Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  Physically, I feel…not great, but not super ill, either. It’s like having a perpetual hangover I keep hoping to sleep off but can’t.

  The exhaustion is crushingly constant. I am a walking zombie during the day, and can barely make it past 7 or 8 P.M. before falling into bed, too tired to even read. And yet I wake up most nights, usually a little past midnight, and I’m unable to go back to sleep. It’s horrible.

  My nausea has gotten much worse. I always feel like I’m on the verge of losing whatever my last meal was all over the floor. Which is totally awesome when you’re in the middle of a lecture in front of thirty five students.

  But it’s the mental piece of the puzzle that’s been especially tough. I’ve been walking around in a fog. It’s like some alien life force has invaded my brain, hijacking my moods and my ability to manage them. I’ve never experienced depression before, so I didn’t even recognize the symptoms until I googled them (the internet has simultaneously become my best friend and worst enemy these days): huge spikes in anxiety so severe it borders on paranoia. Insomnia. Relentless feelings of being overwhelmed and helpless.

  Turns out prenatal depression is a real thing, and I definitely have it.

  I’m lucky to have a great therapist on speed dial. She’s helped me come up with some coping strategies. Regular walks, time with close friends, plenty of rest. I’m taking it one day at a time, crossing my fingers and toes this mental and physical fog clears up in the supposedly magical second trimester. If there’s one thing I have heard about pregnancy and babies, it’s that no phase lasts forever.

  Right now, it’s all about getting through to the other side.

  The other side of what—this trimester? This pregnancy? All the unknowns in my life?—I couldn’t say.

  I can say I was not at all prepared for how difficult the experience has been. Isolating, too. I’m waiting to hit that all-important 12 week mark to tell people about the baby, as that’s when the chance of miscarriage decreases significantly. Until then, I’m kind of forced to suffer in nauseated silence.

  It’s Thursday, and my classes don’t wrap up until after five. I’m scheduled to have a meeting with Luke and our contractor at Rodgers’ Farms this evening—countertops, backsplashes, and plumbing fixtures all went in late last week, and I need to check on progress—but I am beyond wiped. My mood took a nosedive at lunch and never really recovered. And no matter what I munch on, the simmering roil in my stomach won’t go away.

  I know if I attempt the forty minute drive out to Wadmalaw Island, especially at rush hour, I’ll fall asleep at the wheel and/or throw up all over myself.

  I may not always be on time, but I never back out last minute. I feel terrible as I call our contractor and Luke to tell them I won’t be by. Gracie immediately calls back, asking if I need anything.

  “Do you have any experience with mercy killings?” I say. “You know, Old Yeller style?”

  I can hear the smile in her voice when she replies. “Hang in there, friend. Luke’s been growing a few varieties of mint here on the farm. I’ll put it in my favorite tea blend and drop it off in the morning. Maybe it’ll help soothe your stomach.”

  Just when I think I’m off the hook, my phone starts to ring again.

  My gut clenches when I see Greyson Montgomery’s name on the screen.

  Just my luck. No doubt he was planning to be at tonight’s meeting. And no doubt he’s going to ream me out for cancelling it.

  Just like the dick he is.

  A surge of anger moves through me. Yeah, he was sorta-kinda sweet when I told him about the pregnancy. The lemon tree was thoughtful, too. But he’s been the same old Greyson at work. Abrupt. Aloof. Growly.

  I slide my thumb across the screen, stiffening my spine in preparation for battle.

  “This is Julia,” I say.

