Southern Charmer Page 15

  And if I’m as capable as Olivia seems to think, then I’d know not to reward her trust by pushing her. Even though I’m on top, she’s the one in charge.

  She’s the one calling the shots.

  So as much as I want to get her naked and give her an orgasm or five and make love to her the way Gunnar would make love to Cate, I’m not going to.

  Not unless she specifically asks for it.

  We’ll stick to making out for the time being. Which I certainly don’t mind.

  Actually, all this dry humping takes me back to my teenage days in the backseat of my old beat up Ford. It’s fun. I feel like I’m seventeen again, doing all this shit for the first time.

  The way Olivia froze when I kissed her—the way she went boneless not long after—makes me think this is the first time she’s been properly kissed. The first time she’s been overwhelmed by desire.

  Or maybe it’s just been a while for her.

  Whatever the case, I follow her lead, and do my best to give her what she wants. When her hands rove over my body, touching every inch of my skin with reverence and care and curiosity, I do the same to her. I walk my fingers over her belly, her breasts, her neck.

  Olivia really likes it when I touch her neck. Especially when it’s my mouth that’s doing the touching. My mouth and tongue and teeth.

  She’s as soft as I imagined her to be.

  My heart—that’s soft, too. Soft and already sore from so much wanting.

  I want to make this girl mine.

  I think we’re finally moving in the right direction. Thank fuck.

  We make out for hours.

  My lips are raw. So is my dick from rubbing up against the zipper of my fly all night.

  But I still fight a pang of disappointment when Olivia’s kisses become less ardent, and then stop altogether. I look down to see her nodding off, head lolling on my shoulder.

  Her breathing evens out. I tuck her hair behind her ears. My arm is falling asleep, but I don’t move. I don’t want to wake her. Not yet.

  I know I need to go. Olivia hasn’t asked me to stay. Even though I want to.

  Lord, do I want to stay. Curl her body into mine and fall asleep breathing in the scent of her skin. Wake up together. Make breakfast. Talk books. Maybe get to third base before I have to go in to the restaurant.

  With a sigh, I give my arm a little shake.

  “Olivia,” I murmur in her ear. “I’m gonna go. But you should take off your jeans. They’re still wet, and I don’t want you catchin’ a chill.”

  She nods, not opening her eyes. “Okay.”

  “Can I see you day after next?” I ask. “I have a long day at The Jam tomorrow, but I should have some time the day after.”

  A pause. She rolls her lips between her teeth.

  My heart contracts as I wait for her reply.

  “Yeah,” she says at last. “I’d like that.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. I gently roll her off my shoulder and sit up. Roll off the bed, careful not to disturb her.

  “Promise me you’ll take off the jeans. I’d do it for you, but…”

  Her eyes are still closed when she nods again. Her fingers move sleepily to her fly. She undoes the button, raising her hips.

  Even in the dark, I can see her nipples, puffy and perfect, straining against the sheer cups of her bra.

  F-u-u-u-c-k.

  “Two days.” I quickly kiss her mouth. “I want to see you.”

  Wiggling out of her jeans, Olivia offers me a lazy smile. I glimpse the teeny tiny strap of a thong—red, too—and force myself to turn around. My cock is screaming bloody murder.

  “Good night, Eli.”

  “Night, sweetheart.”

  Olivia

  The next morning, I wake up on cloud nine. I finally took the leap.

  I made my choice. I’m going to be with Eli. For real.

  But then I promptly fall back to earth when I remember that making that choice means I’m not going back to Ted.

  I take a trembling breath, running a hand over my face.

  It’s time. I need to call Ted. Tell him our relationship is really over.

  I don’t know if I’m in love with Elijah. Not yet. But after feeling so free and so happy in his arms last night, I do know there’s no way I can marry Ted. As much as it’s going to kill me to hurt him like this, I have to tell him the truth. It’s not fair of me to allow him to hope we’ll be getting back together. Because we aren’t.

