Southern Player Read online

  Southern Player

  A Charleston Heat Novel

  Jessica Peterson

  Contents

  Also by Jessica Peterson

  Where To Find Jessica!

  1. Gracie

  2. Luke

  3. Gracie

  4. Gracie

  5. Luke

  6. Luke

  7. Gracie

  8. Gracie

  9. Luke

  10. Gracie

  11. Luke

  12. Luke

  13. Gracie

  14. Gracie

  15. Luke

  16. Luke

  17. Gracie

  18. Gracie

  19. Luke

  20. Luke

  21. Gracie

  22. Gracie

  23. Luke

  24. Gracie

  25. Gracie

  26. Gracie

  27. Luke

  28. Luke

  29. Luke

  30. Gracie

  31. Gracie

  32. Luke

  33. Gracie

  34. Luke

  35. Gracie

  36. Luke

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Southern Charmer Excerpt

  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) Coming Spring 2019!

  THE FLINGS WITH KINGS 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!

  Spanish Lessons (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: David Wagner

  Cover Model: Taylor Napier

  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

  Gracie

  He was a Duke.

  One of the richest, most powerful men in England.

  She was a bluestocking. A nobody who spent her days with books, tutoring girls from the village.

  “A strange duck,” as her uncle called her.

  She and the Duke inhabited different worlds. Moved in circles that never overlapped.

  But here in the privacy of his bedchamber, he was just Max. She was just Jane.

  And they were about to get naked.

  His blue eyes reflected the light of the fire as they met hers.

  “You asked me to aid you in your exploration of pleasure,” Max said. “I am honored by your trust, Miss DuPont. Know that you can ask anything of me, no matter how depraved you believe it to be, and I shall give it to you. Gladly.”

  Jane’s heart went soft, even as the need in her sex tightened. He understood.

  He made her feel safe. And wanton. All at once.

  “Depravity,” she managed, swallowing. “I’m intrigued.”

  Max’s lips twitched. Gaze locked on hers, he held up his hands in silent request.

  She nodded.

  He slipped his finger inside the low neck of her bodice. Her body rose into the simple caress, heaviness gathering between her legs.

  “Tell me something,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “What is it you’re really after? Within the pleasure? Beyond it?”

  Jane swallowed. Thought about her answer for one heartbeat, then another.

  “Intensity,” she said at last. “Transcendence.”

  Max smiled. “Ah. Merely the meaning of life, then.”

  “Not the meaning of life,” she replied. “Just the sensation of it. I want to feel alive.”

  His finger dipped lower, catching on her nipple. “Ask and you shall re—

  I blink at the sound of a horn. Drawing up short on the sidewalk, I narrowly avoid being run over by a gigantic SUV, scruffy bros hanging out the windows. It’s plastered with College of Charleston stickers. I hold up my hand in apology.

  As the bros drive away, I put that hand on my chest.

  My heart is pounding. Jesus, that was close.

  And Jesus is Max the Duke distracting. Delicious. Dedicated in all the right ways.

  I pull my ear buds out of my ears. Audiobooks are the bomb. But if I’m not careful, My Deal With the Duke is going to get me killed. It’s the second historical romance my brother’s girlfriend, Olivia, recently published. And just like her first book, My Enemy the Earl, it’s really, really good.

  So good it’s making me wish I could time travel to 1800s England to find a broad shouldered, erotically adventurous, politically woke Duke to hang out with. My love life has left me disheartened lately. The plan I’ve always had in my head—where I find my own happily ever after with my soul mate—hasn’t panned out the way I hoped it would by this point in my life.

  Looking both ways this time, I cross Meeting Street and hang a left onto Queen. The pavement wavers in the heat of the afternoon sun. I’ve barely walked half a mile, but sweat beads on my forehead and makes my tank top feel clammy against my skin.

  The heat is typical for mid-June in Charleston. Down here summer starts in May and usually doesn’t end until October. Ten miles away, at the beach, breezes make the heat bearable.

  But downtown? It’s a fiery, humid, airless furnace.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my city. Never want to leave. Its magic is considerably less potent, however, when you’re walking around with perpetual swamp ass.

  I pluck at my tank top, fanning it to get some air circulating. The heat is making me second guess my decision to head to my brother Elijah’s restaurant, The Pearl, for a quick bite. It’s a little after four, which means he’s about to feed his staff before dinner service begins. He always has his chefs make a little extra for drop-ins like me.