  “Hey.” His voice is gruff. “How the hell—”

  “Don’t you dare,” I say, my throat thickening. I wish I didn’t cry when I get angry, but I usually do. My haywire hormones certainly aren’t helping. “Don’t you dare do this right now. You have no idea how terrible I feel about cancelling the meeting, but this pregnancy is kicking my ass. I can’t sleep, so I’m a barely functioning narcoleptic during the day. And the fact that they call it morning sickness is a joke. I have it all day, every day, and I spend most of my time offering to sell my soul to whoever’ll take it just so I can keep down what I eat. And did I mention the depression? That’s been a fun little cherry on top of this shit sundae. I’m dealing with all of that, plus teaching a full course load while also juggling the Rodgers’ Farms project. I am trying my best, Greyson. I really am. But I just don’t feel well enough to drive all the way out to the farm tonight. I had no idea I’d be this sick or this tired. But I rescheduled the meeting with Ken and Luke for first thing Monday morning, and I had Gracie send me some pictures of the progress to make sure there were no glaring issues that needed to be addressed. I have it under control. Just like I always do. So back the fuck off.”

  A pause.

  Hot, rage-y tears leak out of my eyes left and right.

  “I was calling to ask how the hell you’re feeling,” he says at last. “I know you wouldn’t cancel a meeting unless something was seriously wrong. I called because I’m worried about you, Julia.”

  My stomach dips. Hard.

  Hard enough for me to jump to my feet and scurry to the sink, afraid I’m going to puke.

  Greyson called not to be a dick, but to check in on me?

  To make sure I’m okay?

  The idea makes my eyes fill with tears all over again.

  A different kind.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he continues. “About the depression? And the sickness? I had no fucking idea.”

  It’s my turn to pause.

  “Because. You haven’t asked. And because we decided we’d be co-parents. We said nothing about being friends. Or confidants. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d care.”

  He growls, but this one is different. Anguished, almost.

  “Of course I care. I…”

  I blink.

  “Where are you now?” he asks, letting out a breath.

  I blink again. “What?”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at home. Why?”

  “Have you eaten?”

  Another stomach dip.

  “I haven’t,” I say carefully.

  My eyes catch on the cute little lemon tree on the counter beside the sink.

  “Would dinner make you feel worse or better right now?”

  My eyes move to my narrow pantry door. I was planning on saltines slathered in Skippy—chunky, not smooth—for dinner.

  Real food would probably be better.

  Yeah. Much better.

  “Better. I think.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour. Craving anything in particular?”

  My heart thumps. What the hell is happening?

  Greyson and I have never eaten a meal together.

  Hell, we’ve never had a real conversation. I guess we had half of one the other night about my pregnancy. But we’ve never had an in-depth talk, much less over dinner.

  Which, up until now, seemed totally normal. Preferable, even.

  But now that line is blurring all of a sudden. And I can’t tell how I feel about it. Too stuck in the clusterfuck of all these other emotions to untangle the single thread of this one.

  Help.

  Does he really want to bring me dinner?

  “Do you really want to bring me dinner?”

  “I do. I’ve never seen anyone sell their soul before. Is it usually the devil who bids the highest? Or, I don’t know, the ghost of David Bowie or something?”

  A bark of laughter escapes my lips. I’m so startled by it—by this sense of humor I’ve never seen in him before—that for a second I can’t breathe.

  “Usually the devil,” I hear myself replying. “But you already knew that.”

  Greyson chuckles
. This deep, chocolatey smooth sound that I feel in my nipples. But instead of hurting, they…tingle. Pleasantly.

  “Are you implying I’m a Satanist?” he asks.

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, absolutely.”

  Another chuckle. “You wouldn’t be the first. I’ll bring the food.”

  “And I’ll bring the exorcist. Maybe Bowie, too, just because. By the way, RIP to that guy. He’s so missed. Also—I could really go for some grits right now. Cheesy, creamy, bad-for-you grits.”

  “Noted. Anything else?”

  I think on that for a minute. Notice the tightness in my chest and in the skin on my face has loosened a bit. Tears are drying up, too.

  Now I’m just hungry.

  “Surprise me,” I say.

  We hang up, and I spend the next hour wondering if I should change into something that isn’t my oldest, stretchiest, grossest pair of yoga pants and “I like big books and I cannot lie” sweatshirt.

  I decide against it. I have nothing to prove to Greyson. Just because he was cute for all of twenty seconds doesn’t mean he’s a nice, stand-up guy. The kind worth putting real clothes on for.