  Ted is a good guy. I would have a good life with him.

  But I can’t be myself with him the way I am with Eli. Ted doesn’t support my dreams. He doesn’t enjoy the same things I do. He doesn’t kiss me senseless. And he deserves to have someone be as crazy about him as I am about Eli.

  So I need to end things. Before I hurt him any more than I already have.

  My gut is telling me this is the right move. But a fresh bolt of dread moves through me when I grab my phone and pull up Ted’s number. He’s smiling in the picture I uploaded to his profile, looking handsome in his neatly pressed sweater and khakis.

  I know I have to trust myself. I need to make this call. But damn it, I don’t want to crush him.

  Taking a deep breath, I hit his number. The ringtone blares in my ear, making my pulse jump.

  I feel like I’m having an out of body experience. I’m really doing this. I’m breaking up with the guy I shared a beautiful, successful life with. The guy who spent a small fortune on a gorgeous diamond ring he picked out just for me. On paper, it makes absolutely no sense.

  But my heart says otherwise. So does my gut.

  I have no clue what’s going to happen next. Ending a three year relationship is always terrifying and upsetting. If I’m being honest, though, I also feel this sense of liberation. Letting go of Ted means my life is my own again.

  I want that. So, so badly. I see now that being with Ted made me feel tied down. Trapped.

  But being with Eli? That feels like freedom.

  When Ted finally picks up, his voice sounds different. Or maybe I’m just used to hearing Eli’s voice these days.

  We exchange our usual pleasantries. All the while my heart is beating hard. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I’m so sorry, I chant over and over again in my head. I’m so sorry I have to disappoint you like this.

  There’s a pause in our conversation. He waits for me to speak, like he knows I have something to say.

  Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes and let it out.

  “I am really sorry, Ted. But I have to end our relationship. For good.”

  Eli

  The Next Day

  I’m up early, elbow deep in biscuit dough before the sun is even up.

  For the twentieth time, I glance at my phone. I wonder if I should call Olivia. Invite her over to eat.

  And for the twentieth time, I look away. We texted a bit yesterday, but I was crazy busy at work. I thought about calling her when I got home, but it was almost one in the morning, and her windows were dark. I didn’t want to wake her.

  I also want to give her the space she needs. That’s just becoming more and more difficult to do. I like the way she makes me feel too much.

  I toss my phone onto the sofa. Best to keep it out of reach. At least until the sun is up.

  Using the mouth of a mason jar to cut the biscuit dough into even rounds—Grandma Mae’s old trick—my heart skips a beat when I remember the way Olivia surrendered to me the other night. The naked vulnerability in her voice when she said my name. Eli. Like she was begging me for something only I could give her.

  I’ve missed feeling like I have what it takes to do something, and do it well.

  I would so do Olivia well. I unleashed all that pent up sensuality of hers with just a kiss. Bet I could make her fucking howl if—when—we did more than that.

  Thinking about all the possibilities is way too fun.

  “Are you really humming ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ right now? I guess
that’s one way of handling the news.”

  I start, almost dropping the bowl I was about to plop in the sink. Naomi is standing at the counter, twirling her keys as she looks at me with a slightly alarmed expression.

  I guess I was actually humming. I’m never gonna live this down.

  “Uh,” I say, blinking. “No? Yes? Maybe?”

  Naomi shakes her head. “Who are you, and what have you done with the foul mouthed chef I know and love?”

  I roll my eyes, pretending to be absorbed in the dirty dishes I’ve piled up in the sink. “What news are you talkin’ about?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?” I say, turning on the faucet.

  A pregnant pause if there ever was one.

  “Oh, Eli.”

  Her tone—quietly distraught—makes me look up.

  Her eyes are wet. A tear slips down her cheek, and she looks away, wiping at it with the flat of her palm.

  In the five years we’ve been working together, I’ve never seen Naomi cry.

