Southern Charmer: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 9

  I nod. “So what’s tying you down?”

  Olivia blinks.

  “You know, no one’s ever asked me that question.”

  I hold up the pages. “No one’s ever read your book.”

  She swallows again, slowly, and rolls her lips between her teeth. “Not too long ago, if you would’ve asked me if I was tied down, I would’ve laughed in your face. I feel like I worked so hard to have it all—everything a thirty-something woman is supposed to want. Great career. Great house and car and a closet full of great clothes. And I do—did—have it. But then after a while…” Olivia shakes her head. Sighs. “I don’t know. I started to feel suffocated by all these things I was supposed to want. All these things I’d worked hard to get. I had them, and I am—was—I was proud of them. But none of it really felt right. I felt like I was living in someone else’s dream world. I think that’s because I had to hide so much of myself to fit into that world. I thought if I just tried hard enough, the person I hid would kind of just…disappear. I mean, really, who in their right mind wouldn’t want the best of everything? But I’m realizing that maybe I can’t change who I am, as much as I want to. And I really, really want to be the woman who has it all. I want it so badly I’m not sure I can let it go.”

  Her voice wobbles a bit on that last sentence. I resist the urge to reach for her hand. She could probably could use a little moral support at the moment.

  “Sounds a lot like expectation’s the thing that’s holdin’ you hostage,” I say, picking my words carefully. Olivia is opening up to me, and I don’t want to scare her away. “People—your parents, maybe, your peers—expect you to live a certain way. You’re wantin’ to please them, so that’s what you’ve done. You’re responsible. Practical. Dutiful. Even though deep down, you’re anything but.”

  A ghost of a smile plays at Olivia’s lips. “Maybe. I don’t know if I have the balls to be anything other than responsible, though. Where I’m from, people are obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses. They don’t—they don’t value authenticity—” She shakes her head and straightens. “Anyway. Thanks for the advice about keeping things simple.”

  “Olivia,” I say, spearing her with a look. “You’re changin’ the subject.”

  She meets my eyes. Hers are wet. Pleading.

  My heart twists.

  “I’m not used to talking about this stuff with anyone, Eli. Least of all a shirtless stranger. Give me time. Please.”

  I don’t wanna give her time. I want to peel back her layers and tear down her walls and get to the center of who this talented, interesting, tortured woman really is.

  But that’s not my place. She’s not my girl.

  Although the more I get to know her, the more I’m thinking I’d like her to be.

  “Take all the time you need, Yankee girl.” I offer her a smile. “And I’m not a stranger anymore. I’m a friend, remember?”

  Olivia smiles at that. Genuinely smiles.

  “Yeah.” She digs her teeth into her bottom lip. Her gaze flicks to my mouth for half a heartbeat. “You’re the first friend I’ve made down here.”

  I offer her a grin. “I’m honored. You’re somethin’ special, Olivia.”

  I look at her. She looks at me. The space between us crackles. Begs me to make it smaller, to step forward and take her face in my hands and kiss her soft and deep and good.

  She’s attracted to me. I can tell by the flicker of white hot heat in those big eyes of hers.

  But she just asked for time. She’s not ready for me.

  Not yet.

  I stand up, gathering our plates and empty mugs.

  “I gotta head over to The Jam in a bit,” I say.

  Olivia walks me to the door. We pause in the threshold, awkwardly. She’s trying not to look at my chest.

  Trying, and failing.

  I shove my hands in the back pockets of my jeans to keep from reaching for her.

  “When can I expect the next installment of Gunnar and Cate?” I ask.

  That makes her grin. “I have plans to find a coffee shop and write it this afternoon.”

  “Need a suggestion for a good spot?”

  “I’d love one.”

  “Holy City Roasters. Cute little place on Wentworth Street. Their iced coffee is second to none, and you can walk from here. I happen to know the owner—she’s my sister. Tell Gracie I sent you.”

  “Your sister owns a coffee shop? How cool! Thank you for the tip.” Olivia looks up at me, suddenly shy. Before I know what she’s doing, she’s wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me into a hug. “And thank you for breakfast. And for reading my romance. And for listening to me. Basically, thanks for being such an awesome human being and letting me be myself with you.”

  For a second I just stand there, too dumfounded by her words, by the press of her body against mine, to formulate a coherent thought.

  She’s not wearing that expensive perfume today.

  Instead, she smells like coffee. Clean sheets. A smell that fills my head and chases away whatever anxiety hovered at the edges.

  I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her as close as I dare. She’s all curves and softness against me.

  I close my eyes and breathe her in. Her head is tucked into the crook of my neck. She fits perfectly there.

  Damn it. I want her.

  I wanna take her home and make her come and stay up late, talking and eating and fucking. I can only imagine how good Olivia would be in bed once that inner fire of hers is let loose.

  But I can’t take her with me. And that’s kinda killing me right now.

  “Anytime,” I say, forcing myself to step back. “I’ll look out for chapter two tonight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Olivia

  It’s not as hot today, so the fifteen minute walk to Holy City Roasters is actually pleasant.