  While I wait for him, I fire off some emails. I’ve started to look into my maternity leave—how long I have, what I’ll get paid, when I’ll be going back to work—so I set up a few meetings with people at the college to figure it all out. Six months to go in my pregnancy, and already the work of being a mom has started.

  I regret staying in my yoga pants when, exactly an hour later, I open the door to find a scrumptiously dressed man standing on my stoop, a paper shopping bag in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.

  My heart hiccups as I drink him in. Trim waist emphasized by a brown belt. A crisp white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing enormous forearms the size of waffle bats—the fat ones used by my friends to beat up their kid siblings when we were little—and a Rolex. Gold this time. Worth more than my undergraduate education if I had to guess.

  Greyson’s eyes meet mine. Even in the dim twilight, their color is striking. Forward. Bold. Just like the man they belong to.

  The scent of his aftershave, smoke and something else, fills my head.

  He is enormous. Broad enough to fill the entire doorway.

  I put a hand on the jamb to steady myself.

  For half a heartbeat, his gaze moves over my body. A muscle in his jaw twitches. The look in his eyes when he glances back up—it’s hard. Heated. Like he’s pissed off. A handsome Hulk about to blow.

  Do my yoga pants really offend him that much?

  My spine stiffens again. Nipples harden to points. Okay, that hurts now.

  If he’s going to be a jerk again—

  “I got you the best grits in town. And a double cut pork chop.” He holds up a brown paper bag. “Made sure it’s well done. Eli bitched about it, but whatever. Google told me pregnant women are only supposed to eat well done meat.”

  I can only stare at him.

  He went to The Pearl. Elijah Jackson’s restaurant. Arguably the best in town. Best grits for sure, considering they’re milled by Luke and cooked by Eli.

  The Pearl also happens to be the hardest reservation to get in Charleston. They book months in advance. And as far as I know, they don’t do takeout.

  Except, apparently, for Greyson Montgomery.

  He got me grits. And made sure my pork chop was well done.

  I’m clinging to the jamb for dear life.

  “You okay?” He looks over my shoulder. “Exorcism go wrong? David Bowie not show?”

  A smile tugs at my mouth despite the riot of things going on inside my torso. My head.

  “I was waiting for you.” I step aside. “Come in.”

  Chapter Nine

  Greyson

  Do not look at her ass.

  Don’t.

  Yoga pants, sweet Jesus—

  “You can set the food on the table.” Julia nods at the round table beside the kitchen. Pretty and impeccably styled, just like the rest of the place. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Cocktail?”

  “I have the beverages taken care of.” I pluck two bottles of Topo Chico from a plastic bag and hold them up. “Just need a bottle opener.”

  Her eyes move from the bottles to me and back again. She hesitates. For a horrible second, I think she’s going to cry.

  See? I am not good at this nice thing.

  But then Julia is blinking, clearing her throat as she opens a drawer and tosses a heavy brass corkscrew my way.

  “You remembered,” she says.

  I catch it. Let out a silent sigh of relief. Pop one bottle, then the other.

  “The carbonation help with your nausea?”

  “Little bit, yeah. Plus it gets kinda boring drinking plain water all day, so it’s nice to change it up. Although that stuff”—she nods at the bottles—“is hard to find.”

  “I know. Had to go to a few spots before I found it at a bodega up in Elliotborough of all places,” I say, bringing the bottle to my mouth.

  Julia raises a brow. “Wow. You really go the extra mile for the women you knock up.”

  My lips twitch against the mouth of the bottle. She’s always been sharp. But I didn’t know she could be funny, too.

  “Least I can do.”

  “What a gentleman.”

  “But I thought I was a Satanist?”

  “That, too. They’re not mutually exclusive concepts, you know. Being a gentleman and a devil worshipper.”

  “Or just a devil.”

  “Right, in your case.”

  I take a sip of the Topo Chico. I prefer flavors simple. Unadulterated. Why I drink my bourbon neat and never fuck with mixers.

