Southern Charmer Page 11

  Makes me wonder what Eli is reading. No way he’s reading any romance other than mine.

  Right? The thought is too lovely to even consider.

  I go through Eli’s edits while I eat. Then I have coffee, do some research on publishing online. The weather is getting nicer with each passing day, the temperature and humidity dropping just enough to leave us these slightly crisp, gorgeously sunny days. So when I’m done eating, I grab Billy, and together we take long walks along the battery. Minus his gigantic poops, he’s a great walking buddy.

  Some days I squeeze in a yoga class.

  Then I grab a shower and head over to Holy City Roasters for the afternoon. Grace and I chat for a while about her coffee and my book. My chapters are averaging about ten pages—two thousand words, give or take—and, sitting down at my usual table by the window, I don’t leave until I finish a whole new chapter for Eli to edit that night. Sometimes it takes me all of an hour and a half to bang it out. Other times, I’m still typing away at closing time.

  On days when I finish at a decent hour, I take myself out on dates with the city. I go where I want, when I want. I peruse shops. Tour historical homes. Pop into bars. Try new restaurants.

  People weren’t kidding about the food down here. It’s insane. Each meal is better than the last. Just when I think I’ve found a new favorite spot—an Italian place on Upper King Street that serves pizza with the best, crispiest crust ever, or the tiny French-Spanish restaurant that serves the most delicious gazpacho I’ve had—I eat another amazing meal at a new restaurant.

  I’ll meet Julia for dinner sometimes, or dessert. She introduces me to some of her colleagues at The College of Charleston. I have a great chat with the English Department head about their creative writing program (yes, it exists, but no, they’re not hiring). One of the tenured professors, Kathryn Score, actually writes romance that she indie publishes herself. I meet with her twice to pick her brain. She writes contemporary romance, which means her market is a little different than mine. But she hooks me up via Facebook with a few historical authors who are also self-publishing their books. They are a literal treasure trove of information.

  Slowly, slowly, I am stitching myself into the fabric of life in this city. I start to recognize faces around town. People stop to say hello. I run into Kathryn at Holy City Roasters, and we decide to have a standing writing date there every other day.

  I have my favorite smoothie shop. My favorite place for takeout. My favorite bar (well, my favorite bar after the one at The Pearl).

  I walk everywhere. My fancy car sits idle in the driveway. I don’t miss it.

  I walk so much that when I finally fall into bed at the end of every day, I pass out hard. I’m so tired that even the thoughts that have weighed so heavily on me lately don’t have a chance to enter my mind before I’m asleep.

  But I do have a thought first thing when I wake up.

  That thought is always about Eli.

  What he thought of last night’s chapter.

  Why I had an explicit dream about him. Again.

  When I’m going to see him. As much as I love his edits, I miss him. Being around him. I like who I am when we’re together. He’s working, I know. Trying to save The Jam. Doesn’t mean I don’t wish our schedules matched up a little better.

  He’s making me forget myself.

  Making me lose grip on the fact that this isn’t my life. Which makes me wonder if it could be.

  The following Monday, I wake up to an empty front stoop.

  Puzzled, I immediately glance across the alley. Eli’s house is locked up: doors shut, lights out. I have to admit I was really hoping to see him today. He told me he has Mondays off.

  Is he okay? Did he not like chapter eight?

  Did he not get to it because he took someone home last night? Someone he’s probably worshipping with those big, calloused, knowledgeable hands of his…

  I shiver, surprised by the stab of jealousy in my gut. I have no right to be jealous. I’m the one with a potential fiancé waiting for me at home. And I’ve known Eli for, what, a little more than one week?

  Gorgeous, talented, tatted up guys like him probably go for girls who look like Gisele and paint like Picasso anyway. Girls who can convincingly rock vintage Levi’s, who have tans and talents and the kind of thick, wavy, ombre-colored hair that is just made for Instagram.

  I am not that girl. I am his friend. He said so the other morning.

  But when I head back inside to see my phone lighting up with a call from Eli, butterflies take flight in my belly anyway.

  I pick it up.

  “I was starting to get worried,” I say. “I didn’t find any edits or breakfast goods on my step this morning.”

  Eli laughs, the deep, extra rumbly sound making my heart stutter. Sounds like he just woke up.

  The image appears inside my head and stays there. Eli on his back in bed, naked. One hand over his head. Sheets riding low over his hips. His scruff even scruffier than usual. Hair sticking up every which way.

  I put a hand on the counter to steady myself.

  “That’s ’cause I’m holding ’em all hostage,” he says. “I’m off today. Come over for breakfast—we can talk edits over coffee and sweet potato pancakes.”

  A wave of relief hits me head on.

  So Eli wasn’t with an ombre-haired painter last night.

  I smile.

  Shit. I don’t want this information to make me smile. I don’t want it to make me feel or do anything.

  But it does.

  Oh, does it.

  “Do I have time to shower?” I say, running a foot over the prickly hair on my shin.

  “Take all the time you need, Olivia,” Eli replies. “Just let yourself in when you’re ready.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Olivia

  I take way too long getting ready. I don’t want to dress up, but I do want to look my best.