  But right now, I’m more thirsty than hungry. I just finished up one of my shifts behind the counter at Holy City Roasters, the coffee shop I own on Wentworth Street.
I walk to and from work every day—I live just down the street here on Queen. Usually the mile-long walk is enjoyable, especially in the morning.

  Today, though, it’s killing my appetite.

  Still. I know some grits and good conversation with my brother and his staff will make me feel better about things. I’ve been bumming a bit ever since my ex, Nick, broke things off a couple months back.

  To be honest, it’s not Nick I’m bumming over. Although I still feel a good bit of shame when I think about his reaction to some of the fantasies I shared with him. I didn’t even share the good ones. When I look back on it, I realize how much of myself I smothered—hid—to try and make Nick happy.

  I’m a romantic at heart. Always have been. I want to hit it off and feel all the feelings and experience great, real, lasting love.

  No, it’s not my break up that’s bumming me out. It’s that I can’t seem to find that kind of love, no matter how hard I try. And I try hard. I tried again after Nick, when I briefly dated another guy. But all he gave me was a hickey and a lingering sense of disappointment.

  Real love is probably the biggest line item on my list of things I thought would’ve lined up by now but haven’t—the soul mate, the home we’d make together, maybe even the family we’d start someday.

  Hard not to feel like I’m falling short when I see my friends and family enjoying that kind of perfect future. Granted, I see a lot of that perfection through the distorted lens of social media.

  Still, I want to get there. I’ve made my professional dreams come true, and now I’d like to start making my personal ones come true, too. But I can’t seem to make it happen, and I’m kind of at a loss for what I should do about it.

  Eli always says, “you’ll feel better with a full belly.” So I turn right onto the bustle of East Bay Street and head his way. Thumbing one strap of my bag off my shoulder, I look down and open it to drop my ear buds inside.

  I look back up.

  My gaze lands on a pickup truck pulled to the curb just outside Unity Alley—the Pearl’s address. The pickup is old—not quite vintage—but in impeccable shape. The chrome grill shines, not a smudge in sight. Tires are new. The candy apple red paint is spotless. Clean. Unmarred by dents or dirt.

  My heart skips a beat when I glimpse the guy moving behind it. The truck is big, and so is he. He’s tall and…brawny sounds cheesy, but that’s exactly what he is. All brawn and broadness, with shoulders that go on for a hundred miles and a whiskey barrel for a chest. Not quite linebacker big. But there’s something about the way he’s thickly muscled that gives the impression of athleticism. His movements speak to a sport-related grace.

  I feel a tug inside my head. Recognition. I slow my steps, tilting my head to get a better look.

  The guy shoves what looks to be an empty crate onto the bed of the truck. His fitted grey t-shirt rides up as he moves, revealing a slice of tanned, well-muscled stomach. And an especially hairy, dark blond happy trail that arrows down the taut plane of his lower abdomen, disappearing into his faded jeans.

  Jeans that fit like a glove. Bruce Springsteen-circa-1984 style.

  A drop of sweat lands in my eye. I blink it away.

  Clutching the bill of his beat up baseball cap in his hand, the guy tugs it off his head, revealing a sweaty mess of slightly curly, thick, dark blond hair—same shade as the happy trail. He runs a hand through it. Sets the cap back on his head, backwards this time. I can really see his scruff now. Just long enough to qualify as a beard.

  His movements are strong. Steady. Slow.

  His eyes catch on mine, and my stomach takes a nosedive. They’re a startling shade of blue.

  They’re wide open. A little wild in their frankness.

  These are the eyes of a man who knows what he wants.

  I’d know them anywhere.

  They belong to Luke Rodgers.

  My brother’s best friend, and the guy I’ve been nursing a crush on—the ridiculous, teenage kind of crush that calls to mind Dashboard Confessional songs and vampire-human-wereshifter love triangles—since we met more than a decade ago.

  How the fuck did I not recognize him sooner? I blame it on existential angst and the hot fictional Dukes I have on the brain. To be fair, we haven’t been seeing much of each other lately. I think the last time I talked to Luke was at Olivia’s birthday party a few weeks ago.

