up on that terrible reality TV show we both like.

  Going a whole day without thinking about The Jam sounds like heaven right now.

  “Got any plans for the rest of the day?” I ask, sipping my coffee.

  Chapter Five

  Olivia

  My ridiculously full stomach twists at the honey brown kindness in Eli’s eyes.

  He’s scary handsome. And one hell of a cook. And full of conviction. Which only adds to his distinct, down to earth charm.

  He practices yoga.

  And he’s looking at me like I haven’t been looked at in a long time. With warm, naked interest.

  The air between us crackles with attraction. Energy. He’s so easy to talk to. To look at.

  Probably easy to fall in bed with, too.

  My arousal lights into confusion. I may be on a break from Ted. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump into bed with someone else. I still feel so mixed up inside. So raw and tender to the touch. A hook up is not a good idea right now.

  What if it’s terrible?

  What if it’s not?

  I am going back to New York at the end of October. I have a really great life waiting for me there—the job I’ve worked a decade to get, the house I’ve saved for, the relationship I’ve always wanted. No guy, no matter how delicious he may be, is worth sacrificing all that.

  And I have to remember why I came to Charleston in the first place. To work on my book. Which I should be doing right now, instead of ogling this sexy, shirtless chef.

  I stand up, my stool grunting against the roughed up wooden floorboards, and look away. Look around the house. It’s small. But it’s exquisitely renovated in what I can only describe as historic-Charleston-meets-southern-California style. Downstairs is all one big room, done in masculine shades of black and army green, punctuated by pale, antique-looking oak floors and these gorgeous ceiling beams that look like they were salvaged from a very chic barn.

  There’s a gigantic bookshelf that lines the length of an entire wall. The shelves practically groan beneath the weight of a zillion books stuffed haphazardly here and there. There are also a few bright yellow boxes, marked Cohiba, Habana, Cuba, scattered amongst the books. His cigars.

  My heart literally skips a beat.

  Of course Eli reads. Because the food and the yoga and the tattoos weren’t sexy enough.

  I catch a few names on well-worn spines. Hemingway. McCarthy. Nikki Sixx’s Heroin Diaries.

  I’m impressed. Although there’s a conspicuous lack of female authors and subjects on these shelves. Something I’d be all too happy to remedy.

  I push the thought aside. Probably best if I kept my distance from this house. This man. Too much opportunity for distraction.

  Still, I can’t help looking around a little more. A massive, commercial-style range occupies the opposite wall. An enormous antique table serves as an island and, I imagine, a gathering spot in the middle of the room. Across the space, I glance longingly at the leather sectional sofa in front of the TV. It looks cozy.

  And the smell in here—it smells like bacon and delicious man. Eli’s cologne, maybe. Something spicy and dark and woodsy. What I imagine Tom Ford would wear if he were a sexy southern chef. It’s mouthwatering.

  Oh, I want to stay. Pick his brain some more about happiness and compromise and the supreme trust he seems to have in himself.

  But I shouldn’t.

  I really, really shouldn’t.

  “I should actually get going,” I say. I realize I’m still holding my empty coffee mug. I set it carefully on the island, grateful for the excuse not to look at Eli. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome. Thanks again for the grits and the coffee—it was seriously the most delicious breakfast I’ve ever had.”

  I turn to see Eli studying me. He’s skeptical. Knows something is going on, but is too polite to ask me outright what it is.

  I’m glad he doesn’t. I’ve felt so…free while I’ve been here. Like I can let my guard down and just relax. Be myself. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way sharing a meal with Teddy. I guess I always feel the need to be “on” when we’re together. Like I need to fit a certain mold by saying the right things and wearing the right clothes and hanging out with the right people.

  But Eli? Eli clearly doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of that stuff. Which makes me not want to talk about it. He makes me want to talk about big picture stuff instead. Stuff I haven’t talked to really anyone about, except maybe Julia.

  Talking to Eli like that would be dangerous. So I won’t.

  I can’t.

  “You sure?” he asks instead. “As long as you love to eat, you’ll never overstay your welcome. Stop by anytime, Olivia. You’re welcome here, always.”

  His ridiculously hot southern accent makes the O in my name disappear. Livia.

  A warm, happy shiver darts up my spine.

  I have to get out of here.

  Now.