  Unfortunately, the “careless, casual, but cute” look I’m going for takes a lot of freaking effort. I try on every item of clothing I’ve bought recently. Eventually I settle on my boyfriend jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. Simple, but comfortable.

  By the time I get out the door, I am absolutely starving.

  It’s already a glorious day. Fall is really in the air this morning, the leaves on the trees turning almost violent shades of yellow and red and orange. I walk next door, my hair fluttering in a soft, crisp breeze.

  I breathe in lungful after lungful of air. It’s scented with salt and sun. Turn my face up to the wide open sky and close my eyes for a minute, just soaking it in.

  Just being in this perfect, perfectly content moment.

  Never thought my weekday mornings would ever look or feel like this. Usually I hate weekdays, dread sitting like a brick in my stomach from the second I crawl out of bed to the second I fall back in it, too exhausted to even read.

  That’s just how it is, my mom says.

  Adulting sucks, my friends say.

  Think about our future, Teddy reminds me.

  But standing here in the sun, ideas for my novels taking shape inside my head, a day of good food and good writing time ahead, I get this pressing, urgent feeling that maybe I really can do things differently.

  That maybe there’s a different way to live.

  Maybe I want to live like this. Happy and free and excited about my day, rather than dreading it.

  But is this even real? Can this feeling last? Is being true to myself just an exercise in idiotic self-indulgence? And what about all the people I’ll have to hurt or disappoint to stay here?

  It’s such a huge risk. A huge, huge risk. One I am not sure I’m prepared to take.

  Then again, is anyone ever prepared to take a leap into the great unknown, no safety net, no guarantee they won’t fall on their faces?

  Are you ever ready to look yourself in the eye and acknowledge who you truly are? That takes guts.

  I have never been a gutsy girl. I was raised to
be a good girl.

  And now I’m starting to realize what a prison that has become.

  I also realize I haven’t thought about Ted all that much this past week.

  I glance at the pretty brick house, its doors thrown open to the morning, ahead on my right.

  I’ve thought about Eli instead.

  Eli and Gunnar. A chef and a fictional Earl. Both of them handsome. Dangerously talented with their hands. Smart.

  Neither of them the man whose ring is sitting in my drawer.

  The scent of bacon yanks me back to the present. My stomach rumbles.

  Despite the crush of thoughts inside my head, I smile.

  Breakfast is waiting. And I’m not going to let my confusion, my indecision, ruin a meal made by Chef Elijah Jackson.

  Billy greets me when I step into the kitchen, but Eli is nowhere to be found.

  There’s something warming in the oven. It smells so good it almost makes me dizzy.

  I call Eli’s name, but I get no answer. I move through the house, looking left and right. Only when I look out the windows into the tiny backyard do I find him.

  He’s lying in a hammock—shirtless, of course—his ankles crossed. All smooth skin. Biceps. Chest hair.

  He’s reading a paperback book.

  The door is open. I step out, the grass rustling beneath my feet.

  When I get closer, I catch a glimpse of the cover. It’s bright yellow.

  The Duke of Midnight by Elizabeth Hoyt. One of my all time favorites.

  Turning a page, Eli chuckles. A low, masculine rumble.

  My heart seizes inside my chest. It’s like the wind got knocked out of me, seeing this man—this gorgeous, talented, half-naked man—in a hammock reading Elizabeth Hoyt and chuckling out of sheer enjoyment.

  Billy appears at my side. I pat him on the head, a silent thanks for his moral support in this moment of extreme distress brought on by too much joy and lust and longing.

  “Eli,” I say, a little breathless. “What are you doing?”

  He looks up from the book. His eyes, clear and warm in this light, catch on me. He smiles.

  “Just brushin’ up on all the greats in your genre,” he replies. “Figure it’ll help me help you make Gunnar and Cate really shine.”

  He folds down the corner of the page and closes the book, getting up.

  I feel like I’m living inside a movie as I watch him stride across the lawn, bare chested and smiling and heading for me.

  Holding the book he’s reading for me. To help me make my romance the best it possibly can be, because that’s my dream and he wants my dreams to come true. No matter how weird or difficult they might be.

  Eli is a dream come true.

  He wraps me in a hug and says my name and cracks a joke about oral sex in the nineteenth century. If I didn’t know it before, I know now that I am falling for this man.

  Hard.

  Fast.

  I don’t want to. I didn’t mean to. But here I am, curling into his enormous arms, wanting more than anything to be with him. All day. All night.

  My body leaps. My heart does, too.

  Maybe I’ve taken the big leap without even knowing it. Makes sense: he’s the only person I’ve ever been able to truly be myself with.

  I cling to him. Too scared and too turned on to let him go. His body feels so good against mine. So certain.

  “You okay, Yankee girl?” he murmurs into my neck, his beard scraping against the sensitive skin just underneath my jaw.

  A bolt of desire lands right between my legs, spreading liquid heat throughout my body.

  I have never, in all my life, been as attracted to someone as I am to Eli. I always thought chemistry like this only existed in romance novels. But now I know that it’s real, I know it’s terrifying, too, and so painfully sweet part of me thinks I’ve died and gone to heaven.