  My stomach plummets. The pleasant, happy warmth of a moment ago dissolves, and my blood suddenly rushes cold.

  Naomi doesn’t need to tell me The Jam is finally done.

  I know it just from the look on her face.

  I turn off the faucet and, not bothering to dry my hands, grab my phone off the couch. Sure enough, there are seven missed calls. Three from Naomi, one from The Jam’s manager Katie, and the rest from members of the restaurant group who’ve been my business partners since I opened The Pearl.

  Standing in my kitchen, I just stare at the screen. My pulse pounds. There’s a ringing in my ears.

  My eyes burn and I find it suddenly difficult to breathe. My lungs aren’t working.

  I blink away black spots that mar my vision.

  I imagine this is what it feels like to be mauled by an eighteen wheeler.

  “I am so, so sorry,” Naomi says, taking a step toward me.

  I take a deep breath through my nose. Try to shake the paralysis from my head. My heart.

  It’s okay. We’ll be okay.

  “We knew this was comin’,” I say, the well worn lines spilling out of my mouth. “I have no regrets, and you shouldn’t, either. We made food that I’ll always be proud of. We stuck to our guns and stayed true to who we are as chefs and as people. This isn’t a death sentence, Naomi. We learned a lot together, didn’t we?”

  The look in her eyes now—hell, is that pity?

  “You know you don’t have to be strong for me, right?” she says. “Don’t feed me your bullshit. It’s okay to admit you’re torn up about this. I sure as hell am.”

  My fingers tighten around my phone.

  “Of course it hurts,” I reply. “But it’s not a comment on our potential. Failure is not a death sentence, Naomi, it’s—”

  “An opportunity. You love that line, don’t you?”

  I meet her eyes. “What do you want from me?”

  She takes another step forward. “Chef, I want you to feel this. I can’t shoulder all this hurt and disappointment alone. I want you to acknowledge that this is a loss and that it fucking sucks. Stop pretending like you’re okay. Because I know you, and you’re not.”

  I’m gripped by a sudden, sharp surge of anger.

  I don’t do loss.

  I don’t do failure.

  Spearing a hand through my hair, I look down at my phone. Another call is coming in. This time from Luke.

  Like it always does in this city, word is spreading fast about The Jam closing.

  I ignore the call.

  “Look,” I say quietly. “This is new territory for me. I gotta process it in my own way. I need—”

  Well. I’m not sure what I need.

  Scratch that. I need Olivia.

  I need her, and I need to get away.

  I run through the week in my head. With The Jam closing, I can send Naomi over to The Pearl. Put her on the line and let Maria cover for me while I’m gone.

  I know I’m running with my tail between my legs. But I haven’t taken time off—real time off—in more than a year. Maybe getting out of town, and getting out of the kitchen, will give me some much needed time to reflect.

  Much needed perspective.

  Looking up at Naomi, I say, “I’ll call a meeting with everyone this afternoon. We’ll iron out the details. Get you and the staff squared away, and start the ball rolling on selling off whatever equipment we don’t want for The Pearl. Anything else, we can deal with when I get back.”

  Naomi’s eyebrows leap to the top of her forehead. “Get back from where?

  “The cabin,” I say. “Where else?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Olivia

  It’s late afternoon by the time I have a chapter ready for Eli. My hands shake a little as I gather the pages into a neat pile and fasten them together with a binder clip. I’m nervous to see him again.

  I’m also still reeling a little bit from my conversation with Ted. I wouldn’t say he was cool with me breaking up with him. But he was very civil about the whole thing. Calm, even. Suspiciously so. Which, again, makes me think we didn’t love each other enough to be together. Much less to get married.

  My gut was right. Breaking up for good was the right move. I guess I’m just a little stunned that this is happening, and it’s happening so quickly.

  But I’ve had a day to collect myself. I feel much better about everything than I did yesterday after the call. Yet another reason why Ted and I aren’t right for each other. If I can recover in the space of a day from our permanent breakup, that’s a pretty good sign Ted is not the one.