  I head north on King Street. It’s Charleston’s main artery, cutting the peninsula in half lengthwise. I’m starting to recognize certain landmarks. Certain brightly colored houses. The old time-y men’s store on the corner of King and Broad that marks the end of the residential area and the beginning of the long, crowded shopping corridor. The cute art gallery I’d like to check out when I’m done writing for the day.

  I think about what to write as I walk. The fresh air must be good for my imagination, because ideas swarm inside my head like bees in a hive.

  Or maybe it’s Eli’s excitement about Cate and Gunnar—his certainty about the merits of their story and my skill—that’s making my muse sing.

  I don’t need his stamp of approval. I’d be writing this book with or without his help. I’ve wanted to write it for a long time. It’s taken me years—and a botched proposal—to finally screw my courage to the sticking place and do it. I am making this decision on my own.

  But it is nice to have Eli in my corner. It’s too easy for me to get stuck inside my head. To give up on myself and just do what everybody else is doing. Hell, I’ve built a whole life around that. But Eli won’t have it. He’s pushing me to give my dreams—my dreams, not everybody else’s—some breathing room. And maybe I just needed that push—that nod of encouragement—to get the ball rolling. I needed to see how another creative person took their head out of their ass and just created.

  The actual creating, though?

  That’s up to me.

  Hanging a left on Wentworth Street, tourists give way to students wearing shorts and backpacks. I can feel the familiar energy of a university in the air. The students are smiling as I pass. They’re talking to their friends, slowing down to peek inside shop windows and pet dogs.

  It makes me smile. The sunshine and the wide open blue sky certainly don’t hurt, either.

  Neither does the fact that I’m going to write a novel on a Wednesday afternoon.

  Pinch me.

  A shadow moves over my sunny mood when I remember I only have three and a half weeks before I have to report back to my old life.

  My re
al life.

  But I decide that today I’m going to take a page from what I did the other night at The Pearl and give in. I’m going to pretend this is my real life. I’m going to pretend that I live here and that I’m a writer and that dreams—ridiculous, silly dreams—really do come true.

  I take a deep breath. Let it out. That sense of freedom, familiar now, washes over me. I’m wearing shorts and a cruddy t-shirt. I’m not worried about who sees me or what they might think. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m not running around. I’m just doing what I want to be doing.

  It’s really, really nice.

  Holy City Roasters just might be the cutest, coolest coffee shop I’ve ever been in. It’s on the small side, buzzing with students and professors and handsome hipsters. Couples flirt over mugs so big they look like bowls. A woman with the most gorgeous tattoos on her arms is tearing at a flaky chocolate croissant with her fingers while she peers at some kind of design on her laptop screen.

  The earthy scent of coffee hangs so heavy in the air I can taste it.

  I order an iced coffee and a cupcake—because why not?—from the woman behind the counter. She’s wearing thick, tortoiseshell framed glasses and bright red lipstick. Emboldened by her friendliness, I ask, “Are you Grace?”

  She grins, holding out her hand. “I am. And you are?”

  “Olivia. Eli—Elijah Jackson—he said to tell you he sent me. He’s my new neighbor.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she teases, her grin deepening. “My brother can be such a pain in the ass. Thank you for putting up with him.”

  I laugh. “No problem. He’s actually been a pretty great neighbor so far. He saved me from those birds—you know, the ones that wander around in the street?”

  “The Guinea Fowl! Yes!” It’s Grace’s turn to laugh. I recognize the way she laughs with her eyes. Eli does that, too.

  My pulse skips a beat.

  “Where the hell did they come from?” I ask.

  “No one really knows. But I guess there are enough gardens and trees in your part of town to provide a little makeshift habitat for them, because they’ve been around for a while and they keep having babies.”

  “They’re fearless,” I say. “I almost ran them over when I first got into town a few days ago. I think I’d still be sitting in my car, playing a game of chicken through my windshield with them, if Eli hadn’t shooed them away.”

  Grace rolls her eyes. “He’s a show off. Have you eaten at one of his restaurants yet?”

  I smile. “I actually did the chef’s tasting last night at The Pearl. It was probably the best meal of my life.”

  “It’s pretty ridiculous,” she says, nodding. “I don’t see him nearly enough, because he’s always working. But I am super proud of him. His food is the best in the city.”

  “You should be. He’s a really talented chef, and an even better guy.”

  Grace studies me for a second, her grin knowing now. Almost wistful. I feel myself beginning to blush.

  “Welp, welcome to Charleston,” she says. “Please make yourself at home, and don’t hesitate to come find me if you need anything. I’m glad Eli’s found a new friend.”

  Friend. I know I was the one to put that label on my relationship with Eli. And as nice as it sounds—as safe as it sounds—I’m surprised to discover I kind of hate it when someone else says it.

  I don’t allow myself to dwell on what that means.

  “Thanks for the warm welcome,” I say, and I mean it. Seriously. Is everyone in this town so friendly? So willing to help out a total stranger?

  It’s quickly becoming apparent that things are done differently down here.

  Priorities are different.

  I settle down at a table by a side window. I open my laptop, fully expecting a repeat of last night’s magical, super productive writing session.

  Popping in my headphones, I start to write chapter two.