  Teddy and I are on a break. We agreed it was okay to be with other people. I wouldn’t be doing anything wrong by hooking up with Eli. I just—

  I’m scared.

  We already get along so well outside of the bedroom. What if we get along inside it, too? What if the sex is great? (I have a feeling it’d be really, really great). I’ll keep falling for him—how could I not?—and suddenly it will be the end of October, and I won’t be able to go back to Ted because I’m in love with Elijah Jackson.

  Am I really ready to make that choice?

  “I don’t know,” I say, more to myself than to Eli.

  He holds me a little tighter. Pulls me a little closer against him.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t sound okay.”

  How can I be okay when I’m falling in love with a guy and a life that are completely at odds with everything I’ve ever worked for?

  “I’m overwhelmed,” I offer, relieved that I don’t have to look him in the eye right now. I don’t think I could handle it. “As usual, Eli, you’re overwhelming me with your awesomeness.”

  He begins to lightly stroke his thumb over the small of my back. I can’t help it; I arch into him, wanting more. It’s a tiny movement, but it’s turning me on in a big way.

  I love the feel of his hands on me.

  I just love the way he makes me feel, period.

  “If you need to go, Olivia, just tell me. I hate that I’m upsettin’ you.”

  “You’re not—” Upsetting me. You’re turning me inside out. “That’s not it. You’ve been nothing but excellent, Eli.”

  Eli pulls back, arms still looped around my middle, and looks down at me, brows pulled together in concern.

  “I’m never gonna push you, Olivia. But one of these days, I’d really like to know what’s goin’ on in that head of yours.”

  I swallow, searching his eyes. Like Julia said, I need to figure this out for myself. It’s obvious I’m too swayed by other peoples’ opinions. I don’t want to involve Eli in my decision making. I don’t want his opinion. Not yet.

  I need to learn to trust myself.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I need some time. I just—I guess I wasn’t expecting you and I—I didn’t expect that we’d get so close. I wasn’t prepared for you.”

  Eli grins, reaching up to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear.

  The simple gesture—the handsomeness of his blunt tipped fingers—sends my pulse into a tailspin.

  “Good thing I was prepared for you. I always make extra food, just in case beautiful women show up at my door.”

  I laugh. Always so charming.

  “C’mon,” he says, tilting his head toward the kitchen. “Let’s go eat. You’ll feel better with a full belly.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eli

  Olivia cleans her plate in record time. Watching her enjoy my food makes me feel better than I have all week. It’s been one shit storm after another at work. The Jam is on life support. It’s obvious we’re going to have to close it down. I was fine with that in theory, but now that it’s happening, it’s a bitter pill to swallow.

  But being with Olivia chases all those heavy thoughts away. When she asks for another pancake, and then slathers it in butter and syrup, I have to stop myself from saying what I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

  I wanna be more than friends, Yankee girl.

  I want to take her upstairs and peel her clothes off. Fuck her for a week straight. Wake up next to her.

  But she just asked for time. When she’s ready, she’ll let me know. This whole thing just feels so delicate. One wrong move, and I’m worried I’ll send her running.

  I’ll just enjoy her company in the meantime. I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give me.

  “So you never really told me why you write what you do,” I say, filling her mug with more coffee. “Why romance?”

  Olivia sets her fork on her plate and sighs. A contented, sexy as hell sigh. My dick takes note. Which is just perfect, considering I’m going commando in sweats right now. You can
see everything. I mean everything.

  I look down to confirm. Yep. Even the ridge on the head of my dick is visible through the thin fabric.

  Fuck.

  I hang out on the other side of the island so Olivia can’t see the very obvious wood I’m sporting.

  “I came to the genre as a reader first,” she says, cupping the mug in her hands and settling her elbows on the counter. “Reading romance is kind of what got me through my twenties. I plowed through everything I could get my hands on. I loved the adventure in the stories. The way the heroines had real agency—a real say in how their lives ended up, despite the horribly repressive society they lived in.”

  I nod, sipping my own coffee. “Their bravery is admirable. So is their willingness to make hard choices. I think that’s what I like best about romance. How the main characters never take the easy way out.”

  Olivia’s eyes soften when they meet mine. For a second I think I’ve upset her again. But then she blinks, clearing her throat, and takes a large swallow from her mug.

  “You’re a very perceptive reader.”

  I smirk. “It’s what makes me a good editor.”

  She scoffs, smiling and rolling her eyes.

  “Anyway,” she continues. “The few friends I told about my romance reading habit weren’t exactly supportive. They thought it was kind of a joke. They called it escapist trash.”

  “Small-minded bastards.”

  “Right? But I’m kind of like, wait, I think the escape actually improves our reality. I know my life is fuller and better and more interesting because I’ve read romance. Don’t we have a lot to learn from one of the few genres that openly embraces female ambition and sexuality? Isn’t it nice to see women in books having killer lives and killer curl-your-toes orgasms? I also love that romance always ends with a happily ever after. It’s such a nice reminder to stay hopeful, you know?”

  I look at her, my heart thumping in my chest. Her mention of orgasms is doing nothing to help my hard on situation.