  The sparkling water is very simple but very good. The carbonation is different. More subtle than what I’m used to.

  “This is pretty delicious,” I say. “Refreshing.”

  She glances at me over her shoulder as she opens a cabinet. Pulls a face, like she isn’t quite sure what to make of me.

  To be honest, I’m not sure what to make of me either. I agreed to co-parent. Nothing more. Which, in my mind, meant I could keep Julia at arm’s length while still showing up for the baby. I could be a good dad without getting emotionally involved with my kid’s mother.

  But then Julia broke down on the phone. Ford warned me she’d be going through a rough patch during the first trimester. But being the idiot member of the male species I am, I had no concept of just how rough it’d be for her until she laid it all out in explicit terms.

  I felt like such a shithead in that moment. A stupid, helpless shithead.

  I do not like feeling helpless. Control is my drug. I’m a do-er. A man of action and competence.

  So I offered to bring Julia dinner. I couldn’t not offer to help her feel better, even just for a little while. I may be heartless, but I’m not neglectful. The Satanist accusations notwithstanding. I also have a rare night free of calls, meetings, or emails.

  Doesn’t hurt I love to eat.

  Mom still talks about what a happy baby I was as long as I was fed. She adored what a good eater I was. And still am. No one cleans up her chicken and dumplings like me.

  Well. Bryce is giving me a run for my money these days. God she’s cute.

  Turning back to the cabinet, Julia reaches for some plates. Her shirt rides up, revealing a slice of smooth, pale belly.

  My skin prickles to life.

  Don’t.

  I came here to comfort Julia. Not to yank those fucking pants down and make her come.

  Would coming make her feel better, I wonder?

  I shove the thought from my head and busy myself with the food. Eli packaged everything in brown paper containers, and I open them one by one to see what’s inside.

  Julia’s pork chop. My flank steak. Eli’s pimento cheese with house made seed crackers. Sides of collards and grits—the “bad for you kind” that Eli is famous for, made with plenty of stock, salt and half a
nd half.

  Julia’s stomach rumbles audibly as she sets plates and silverware on the table.

  She hands me a napkin. A real one, white cloth, monogrammed. Looks like some kind of heirloom.

  “Smells so good,” she says.

  I grab a chair and pull it out. “Sit. I’ll fix you a plate.”

  She hesitates. Gives me that funny look again.

  “What?”

  “You’re being nice.”

  “And?”

  “You’re not nice. Ever. To anyone.”

  I manage a smirk, even as something in my chest contracts. “Doesn’t mean I can’t feed a woman who’s had the day from hell. Sit.”

  She looks at me for another beat, eyes narrowed as they bounce between mine.

  My face warms. A familiar tightness gathering in my groin at her nearness.

  She smells good. Always has. She never let me kiss her mouth, so I’d always focus on her neck and chest. The scent of her skin there—equal parts sweet and sexy—drove me fucking wild.

  Still does, if my heavy cock is any indication.

  Do.

  Not.

  Jesus, I want to though.

  Just when I’m about to fling myself out the nearest window, Julia slides into the chair. I tuck it underneath the table.

  “Oh!” she says, reaching for her phone. “Before I forget.”

  A second later, the opening beats of “Under Pressure” fill the kitchen.

  “Just in case Satan doesn’t show,” she says, flashing me a grin.

  My heart skips a beat. I look away. Focus on the food.

  “I always thought this was a Queen song,” I say as I fix her a full plate.

  “The guys in Queen and Bowie wrote it together. And then obviously Bowie performs it with them, too.”

  “I take it you’re a Bowie fan, then.”

  “Oh yeah. I love to dance. And David Bowie’s music is compulsively danceable, you know?”

  I wouldn’t, actually. I haven’t danced in I don’t know how long.

  I also haven’t listened to music over dinner. Unless you count the theme song from “Paw Patrol”—Bryce demands that show is on day and night over at Ford’s place.