  At first, it is a super magical session. The chapter opens with this angsty, sexy kissing scene, where, after Gunnar gives her a tour of his castle, Cate pushes him against a wall in the medieval chapel. He smirks. She burns.

  He was her enemy.

  And she was going to kiss him.

  Gunnar was looking down at her, the angle of his bent neck so very, very enticing. Strands of wavy dark hair framed his face.

  Cate wanted to kiss him.

  For once, she did not think. She did what she wanted.

  But then, after the kissing ends and Gunnar and Cate go home to their respective castles, I hit a wall.

  What the fuck do I write next?

  I start a new scene—one where the two of them run into each other the next morning at church, as one does in Regency England—but every word is like pulling teeth. Some raunchy Shakespeare lines about fatal loins and virginity float through my head. I try to cleverly incorporate them into Cate’s inner dialogue, but it slows me down so much I end up taking two hours to write two paragraphs.

  At this point, I’m so frustrated by my lack of progress—my lack of direction—that I open my old friend The Internet. I promptly fall down a celebrity gossip hole wherein, like one possessed, I hunt down every hilarious Instagram comment Chrissy Teigen has ever posted.

  And she’s posted a lot of hilarious Instagram comments.

  The longer I dick around, the more frustrated I become with myself and my writing.

  My dissertation was painful to write. But I was expecting that. Writing romance, though—the kind of delicious, sexy, angsty romance I love to read—I thought it would be fun.

  Easy.

  Especially because the story came on to me so strongly at first. I plowed through that first chapter in a burst of inspiration.

  Writing this book isn’t supposed to feel like work. This is supposed to feel like a dream coming true, right before my eyes.

  Dreams aren’t supposed to make you want to chuck your laptop across the room.

  The urge to quit for the day is strong. I could go for a walk. Shave my legs. Do anything other than work on this goddamn story.

  I feel a smidge of regret. Maybe the grass really isn’t greener. Maybe I really don’t want to be a writer deep down.

  I expect the thought to make me feel better. It would mean all the choices I’ve made up until now were the right ones. It would mean I could go back to New York and say yes to Ted without any qualms. Without any of the uncertainty I felt when he proposed.

  But instead, the thought depresses me. I guess I wanted to love this writing thing more than I allowed myself to admit.

  Then again, maybe Julia was right when she said writing is the pits eighty percent of the time, no matter what you’re working on. Writing requires focus. Your brain needs to be firing on all cylinders. At the same time, it can be boring as fuck. At least that was the case with my dissertation.

  I thought this kind of writing would be different, but maybe it’s not.

  Maybe all writing is difficult and boring. But maybe it’s also worth it in the end. Drafting my dissertation, I hated every minute I was chained to my computer, typing and worrying and typing some more. When I was done for the day, though, I would feel such a huge sense of accomplishment. Three quarters of the time, I hated writing itself. But having written?

  Best feeling in the world. And if I felt that way after finishing a dissertation on nineteenth century social mores, I can only imagine how I’ll feel after finishing the book of my heart.

  So, because I clearly have zero self-control, I download an app that locks you out of the internet for a set amount of time. Two hours of just me and a blank page.

  Keep it simple.

  Eli’s words echo in my head.

  Simple. Right.

  Forget the Shakespeare. Literature nerds like me might appreciate that. But all readers appreciate a well told story.

  That’s all I’ll focus on today. The story. Two damaged, lonely, sexually frustrated people falling in love. Saving themselves and each other in the process. />
  Nothing more. Nothing less. I can always go back and embellish once the bones of the book are there.

  I put my fingers on the keyboard, and force them to move.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Olivia

  It takes me all afternoon to finish the next chapter. Every sentence is a struggle. But knowing Eli is expecting the next installment of Cate and Gunnar’s story tonight is terrific motivation.

  By the time I’m done, the sun has started to set. I’m beat. I feel like I ran a mental marathon. I can practically see the steam coming out of my ears when I duck into the bathroom on my way out of Holy City Roasters.

  As tired as I am, though, it feels good to get all those words down. Like they’d been building up inside me. Bottlenecking. Making me anxious. But now that they’re released, I feel satisfyingly empty—content—calm in a way I haven’t in a long time.

  Waving goodbye to Grace—these friendly southerners must be rubbing off on me—I step out into the sunset and take a deep, cleansing breath.

  I don’t even know what time it is.

  I don’t care. All I know is that I’m famished, and I could really go for a gigantic glass of ice cold wine.

  I could go back to the carriage house. Do some laundry. Answer some emails. Have a glass of wine there. Maybe have Julia over.

  But it’s such a beautiful night. The sky is a rainbow of pinks and oranges and purples. Spotless. The air is warm, the humidity falling.

  I decide to take another page out of Cate’s book and do what I want.

  I want to explore the city. Meet her people and taste her flavors.

  So I pop into the art gallery I passed earlier. Turns out there’s a little gallery crawl going on in this neighborhood, The French Quarter. I accept the glass of champagne an owner presses into my hand and drink it slowly while I browse alongside casually dressed patrons chatting in drawls. I meet a painter, a real estate developer. A gynecologist who moonlights as a pirate tour guide.