Southern Charmer Page 8

  I definitely wouldn’t mind getting to know Olivia better. As a person. But also in bed.

  See if we can recreate that just fucked hair she sported that first morning.

  I’m only human, y’all.

  I start when Louise guides a small paperback with a turquoise cover into my hands. Say Yes to the Marquess by Tessa Dare.

  “Start with this one,” she says. “Oh! And then the newest Sarah MacLean—Wicked and the Wallflower. So good…”

  Half an hour later, I walk out of Rainbow with a stack of books and instructions to purchase an e-Reader, where I can download the list of titles Louise didn’t have available at the shop. Good thing I’m a fast reader. I usually go through a book or two a week—more if I can manage it.

  Time to get to know these dudes in breeches Olivia likes so much.

  Later that night when I get home from the restaurant, I open my mailbox to find a neatly arranged packet inside, the pages held together by a small black binder clip.

  The light of a nearby gas lamp catching on the first page, I smile. My Enemy the Earl by Olivia Gates.

  I wonder if that’s her real name, or if it’s a pen name she uses to protect the innocent.

  A post-it note is stuck on the page underneath her name. Her writing is even and careful.

  Eli—

  THANK YOU again for reading this. Excited (nervous) to know what you think.

  —Definitely NOT the Most Badass Romance Novelist Ever

  I glance up at her window. I feel a stab of disappointment when I see that it’s dark. She’s probably asleep. Most normal people are at eleven-thirty on a Wednesday night.

  Still wish she were awake. I’d throw a rock at her window, high school style, and invite her over for a drink. Pick her brain about this Earl. Make her laugh again. The belly kind of laugh.

  At least I have this chapter to read. After the day I’ve had, I’m grateful for any kind of distraction. I got more bad news about The Jam—we’re running low on money even after my emergency cash infusion and the time I spend over there, and we’re going to have to pull the plug in the next few weeks if things don’t improve. Which doesn’t seem likely.

  Tucking the packet underneath my arm, I head inside. Billy lumbers over to say hello. I give him a good scratch behind his ears. Let him out in the backyard. I take off my shirt—sweet baby Jesus, I’ve been waiting all day to do that—and grab a glass of water before letting Billy back in.

  The two of us head upstairs to my bedroom.

  Turning on the light, an image flashes through my head. Me throwing Olivia onto the bed, the mattress dipping as I climb on top of her. She’d be breathless, I’d be hard, we’d be naked in five seconds flat.

  No, scratch that. I would take my time with her. Kiss her hard and deep. Put my hands on every fucking square inch of her body. Spread her legs and eat her out for an hour, driving her so wild she’d be tearing out my hair, waking up the neighbors.

  She’d be anything but careful and collected. I’d unleash the fire I saw in her eyes.

  I blink, the image of Olivia on my bed dissolving into Billy, who has jumped onto the mattress and is now contentedly licking his nonexistent balls.

  “Dude, come on,” I say, trying to urge him to the other side of the bed.

  He doesn’t budge.

  I sigh. Dog’s getting too comfortable up there.

  Been too long since I had another human in my bed.

  I take a quick (cold) shower, washing away the smell of the kitchen, and brush my teeth. Then I grab a pen from the drawer in my bedside table, prop myself up against the pillows, and get to work on My Enemy the Earl.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. But I’m immediately struck by the seductive mix of beauty and humor in Olivia’s prose. I can hear her voice, clear as day, in the structure of her sentences. In the word choices she makes. One of my favorite paragraphs comes when Gunnar, the hero, is eye fucking a stranger across the ballroom—a stranger he’ll later discover is Catherine, the daughter of his family’s enemy. The Juliet to his Romeo.

  Gunnar opened his eyes, and the beautiful stranger was there. A few strides and he’d be at her side. Inside his veins his blood warmed. He tried to fight it. He knew this feeling—the devil inside him, simmering to life. He should run, find a freezing pond to leap into, a priest.

  I can fucking relate to that, man.