  “Thanks,” I say. We look at each other for a
beat. How do we end this? I can’t hug him. He’s half-naked, for Christ’s sake. So I awkwardly extend my hand like the confused, sleep-deprived idiot that I am. “Sorry I’m running out on you like this, but I…have a lot to do today. It was nice meeting you, Eli.”

  His lips twitch into an amused grin. I don’t think this guy—this big, tatted up, self-assured guy—could be awkward if he tried.

  He takes my hand in the enormous mitt of his. His palm is dry and calloused. I feel the press of a strange ridge along my thumb—some sort of scar on his palm. I resist the urge to ask about it.

  “Nice meetin’ you too.” He gives my hand a squeeze that’s just firm enough. A current of electricity snaps up my arm, making my skin break out in goose bumps. “Hope to see you around.”

  I give Billy’s velvety ear one last tug. Then I turn and dart out of Eli’s house like it’s on fire.

  I’m on fire.

  * * *

  I close the door behind me. Let out a breath now that I’m in the safety of the carriage house. My face feels hot.

  The whole world feels hot.

  I am completely, uncomfortably, deliciously full.

  At the same time, the caffeine from Eli’s fancy coffee is hitting me. I’m sleepy and jittery, all at once.

  Okay okay okay.

  What should I do next?

  Write. Yes. That’s what I’ll do.

  I grab my computer and set it on the counter. But instead of opening Word, I open my internet browser and Google “Eli hot chef Charleston”.

  I get about fourteen thousand hits. Which means this guy is a big deal down here. Not that you’d know it from the way he dressed. Or the way he talked. The way he was.

  At the top are articles from national newspapers and magazines.

  How Elijah Jackson’s Simple Southern Fare Changed The Foodie Scene Forever

  Star Chef Eli Jackson’s New Restaurant a Disappointment With Critics

  A Table at Eli Jackson’s The Pearl Still Hottest Reservation in Town Despite Struggles at New Joint

  Elijah Jackson. Is there a more perfect name for a sexy-sweet southern chef?

  I think not.

  So he owns that pretty restaurant I saw on the drive in. I’ll have to check it out.

  I read the scathing reviews of his new restaurant, The Jam. They feel personal, somehow. Maybe because I just ate the food that these critics are lambasting. Food that was incredibly delicious. So good I’d almost call it a religious experience. I’ll never look at breakfast—at Monday mornings—the same way again.

  Makes me realize just how much I hate my usual Monday morning routine. Recently I’ve been getting the Sunday scaries bad, which always keep me up half the night. I wake up Monday morning to my alarm blaring with a knot in my stomach and single thought in my head: how am I going to get through this day?

  I know I can’t have hot guys cook me a hot breakfast every Monday morning.

  That’s not real life.

  That’s not how the adult world works.

  Mondays suck for everyone. Except, apparently, Elijah Jackson.

  Which makes me wonder if what I’ve been putting myself through every Monday morning—every weekday morning—is just a shitty fact of life, or a conscious choice. A wrong choice. Are all the expensive clothes and makeup and cars indicators of me living my best life? Or are they a kind of golden cage I’ve put myself in?

  Why on God’s green earth would I do something that makes me unhappy?

  Eli shrugged when he said those words. Like everyone followed their happiness. Their hearts. Not prestige or perfection or expectation.

  But Eli is insanely talented. He has the luxury of living this wild, weird life. That isn’t the case for normal people like me.

  I have to be practical.

  How much can I realistically ask of the universe anyway? I have a supportive family. A great job. A man who loves me.

  I’m incredibly lucky. People would kill to have what I do. It’d be greedy to want more. Not more stuff necessarily. But more fulfillment. More freedom to be myself, the way I was just now with Eli. It just seems silly to want fulfillment with all the very real pain and suffering going on in the world.

  I have my happily ever after. And if I occasionally feel smothered by it, well…that comes with the territory. Having it all requires work. Constant, exhausting work. But it’s worth it.

  Right?

  “Helllooooo!”

  I start at the sound of a familiar voice. Julia is standing in the door, wearing what is doubtlessly a couture floral dress and a smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not look like a million bucks.

  Leaping from my stool, I dash across the kitchen to wrap her in a hug. Seeing a familiar face after feeling all those unfamiliar…well, feelings at Eli’s earlier makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst with gratitude.

  “Oh my goodness!” I say. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Spain drinking too much sangria and dancing at the discotecas or something?”

  Julia pulls back. Her smile dims a little.

  “Yeah, about that…”

  I slide my hands down her arms and give them a squeeze.

  “Everything okay?”