  Maybe Eli is.

  He’s never home when I drop off my chapters. But imagining that he might be fills me with the kind of nervous excitement Cate feels when Gunnar walks into the room. I may or may not have written in a new kissing scene earlier, if only so I could put into words all the things I felt in Eli’s arms the other night.

  Cate and Gunnar shared a few hours, a kiss, nothing more. She did not know him. She certainly had no claim to his attentions.

  She seduced him. She kissed him. And then she’d left.

  Feeling anything but hatred for Gunnar Danes was forbidden.

  Still, she could hardly breathe for the intensity of this decidedly forbidden thing she felt.

  Reading those lines, I press my fingertips to my lips. I can still taste him, the cinnamon and the male sweetness that is so particularly Elijah Jackson.

  The fact that I can’t stop thinking about him assures me I’m making the right decision. I woke up this morning with the sun inside my chest, bright and burning. I could still smell him everywhere. On the sheets. In my hair.

  With him all over me, I felt free and confident and alive.

  My heart ached—still does—when I think about how he kissed me.

  The sharp-edged softness in his eyes when he said I want you so bad it’s eating me up inside.

  My stomach dips forcefully. I press a hand to it, sucking in a breath.

  No one’s ever wanted me like that. Certainly not Ted, who’s always responsible and even-keeled.

  I want to see Eli again.

  My gut is telling me to do it. To go there.

  Taking a deep breath, I do.

  I open the door and head down the stairs.

  That’s when I catch a whiff of tobacco. Not cigarette smoke. Something more earthy. Pleasant.

  Eli’s cigar. Same kind I smelled when he shooed away the birds in the street that first night.

  Holy shit, is he actually home?

  I clamber down the remaining steps, my legs suddenly numb. Turning onto the lane, my heart leaps into my throat when I see him shoving a cooler onto the bed of a humungous black pickup truck. He turns. Picks up a canvas duffel bag and throws that onto the bed, too. A cigar is clamped between his teeth.

  Billy wanders around the back tires, wagging his tail and panting.

  It’s the fact that Eli is wearing a
shirt—a broken-in white tee that his arms fill out nicely—that tips me off.

  Something is wrong.

  Does he regret what happened the other night? Did I chase him out of town with my ridiculous five hour make out session?

  Clutching the chapter to my chest like a life preserver, I step forward.

  Eli looks up at the same moment. His eyes are so, so green in the late afternoon light.

  They’re stormy. His brow is furrowed.

  I start to shake all over again.

  “Hey,” I manage.

  Plucking his cigar out of his mouth and balancing it on the edge of the pickup’s bed, he stalks toward me. “Hey you.”

  Hey you. What is it about this man’s accent that makes everything, even the smallest of greetings, sound like a promise of sex and adventure?

  Eli wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. A small wave of relief—arousal hot on its heels—washes through me when he presses a kiss to my cheek.

  He smells like cigar and aftershave.

  He’s touching me with a familiarity and a desire that’s new. His hands are sure as they slide from the small of my back to rest just above my butt. His pinkies flirt with my underwear, which peek over the waistband of my jeans. And he lingers a beat too long with his face half an inch from mine. His eyes flick to my mouth.

  Mine flick to his. Did I really get to kiss those gorgeous, full lips?

  Do I get to do it again?

  Part of me was worried Eli would pretend we hadn’t even crossed the line we did last night. Another part hoped he’d acknowledge it just like this. With touching and teasing.

  He can’t keep his hands off me. And I love it.

  I loop my arms around his neck and hug him back, arching against him ever so slightly. A slow, warm beat of lust unfurls between my legs.

  “What’s going on?” I murmur into his neck.

  His fingers graze my ass. “Hm?”

  “This.” I pluck at the back of his shirt. “It’s not you.”

  A beat of heated silence. His chest presses against mine as he takes a breath. Lets it out.