Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  I haven’t sat down to dinner with someone who wasn’t an investor or potential partner in forever. We have Sunday supper at my parents’ house, and I eat with Bryce and Ford every so often. But other than that, I usually eat dinner out with work people or in front of my laptop at the office, or at the kitchen counter at home. Shove food in my face while I catch up on emails or research.

  It’s not glamorous. And it gets boring. But it’s a great way to get shit done.

  “Thank you.” Julia looks up at me as I set her plate in front of her. Her eyes are serious. “For doing this. Bringing dinner. Totally unexpected, but I really appreciate it.”

  I settle into the seat across from hers and fix myself a plate of steak and collards. I try to ignore the rush of satisfaction I feel knowing I made her day better.

  “I’m sorry you’re feeling so shitty,” I say, slicing into the steak.

  “My doctor warned me all this stuff would peak around eight or nine weeks. But nothing can really prepare you for the reality of just how sucky it can get sometimes.” She dips the tines of her fork in the grits and takes a bite. “Especially when you’re used to being in charge of your life. Like your moods and your ability to get stuff done. I like to be busy, but this baby is kind of forcing me to slow down. Which I’m sure can be a good thing. But right now, it just feels kind of depressing, to be honest. Doesn’t help that I can’t really tell anyone that I’m pregnant yet. You’re going through some pretty heavy shit, but you can’t say anything to anyone about it. I’ve had to turn down a bunch of invites. The second my friends and colleagues see me not drinking, they’ll know something’s up. I’m too tired to go out anyway. When I am done for the day, I am done. It all combines to create this kind of shit storm of self-imposed isolation and endless nausea. I’m just not enjoying the things I usually love.”

  “Like?”

  “Arguing with you, for one thing.”

  I scoff. She’s egging me on, and I like it.

  She’s also being real. Honest. Holding nothing back, not even the tough stuff. The vulnerable stuff.

  I like that. Like always, I’m drawn to it. Not to her hurt. But to her authenticity. Her bravery in admitting things are less than perfect. In my world—the one I used to inhabit, anyway—you don’t see that all too often.

  “I’m pretty good at asshole,” I say.

  “The best. You really think you should be so proud of that, though?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Probably not.”

  Julia takes another bite, this time of collards. “I usually love my job—well, both my jobs. At C of C, I adore my students and my colleagues. I’m good at what I do. But these days, teaching feels like a chore. I’m even struggling with my romance class, which has always been my favorite.”

  “A class on romance?” I sip my water. “That sounds cool.”

  Julia tilts her head. She won’t stop looking at me like this—like she’s never seen me before.

  She picks up her water, eyes still trained on mine as she drains her glass.

  “It is cool. Really cool. I’ve taught it for three semesters now, and it’s become one of the most popular classes in College of Charleston’s catalogue. Olivia teaches a creative writing class on romance too, focusing primarily on craft. Together we’re creating this romance-based curriculum that’s the first of its kind. I’m really proud of it. But being on campus recently has felt like a drag. Same with design, and reading, and walking. Basically I hate everything right now except TV and food.”

  She watches as I refill her glass. Nudge the container of crackers and pimento cheese her way.

  “So eat,” I say.

  Julia doesn’t hesitate. She slathers a seed cracker with pimento cheese and pops it into her mouth. Chewing, her expression goes soft, and she makes this noise.

  A moan. A sigh. A moan-y sigh.

  The kind she’d make when I’d play with her pussy. Splaying her lips wide with my fingers. Rolling my thumb over her clit, gentle but insistent, her hips curling in time to my strokes.

  My cock twitches. Does she know she’s making those noises as she eats?

  Does she know she’s making me summon Satan and David Bowie and whoever else will listen because I’m on the verge of tackling her? Taking her right here on this table?

  Where the fuck is that exorcist when you need him?

  I clear my throat. “You’re a very…vocal eater.”

  Julia grins, turning to her pork chop. “When I like something, you’ll know it. Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “No.” I meet her gaze. “Maybe.”

