Southern Gentleman: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance Read online

  Southern Gentleman

  A Charleston Heat Novel

  Jessica Peterson

  Contents

  Also by Jessica Peterson

  Where to Find Jessica

  1. Julia

  2. Greyson

  3. Greyson

  4. Julia

  5. Julia

  6. Greyson

  7. Greyson

  8. Julia

  9. Greyson

  10. Greyson

  11. Julia

  12. Greyson

  13. Julia

  14. Julia

  15. Greyson

  16. Greyson

  17. Julia

  18. Greyson

  19. Julia

  20. Julia

  21. Julia

  22. Greyson

  23. Greyson

  24. Julia

  25. Greyson

  26. Greyson

  27. Julia

  28. Greyson

  29. Julia

  30. Greyson

  31. Julia

  32. Greyson

  33. Julia

  Epilogue

  Southern Charmer Excerpt

  Thank You!

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Jessica Peterson

  About the Author

  Also by Jessica Peterson

  THE CHARLESTON HEAT SERIES

  The Weather’s Not the Only Thing Steamy Down South…

  Available for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

  Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat #1)

  Southern Player (Charleston Heat #2)

  Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat #3)

  Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat #4) Coming Fall 2019!

  THE THORNE MONARCHS SERIES

  Royal. Ridiculously Hot. Totally Off Limits…

  Available for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

  Royal Ruin (Flings With Kings #1)

  Royal Rebel (Flings With Kings #2)

  Royal Rogue (Flings With Kings #3)

  THE STUDY ABROAD SERIES

  Studying Abroad Just Got a Whole Lot Sexier…

  A Series of Sexy Interconnected Standalone Romances

  Read Them All for FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

  Lessons in Love (Study Abroad #1)

  Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2)

  Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad #3)

  Lessons in Losing It (Study Abroad #4)

  Where to Find Jessica

  Join my Facebook reader group, The City Girls, for exclusive excerpts of upcoming books plus giveaways galore!

  Follow my not-so-glamorous life as a romance author on Instagram @JessicaPAuthor

  Follow me on Goodreads

  Follow me on Bookbub

  Like my Facebook Author Page

  Published by Peterson Paperbacks, LLC

  Copyright 2019 by Peterson Paperbacks, LLC

  Cover by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs

  Photographer: Rafa Catala

  Cover Model: Fabián Castro

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected].

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.jessicapeterson.com

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter One

  Julia

  The castle was enormous. Foreboding.

  Just like the Scot who stood before Charlotte in the Great Hall. His dark, inscrutable eyes roving over her person, like she was his possession.

  His to take.

  He was a Baron. A rake. A murderer, if the rumors in London were true.

  He was also her new husband.

  His lordship crossed his arms over the barrel of his chest. He was dressed in naught but shirtsleeves and a kilt. Back to the fire that crackled in the fireplace, the outline of his broad shoulders glowing in the darkness.

  His eyes locked on hers. Haughty. A little…heated.

  Charlotte pulled back her shoulders. Preparing for battle.

  “You understand your duty as my wife, yes?” he asked.

  She tipped her head. “I am to provide you with an heir.”

  “We begin tonight. Ready yourself.”

  Then he turned and stalked out of the hall, footsteps echoing across the vast, empty space. A man—valet? footman?—cast Charlotte a sympathetic glance before scurrying after his master.

  She shivered but managed to keep her spine straight. She would not cower. Even if she did have to sleep with that beast tonight.

  It was a business transaction, nothing more, she reminded herself. He needed an heir. She needed safety. And there was no safer place than this fortress in the Highlands.

  Its walls kept the monsters of the world at bay.

  But what, she wondered, about the monsters within those walls? Who would protect her from them?

  She’d have to do the job herself, she decided.

  I pull up to the barn and hit the knob on my car stereo, killing the audiobook of My Romp With the Rogue. It’s the third book in my friend Olivia’s historical romance series, and so far, it’s pure deliciousness.

  I’ve always loved romance. In fact, I love it so much that I teach a class on it at the College of Charleston.

  But lately, I’ve been especially obsessed with the genre. Romance novels are just the comfort I’ve needed after my dad passed away last year. Mom passed two years before that.

  I miss my family, more than words can say. But romance makes me feel less alone. It makes me feel hopeful.

  Stepping out of my car, I notice there’s a shiny, hulking Yukon Denali parked next to me. The thing looks like it could eat my Mini Cooper for a snack. Everything about it screams aggressive, from the huge wheels to the giant chrome grill.

  It has to belong to one of the venture capital guys backing Rodgers’ Farms, my newest interior design project. I went to grad school at NYU, so I ran into corporate banking types plenty. All sharply cut power suits and pretentious need to splash out obscene amounts of cash.