  “Gracie Jackson!” he says, a brilliant smile breaking out on his face as he slams the tailgate shut. “I know you been kickin’ ass and takin’ over the world, but that doesn’t mean you can forget about us little people, you hear? I haven’t seen you in forever. How the hell’ve you been, girl?”

  I smile so hard and so big I feel like my lips are pulled back all the way to my ears.

  Damn this sparkly vampire crush. It’s fun.

  “I’m hanging in there. It’s so great to see you, Luke.”

  “Glad I was late makin’ my delivery to The Pearl today. Wouldn’t have run into you otherwise.”

  Luke rounds the truck, and then he’s in front of me, six-three and sweaty but somehow still smelling like clean laundry. Without thinking I open my arms, going up on my toes.

  “I’m sweatin’ like a hooker in church,” he warns. “You don’t wanna hug me.”

  “Yeah I do,” I say, and wrap my arms around his neck. “I’ve missed you. How’re things?”

  He curls his arms around my waist and pulls me tight against him. Just like he always does.

  My body lights up. Like it always does.

  And just like it always does, the space between and around us electrifies. Snaps with possibility and yearning.

  For a second I close my eyes, drawing a small breath between my teeth. God, I love this. The weight settling between my legs. The way my chest aches the tiniest bit.

  Being in his arms is a stark reminder of just how ravenous I am. Sexually speaking.

  It’s been a long time since I felt this. Attraction. Raw desire. Nick was many things, but an animal in the sack he was not. Hell, the guy broke up with me when I told him I wanted to try some role play.

  Luke, though? If the rumors around town are true, Luke is the fucking gold standard. Pun intended.

  I’ve never acted on this thing I have for him. For a long time, we lived in different cities. When we were both in Charleston, we’d get together for the random coffee date and flirt shamelessly when we ran into each other, which was often enough. But ultimately we were looking for different things.

  And then there’s Eli to consider. I doubt my brother would be thrilled about us smushing our private parts together.

  I also wonder if the level of attraction I feel is one sided. I’m pretty confident that Luke must feel something. The energy between us is hard to ignore. But he’s a natural born killer. A handsome, confident, A-plus member of the male species who probably flirts with everyone.

  Fucks them, too, if those rumors really are true. I admit I’ve always wondered what he’s like behind closed doors.

  “Things are good,” he replies. “New place is comin’ along. You should come out to the farm sometime. I’d love to show you around. I’d also love to pick your brain about some stuff I been thinkin’ about. Growin’ my business. Branding my grits. How I can get pretty girls to come visit me more often, even though I live way out in the sticks.”

  For years, Luke played pro baseball. First in the major leagues for Chicago. But then an injury brought him back to Charleston to play for our AAA team, the Pirates. Last year he retired from the game for good and bought a thirty-acre farm on Wadmalaw Island. He grows all kinds of organic, heirloom produce out there, most of which Elijah buys for The Pearl.

  I grin. “Please don’t tell me you have a tractor.”

  “Please don’t tell me you think tractors are sexy, ’cause then we’re gonna have a real problem.”

  “A problem with liking hilarious old country songs too much? ‘She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy’ is probably my all-time favorite Kenny Chesney so
ng.”

  “Total classic. But naw. A problem with you keepin’ your hands off me. I ride that tractor all damn day, Gracie. All. Damn. Day.”

  “My head would probably explode.”

  “Probably? Definitely.”

  “There’s a joke in there about riding you instead.”

  Luke nods his head. “I set that one up for you real nice, didn’t I?”

  Laughing, I squeeze him a little tighter. Twenty seconds with Luke, and I already feel twenty times better.

  Turning my head, our eyes lock. His flash. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of interest.

  I fantasize about him leaning down. Sinking his teeth into my neck, sexy teenage vampire style.

  Give me your immortal soul, he’d say. Or at least your afternoon.

  Instead, Luke loosens his grip. His hands glide down the slope of my lower back, lingering half a beat too long.

  He lets me go.

  My entire being sighs with disappointment. Apparently I actually sigh, because Luke’s brows snap together, his expression softening.

  “That sounds serious,” he says. “Somethin’ on your mind, Grace?”

  “Long week,” I reply, swallowing. “Long month.” Long year.

  “Lemme buy you a beer. You can talk about it. Or not. I can talk about my tractor instead and how having that kind of throb between your legs makes life worth livin’.”