  She grins, her blue eyes lighting up with mischief.

  Chapter Ten

  Greyson

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Julia’s eyes come alive like this since she told me she was pregnant.

  Makes me light up too. My chest lights up with satisfaction, even as the heaviness in my groin continues to demand attention.

  I look away. Eyes catching on the bookshelf behind Julia. I didn’t really pay much attention to her place last time I was here. Too distracted by the news that I’d knocked her up, most likely in the back of my Yukon.

  The apartment is tiny, less than a thousand square feet I’d say, and most of the furniture she’s got is diminutive in scale. This bookcase, however, is massive. Looks roughed up, antique. It’s painted bright white, and the towering shelves are artfully crowded with stuff. Books, mostly. Hardbacks—I have to squint to see the authors—Betty Friedan and Virginia Woolf, shoulder to shoulder with a sizable collection of paperback romances. Pages yellowed. Spines creased.

  They’re styled in such a way that each shelf almost looks like an art exhibit. Picture frames, plates, and small, antique looking canvases completing the look.

  “You really do like your romance,” I say.

  “Love it,” she replies. “Romance novels are many things to me. They challenge me. Make me more open minded. But right now, they’re comfort reads. So I amend my statement. I hate everything except TV, food, and historicals. Olivia’s historicals in particular.”

  I notice the same guy—older, with a nose and eyes that match Julia’s—is in a lot of the pictures. The two of them in front of the Acropolis in Athens. On a wide, glossy porch that overlooks the Battery here in town. One where Julia is in a Harry Potter get-up, black robes and all, smiling wide beside what looks to be Hogwarts castle. The man is with her. Beaming with pride.

  “My dad.” Julia turns around to look at the pictures, resting her forearm on the back of her chair. She sighs. “He was pretty fucking awesome. Amazing architect and even better father.”

  “Was?”

  She meets my eyes from the corner of hers. “Yeah. He passed away a year ago. Miss him like crazy, if you can’t tell by this, like, Princess Di style shrine I have set up to him. I miss her like crazy too. But my obsession with the royals is neither here nor there.” She motions to the Hogwarts picture. “I really wish my dad was here. For a lot of reasons. But I could really use his advice on this whole parenthood situation right now. I mean, I have a great group of friends who have been nothing but supportive. Family is different, though.”

  My chest tightens. I can’t imagine how badly I’d be wigging out about the baby if I didn’t have Ford to go to for advice, or to my parents for moral support.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m still wigging out. But I’d be an absolute fucking mess without my family.

  “I’m sorry, Julia. I had no idea. Do you not have any other family around?”

  “Not really. My mom died a couple years back. I don’t have any siblings, and my cousins live kind of all over the place.”

  “That’s tough,” I say, and I mean it. Not only is Julia sick as a dog. She also has no family to go to. No parents to help her, no siblings to share the exciting news with.

  She’s got a full life. That much is obvious. Jobs, friends, travel. But to not have any family—family she was clearly really close to—

  I honest
ly can’t imagine.

  “This is so good, by the way,” she says, taking another bite of pork chop. “What about you? I know you said your family lives close, but are you actually close with them?”

  I nod, swallowing a bite of steak. “I am. I bitch about them sometimes, but I really did luck out. They’re great.”

  Julia smiles. The kind that makes the skin around her eyes crinkle. “The gentleman Satanist loves his family? I almost don’t believe it.”

  “They’re the only thing that’s kept me going since—” I clear my throat for what feels like the hundredth time. We are so not going there right now. Or ever. “Suffice it to say I’d be much growlier without them.”

  Julia’s brows go up. “That’s saying something. Any growlier and you’d be a werewolf. Not the sexy Twilight kind, either.”

  “Please.” I furrow my brow in mock consternation. “I’d make the best werewolf. And the sexiest.”

  “Because you’d make biting peoples’ heads off look good?”