  Judging by this guy’s flashy car, he’s no different. Yeah, I’m a professor of romance, so I know all about the danger of judging a book by its cover. I don’t mean to fall into the same trap. But seriously, just how big and shiny and chrome-covered does your car need to be?

  I check out the dilapidated barn in front of me. It’s a hot mess, from the peeling red paint to the gaping holes in the roof.

  It’s also charming as hell. Character galore and plenty of history to go with it, I imagine. Tons of potential.

  Exactly the kind of project I love—a historic property we can restore with a thoughtful modern twist.

  By day, I’m a professor of twentieth century literature (and romance!). I’ve been enamored with the bohemian ideals and lifestyles of literary greats since I could remember. On the side, I take on select interior design projects. My dad was an architect, and the two of us shared a passion for all things design related. Working on projects like this is my way of keeping Daddy close to my heart.

  I accepted this particular project because Luke, the owner, is my good friend Gracie’s boyfriend. He loved the design work I did at her downtown coffee shop, Holy City Roasters. I was his first pick to des
ign the farmer’s market and storefront he’s building out here on his farm on Wadmalaw Island. He grows the freshest heirloom produce and mills the tastiest grits in the area, and he plans to sell them in this barn.

  But first, we have to give the space a significant face-lift. Which is where the venture capital people come in. They’ll provide the money, while I’ll take care of the creative side of things.

  The barn door, hanging by a rusted metal hinge, is open. Looping my tote bag over my elbow, I step inside to see Luke and another man standing in the middle of the open space. As usual, I’m running a few minutes behind.

  “Hey, Julia!” Luke says, offering me a smile before pulling me into a hug. “How you been?”

  “I’ve been all right,” I reply. I’m smiling, too. One of my favorite things about Luke is his thick Southern accent. It’s authentic and charming, and I have no problem seeing why it affects Gracie so much. “Excited to get started here. Luke, your property is absolutely stunning.”

  Stepping back, he tucks his hands into the front pockets of his faded jeans and nods proudly. “Thank you. Gracie and I’ve been workin’ real hard to get it in shape.”

  My skin prickles with a strange, warm awareness.

  The heat of the other man’s gaze, I realize.

  Turning my head, I find a pair of icy blue eyes, rimmed with long, dark lashes, locked on my face.

  “Y’all know each other, right?” Luke is saying. “Julia, this is Greyson Montgomery.”

  “We’ve exchanged emails,” I reply. “But we’ve never actually met.”

  Greyson and his brother Ford are the founding members of a venture capital firm here in Charleston. They raise private money to invest in the city’s booming hospitality scene. Restaurants, bars, shops like Gracie’s, markets, hotels—you name it, Montgomery Partners is involved.

  I’ve worked with the firm before, when they helped Gracie realize her dream of expanding Holy City Roasters. Ford was my point person for that project; I never saw Greyson in person.

  “Greyson Montgomery,” the man says, holding out a hand. “Montgomery Partners.”

  I take it, giving it a firm shake. It’s huge and warm and engulfs my own.

  His eyes are still locked on mine.

  “Julia Lassiter. No fancy business name to show off. But I’m here to design Luke’s new storefront.”

  Greyson’s grip is firm, too. Not enough to hurt.

  Just enough to make my pulse jump.

  The fact that he’s ridiculously good looking isn’t helping matters. He’s tall, dark, and handsome personified. Brown hair neatly parted and combed. Scruff just as neat, trimmed close to his square jaw. Striking eyes and Superman shoulders that strain against his crisply tailored suit jacket.

  Greyson is dressed in what I call the Southern man’s power suit. Gucci loafers. Custom collared shirt and Ferragamo tie. Shiny alligator belt, the sterling silver buckle monogrammed with his initials. Not much different from those arrogant banking types I knew in New York.

  Meanwhile, I’m in platform clogs and a long, floral-patterned prairie dress. Hair a frizzy, wild, wavy mess on the account of Charleston’s ever-present humidity. A stack of mismatched bangles on one arm, and a tote bag printed with the cover of A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf hanging from the other.

  Greyson is still looking at me.

  What is this, some kind of staring contest?

  My lips twitch. I’m game.

  “So you’re the designer who went $15K over budget on the Holy City Roasters project,” he says. “Won’t be happening here. I’ll personally be overseeing every detail, down to the last square foot of countertop and gallon of paint. Understood?”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or deliver a smart, stinging reply.

  I go with the stinging reply.

  “You mean the project that’s been featured in local and national publications? The one that won a major design award? That pops up on social media so often, and led to such a boom in business, that Gracie Jackson is contemplating opening up a second Holy City Roasters location? You talking about that project, Greyson?”