  She licks her lips. “Kind of. I had to cut my semester in Spain short, unfortunately. My dad isn’t doing so well.”

  My heart skips a beat.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I know how close you two are. What can I do?”

  Julia shakes her head. “Nothing we can do at this point. He’s pretty uncomfortable, but he seems to feel better when I’m around. So I’m going to stay with him for a while. Do what I can to keep him happy.”

  I pull her into another hug.

  “I’m here if you need anything, okay? Selfishly, though, I’m glad you’ll be in town. You sure you don’t want to stay here? I’m sure I could find someplace else—”

  “Don’t even think about it. I want you to stay right here and finish that fucking book you told me about. How’s it going, by the way?”

  Julia is one of the few people in whom I confided about my secret steamy writing tendencies. For so long I regretted it, because she always brought it up when we visited each other. But now I’m kind of glad I told her. Maybe I need a little push. A little moral support.

  I nod at my laptop. “I just got here yesterday. I wrote one and a half pages, which I deleted because they were garbage. So far, writing romance is not as magical as I thought it would be.”

  “Bless your dirty book loving heart. Of course it’s not magical. Eighty percent of the time, writing is the fucking pits, whether you’re writing a dissertation on the birth of aspirational middle class values in Jane Austen’s work, or steamy, graphic, delicious sex in a romance novel,” Julia says. “Speaking of graphic sex—I cannot wait to read yours. I’ll actually be back at the College of Charleston this semester doing some admin stuff in the English department if you want to swing by. We’ve got some great fiction writers on staff. Can’t hurt to pick their brains.”

  I grin. “I’d love to. Thank you. So you won’t be teaching?”

  “Not until next semester,” Julia replies, shaking her head again. “Then I’ll have my usual course load.”

  Julia’s been teaching undergraduate English down here for years now. Unlike me, she loves it. Then again, that could have something to do with the fact that she’s got a trust fund, which allows her to split her time between teaching and indulging in her true passion—antiquing across Europe.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while. Why don’t you stay for a bit?” I nod my head toward the fridge. “I picked up a bottle of Chardonnay I’d love to open. I am a writer now. Probably means I should have a glass of wine in the middle of the day. You know, for my muse,” I say, using air quotes.

  Julia grins. “I am so here for this.”

  “By the way,” I call over my shoulder as I grab the wine and a corkscrew. “I wish you would’ve told me you had a cute neighbor who walks around half-naked all th
e time.”

  She leans into her forearms on the counter and wags her eyebrows. “C’mon, Olivia, we both know Eli’s not cute. He’s smoking hot. You think you two might…you know?”

  “Absolutely not,” I reply. “What about you? Have you ever…”

  “Nope.” Julia takes the glass of Chardonnay I hand her. “Not my type.”

  “He’s not my type either,” I say, sipping my wine. “Totally not my type.”

  Julia eyes me. “You never know until you try it.”

  “Absolutely not,” I repeat.

  “The lady doth protest too much,” Julia says, still grinning.

  I look away. All the while thinking about how stupid I was to go over to Eli’s this morning.

  Because now I can’t stop thinking about him. I want to get back to writing my book if only so I can hang out with my hazel-eyed, broad-shouldered hero.

  The one who looks and sounds an awful lot like my hot new neighbor.

  Chapter Six

  Olivia

  I make Julia promise to call me tomorrow before I let her leave. Then I grab my laptop and try to write for the rest of the afternoon.

  I wake up early and write the next morning, too.

  By ten A.M., I’m ready to tear my hair out. My shoulders and neck ache from being hunched over my computer.

  I wonder if that yoga studio Eli mentioned has morning classes.

  I wonder if Eli takes them.

  Ignoring the jolt that idea gives me, I Google the studio and see that they have an eleven o’clock class.

  Perfect. I’ll even have enough time to bike there. Eli said that’s how he likes to get around town. Figure I’ll give it a try.

  And honestly, what are the chances that Eli will take the same class? At eleven on a Tuesday? He has a restaurant empire to run. I imagine that leaves very little opportunity to squeeze in some midday exercise.

  The studio is on Spring Street, a little over a mile from the carriage house. So I grab Julia’s bike—with a fancy wicker basket, Carolina blue paint, and buttery leather handles, it looks like a Gwyneth Paltrow-approved version of a bicycle living its best life—and head up the peninsula. I saw lots of people biking on my way in, so I figure I’ll join in on the fun.