  The story sucks me right in. Everything about this book is ardent. The characters. The angst. The sexual tension.

  The vulnerability.

  This isn’t the work of the girl in the Chanel sunglasses and silk dress.

  This is the work of the girl who looked like she was coming while she ate my food. The girl whose eyes flashed, naughty and bright, when she talked about dukes who were good in bed.

  The girl who is burning up inside.

  She is so fucking talented. Which strangely enough makes me question if I’m talented enough to be with her. If I’m good enough to be with someone who so clearly has a bright future ahead of her. Because my future is looking pretty fucking bleak right now.

  What if I’m too simple, like that one critic implied? Too stupid for someone as smart as Olivia?

  Holding up the pages, I look down to see that I’m pitching a tent. Intelligence has always been a huge turn on for me.

  I’ll take care of my dick in a minute. I gotta find out what happens after Gunnar and Cate’s first witty exchange.

  So I shove those nasty thoughts from my head and keep reading. When I flip a page, only to find it’s the last one—Goddamn it, Olivia gave me exactly ten pages, not a sentence more—I literally curse out loud.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Billy looks up from his pretend balls. We meet eyes.

  “What?” I say. “It was just getting good. Gunnar was about to give Catherine a ‘private tour’”—air quotes—“of his castle.”

  If Billy could shrug—who gives a fuck?—he would right now.

  He goes back to his butt.

  I re-read the ten pages. Then read them again.

  I make a few notes. Mostly about trimming stuff down.

  I read and I write and I want. Reaching down, I give myself a few light strokes. My dick feels hot and huge in my hand.

  I want to see more of this woman. The one who writes with such playful verve and eroticism and obvious skill.

  I stroke a little harder now. I feel my orgasm approach at lightning speed. I’m so hard it hurts. One, two vicious strokes, and then I come, my hips bucking off the bed as I spill into my palm. Jet after jet of hot cum.

  After I clean myself up, I get back to Gunnar and Cate.

  I have read exactly zero romance up to this point. But I’ve read enough novels in my lifetime to recognize quality storytelling when I see it.

  My Enemy the Earl is top quality.

  I can’t help but notice the way Olivia wrote longingly about freedom and choice. It comes across loud and clear that her heroine feels trapped by her life. By convention.

  Cate lost herself in Gunnar’s world, wondering what it would be like to be him. A handsome man, whose life was freedom and possibility. A life that was much, much different from her own.

  I keep coming back to that line. I make a note to ask her about it.

  As much as I feel like I’m getting to know Olivia—the real Olivia—by reading her work, I also feel like I have more questions than answers about her. I know Catherine is a fictional character. But how much of her is based on Olivia’s own experiences? Why choose freedom as a theme if it wasn’t something Olivia wrestled with in her real life?

  It’s after two by the time I put down My Enemy the Earl. I’m tired and turned on again. Frustrated and curious. Hopeful but cautious.

  I’m learning Olivia. The more I learn, the more I want.

  I’m never one to deny myself. If I want something—someone—I go for it.

  But what if Olivia isn’t there for the taking? What if I reach for her, only t
o have her slip through my fingers? I’m about to lose a restaurant. Losing a girl just might push me over the edge.

  Running a hand down my face, I will the thought to go away.

  I’m being ridiculous. I’ve known the girl for all of, what, three days?

  I turn off the light, determined to sleep off this second hard on.

  Determined to stop wanting this girl so damn bad.

  I’d be lying, though, if I said I’m not thinking about what food I should bring over to her tomorrow morning along with my edits.

  Someone’s gotta keep her fed so she can finish this story.

  That someone’s gonna be me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eli

  I climb the carriage house steps, the first chapter of My Enemy the Earl in one hand and two foil wrapped egg-and pimiento-cheese biscuit sandwiches, still warm from the oven, in the other. The plastic handle of a travel coffee mug dangles from my pinkie finger.

  Knocking on the door with my elbow—more like thudding—I wait.

  My heart’s doing this funny little dance in my chest. I glare down at it, like I can will the damn thing into submission.