  I hate his name. Very private school prepster.

  But for some reason I like saying it.

  He tilts his head. The ice in his eyes sparking with curiosity. Heat.

  Like I’ve piqued his interest and pissed him off, all at once.

  “That’s the one, Julia.”

  His words lilt with a gentlemanly Southern accent. Ju-ya. Electricity zips up my spine. Apparently I like it when he says my name, too. Voice rumbly and deep.

  “Then you’ve seen firsthand why quality craftsmanship and timeless materials matter. It’s important we preserve the history of places like this”—I gesture to the musty interior of the barn around us—“so that we preserve their stories, too.”

  Greyson finally drops my hand.

  “It’s important we turn a profit. Period. No one’s going to pay any mind to those stories of yours if this business is in the red before it even opens. We have a budget, and you’ll be sticking to it. I want to see Rodgers’ Farms succeed just as much as you do, Julia.”

  His eyes flash. Humor? Almost like he knows how much I like it when says my name.

  Okay. This guy is pompous, sure. But apparently he’s smart too.

  Wickedly smart.

  Electricity thrums between us as I hold his gaze. He towers over me, at least a foot taller and twice as broad.

  “They’re not my stories,” I say. “They belong to everyone. And this business is going to go under if we don’t differentiate it from others in the area. Which we do by creating not just a farmer’s market, but a destination that has a real sense of place. A real respect for history.”

  “Profit,” he says, crossing his massive arms.

  “Preservation.” I cross my arms, too, just to fuck with him. “The extra time and money is always worth it in the long run.”

  His gaze moves to my arms. “When was the last time you looked at a P&L statement?”

  “When was the last time your greed didn’t suck the life out of a priceless historical structure?”

  “Julia, it’s a barn.” He glances at Luke. “Meaning no offense. But let’s not forget we’ll be selling grits and organic produce here. This isn’t Harrod’s.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s a barn that I’m going to turn into the south’s preeminent farmer’s market and gathering place,” I reply, taking a step forward.

  “We,” he corrects. He doesn’t move forward. But he does lean toward me. Close enough for me to see the pink flush creeping its way up his neck. “We are going to do that. Where do you think the money for this work is coming from?”

  “If we do the renovation right, we can rent the barn out for events—weddings, rehearsal dinners, concerts. It’s a mess now, but if you had any imagination, you could see the possibilities for so much more.”

  I don’t mention that I already have a wedding lined up for the space. Olivia and her fiancé Eli are getting married, and they said they’d love to have the reception here.

  Greyson’s eyes flick down, then back up. “I have plenty of imagination.”

  Doubt it.

  “Why are you so involved all of a sudden?” I say. “You weren’t around for the Holy City Roasters project.”

  “Simple. We were juggling six other projects at the time, so I put Ford on Holy City Roasters. I’ll be your point person going forward. I can be hands on when the occasion calls for it.”

  “I’m sure you can. Though I doubt it’s as satisfying an experience for those involved as you think it is.”

  “It’s what I do for a living.”

  “Condescend?”

  He smirks. “Satisfy.” I catch a whiff of his aftershave. Smoky. Bergamot, maybe? “I’m very good at it.”

  “You know when you pay people to tell you these things, they don’t count, right?”

  “As a matter of fact, Julia, most people pay me. Literally. I’ve r
aised a hundred and seventy-five million dollars from investors this year alone.”

  Shit he’s good at this. Sparring. Spiting.

  Bragging about how much money he has.

  So arrogant.

  But damn, that cocky grin he’s wearing is so wicked.

  The literature professor in me does appreciate a good villain.

  A man with a story.

  Warmth pools between my legs when I think about his repeated—and pointed—use of my name. Like he’s practicing it. Getting it just right, so when he snarls Ju-ya as he takes my hair in his fist and slams into me from behind, I come from the gravelly sound alone.

  I blink. That’s an explicit little fantasy right there.

  I like it. Too much.

  I haven’t been laid in—God, has it really been six months now? Maybe that’s why I’m so keyed up all of a sudden. I had my regular hookups on repeat for a while. Once those petered out, though, I wasn’t in the mood to date or see new people. Not after losing what was left of my family.

  But now I’m feeling that tingle of interest again. Which is just perfect, considering this guy is my new—if temporary—boss.

  Oh. And an asshole. And totally not my type. I usually go for bookish guys. Bohemians. Free spirits like me, preferably with foreign accents and a fondness for poetry.

  “Please, y’all.” Luke takes a step forward, holding up his hands. “Please don’t make me call the authorities.”