  I’m tired as fuck—I don’t sleep much these days, thanks to everything going on at The Jam—but I feel strangely decent. Energized, even. Like the passion in Olivia’s writing has reignited my own or something. I found myself wide awake before seven, wondering if I had enough butter in the fridge to whip up a batch of Grandma Mae’s biscuits.

  I had just enough.

  So here I am, two hours later, flour in my hair and a stupid fucking smile on my face, waiting impatiently for Olivia to open her door.

  When she does, I feel like I’ve been punched square in the gut.

  Her wide blue eyes light up and she smiles. This wide, unguarded, totally gorgeous smile of surprise. She’s wearing a sweatshirt and these tiny little pajama shorts that show off her muscular, lithe legs.

  Her dark hair is everywhere.

  I’m struck speechless. Literally speechless. I just look at her.

  Her. The girl who writes so vulnerably about longing and sensuality and freedom.

  The girl I’m smiling at like she hung the goddamn moon.

  Lord above.

  “Hi!” she breathes, suddenly a little shy when her eyes flick to the pages in my hand. “Oh my God, don’t tell me you already read it.”

  I clear my throat. “First thing I did when I got home last night. You kept me up late, girl.”

  “Is that a good thing?” Her smile fades. “Or a bad one?”

  I hold up the pages. “This? This is one of the best damn things I’ve read in a long time.”

  Olivia blinks, her lips parting in happy disbelief. Her cheeks flush with pleasure.

  “Really?”

  “Really. I’ll tell you more if you let me come in and feed you some breakfast,” I say, nodding inside.

  She bites her lip, opening the door wider. “You really have to stop being such a great neighbor. I’m never going to be able to pay you back.”

  “I don’t want to be paid back.” I follow her to the tiny but stylish kitchen. The whole place is actually pretty stylish. No surprise there. I’ve met the owner of this place, Julia, and she told me she was into antiques. “I just want you to eat. And to write more. Gunnar and Cate’s chemistry burns right off the page. Please tell me they’re going to get it on soon.”

  Olivia is still smiling when she turns to grab a couple plates and some napkins.

  “I have to torture them a bit first,” she replies.

  I move beside her, opening cabinets until I find two coffee mugs.

  Her arm brushes mine when she reaches inside a drawer for spoons. My skin prickles to life.

  The air between us tightens. Thrums with a low current of electricity.

  “Sorry,” she says, quickly retreating to the safety of the small island.

  I glance at her. She’s studiously unwrapping the biscuits, not looking at me.

  Her cheeks are pinker than they were a second ago.

  Is she uncomfortable? Embarrassed? Aroused?

  “Torturing the characters really amps up the tension,” she continues, still not looking up from the biscuits. “As delicious as the sex can be, I happen to think the stuff leading up to it can be even juicier.”

  I unscrew the top from the travel mug and pour the coffee into the mugs. I already put half and half in it, just in case Olivia didn’t have any.

  “Interesting theory. What kind of juicy stuff are we talking about?”

  “All kinds of juicy stuff.” She looks at the biscuits, bits of melty pimiento cheese oozing out from the sides. “Christ, Eli, these look incredible. Don’t tell me you—”

  “Made them from scratch this morning?” I grin. Hand her a mug. “If you think I’d ever serve you anything from a freezer, then you don’t know me at all, Yankee girl.”

  Olivia looks down at her mug, the expression in her eyes tightening.

  “Eli,” she says slowly. She looks up. “Why are you being so nice to me? First the grits bowl, then the chef’s tasting. Now homemade biscuits and a glowing review for my romance novel. I can’t help but feel like I’m having a Fight Club moment.”

  My brow puckers. “Does this have something to do with those bareknuckle boxers you like? Because I’m a fast learner—”

  “No,” she says, laughing. “I just—I feel like you’re so kind and so…” Her eyes stray to my bare chest. “Shirtless that I must be making you up.”

  I pick up a plate and hand it to her. “This biscuit sandwich I made you is real. So am I.”

  “You promise?” Her blue eyes flick to meet mine. My stomach drops.

  “I promise,” I reply. “I gotta admit, Olivia, your question worries me a bit. People not nice to you in New York? This is just how we are down here.”

  Her lips twitch against the lip of her mug. “Half-naked?”

  “Hospitable. Neighborly.” I put my hand on the island and lean into it. “Look. I know you don’t wanna talk about it—because if you did, you would—but I see the pain in your eyes. You’re goin’ through something. Something that hurts. If I can make it hurt a little less by feeding you, makin’ you smile—hell, I’m gonna do it. If it makes you uncomfortable, just tell me to stop. I’ll never bother you again. But I’d like to help out if you’d let me.”

  Olivia swallows, the sound audible. She blinks.

  “Thanks,” she says at last. “And you don’t need to stop. I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me. The food definitely makes me feel better. I guess…” She shrugs. “I guess I’m not in the habit of accepting help. Can’t help but feel suspicious of it.”

  I take a sip of coffee, eyes still locked on hers. “I want to make it clear that I expect nothing in return. Except maybe a few more chapters of My Enemy the Earl if you write them. Which you should.”

  Olivia grins, the tension in her expression melting.

  “We’re friends then?” she says.

  I nod. “Friends with a shared appreciation for grits and good books.”

  I don’t mention that I’d like to be more than that. For obvious reasons.

  We settle on the stools at the island and dig into the biscuits. In true Olivia fashion, her eyes roll to the back of her head as she eats and she makes these little noises—moans of appreciation—that have me covering my lap with my napkin. I feel like I’m in eighth grade sex ed again, hiding an inconvenient hard-on underneath my desk.

  If the fact that she writes passionate, angsty romance didn’t give her away, this does.

  Girl’s got a sensual side.

  “What is pimiento cheese?” she says, licking at a stray bit with her tongue.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Jesus take me now.

  “Everyone’s got their own recipe. But the basics are shredded cheddar cheese, chopped pimiento peppers, and mayo. I add bourbon and a good handful of parmesan to mine and let it sit for a day or two. Let the flavors
really meld. Always keep a quart of it on hand at home for just such an occasion.” I nod at our plates.

  Olivia has already finished her biscuit sandwich. She’s using the pad of her first finger to dab at the crumbs on her plate.

  “Wow,” she says, swallowing. “Eli, just…wow.”

  I grab the first chapter of My Enemy the Earl and set it between us. “All right. Enough about the food. Let’s talk about Gunnar and Cate. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t give out compliments easily. I mean it when I say this is fucking good, Olivia. One chapter in, and I’m already hooked.”

  “Thanks.” Using both hands, she pulls at her mouth with a napkin. Then she folds it, setting it neatly on the counter. “I’ve rewritten this first chapter a million times. I can’t ever seem to get it just right. In my head, I’m juggling character arcs, themes, symbolism. I’m thinking about what reviewers might think about this word choice or that plot point. It’s paralyzing.”

  I pick up my coffee and take a sip, meeting Olivia’s big blue eyes. They’re tired and conflicted and on fucking fire.

  “I’ve obviously never written a book,” I reply. “So take this with a grain of salt. But when I’m in the kitchen, whether I’m cookin’ or coming up with new recipes or whatever, I’ve learned to keep things simple. I focus on the food and that’s it. Do I enjoy making it? Do I enjoy eating it? Those are the only questions I ask myself. Everything else is just noise. Noise that I block out so I can tell my story—only I’m tellin’ it with food instead of words.”

  Olivia’s eyes are still on mine as she takes this in. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

  “But how do you block it out like that? You’re one of the few people I’ve met who genuinely doesn’t seem to care what other people think. My whole life—” Her voice catches. “Well. I’ve definitely struggled with being a people pleaser.”

  “I noticed you touched on the idea of freedom a lot. The lack of it. The yearning for it.” I open the packet and flip to a passage I underlined.