  “Because I’d make a great bad guy. I am one in real life.”

  Julia turns back to face me. Her gaze moves over the food on the table before landing on mine. She looks at me for a full beat. Eyes narrowed with a question I do not want to answer.

  Sweat breaks out along the back of my collar.

  “You’re not all bad.” Her voice is kind. “Just mostly.”

  “Bad enough,” I say gruffly.

  I get back to my plate. Wolf down (pun intended) what’s left of my collards and finish off my steak.

  “You done?” she asks.

  I stand, reaching for her plate. “I’ll clean up.”

  “I got it.”

  “Don’t make me growl, Julia. Sit.”

  Julia smiles and stands, gently removing her plate from my hands. “Growl all you want. Cleaning up was always my job. How about you clear the table and I do the dishes?”

  “You sure you’re up to it?”

  “After that meal? Absolutely. If Elijah’s grits and pimiento cheese don’t revive you, then you’re past saving.”

  Julia gets to work at the sink while I refill the take-out bag with our empty boxes. Gathering our silverware and glasses, I turn to the kitchen to see Julia shimmying her hips. Little, barely noticeable movements that are perfectly in time to the beat of the song that’s playing—“Rebel Rebel.”

  An anthem for Julia if there ever was one.

  For half a heartbeat I just stand there. Pure creeper style. Transfixed by the easy sway of her pert little ass. She’s murmuring the words now, scrubbing and shimmying and generally being cute as fuck.

  My thoughts swirl and shift as I watch her. She’s had a shitty time of it. The morning sickness, the depression. Never mind the lingering shock of an unexpected pregnancy. Her dad died, she has no family around, and she’s struggling to find joy in the stuff she’s usually very passionate about.

  But she’s still singing.

  Still dancing to Bowie like a bomb didn’t take out life as she knew it.

  There’s a lesson here. The one about dancing in the rain or despite the rain or some shit like that.

  But beyond the country song platitudes—her dancing makes me feel something.

  Turned on, yeah. That’s a fucking given.

  But there’s something else. Something I can’t put my finger on.

  Maybe it’s just feeling anything at all that’s got me sidling up beside her. Wanting to put my hands beside hers on the lip of the sink and melt my cock into the sweet curve of her ass, even though I shouldn’t.

  Wanting to stay. Dance. Fuck. Feed her.

  I hate the thought of her being alone.

  And it’s not lost on me that I didn’t think once about work while I’ve been here.

  I didn’t think about my past, either.

  I was here. Fully, sometimes painfully, present.

  Julia calling me to account, as usual. Calling me on my bullshit without even knowing it.

  And yeah. Now that I’ve caught a glimpse of who Julia is, beyond the designer who loves to bust budgets and my balls, I admit I’m curious.

  Really fucking curious about who she is. What she likes.

  Where she comes from. That picture of her at Hogwarts—did she go to school at Oxford? Cambridge?

  And what about the travel? Who does she jet around the world with now that her dad is gone?

  What are her favorite places to visit? Where would she like to go?

  What about historical romance does she find so comforting?

  Did she get her love of design from her dad?

  Underwear—does she wear it with those yoga pants? Or does she go commando?

  I blink. Can’t remember the last time a woman made me curious like this.

  It’s dangerous.

  Jesus, I really am going to turn into a werewolf if I don’t get out of here. Right now.

  I nudge her with my hip and set everything I’m carrying in the sink. “I got the rest.”

  I don’t realize how close I’m standing until she looks up, our gazes locking. My stomach takes a nosedive.

  I’m continually struck by how pretty she is. Face flushed from the heat of the water running from the faucet, wisps of her hair escaping the messy knot at the crown of her head.

  Blue eyes bright. Happy.

  Did I really do that?

  I shove the idea from my head. Makes me feel too warm and squishy inside.

  I do not do warm, and I especially don’t do squishy. Unless Bryce is in the room. Then all bets are off.

  “You know that in romance, villains usually don’t help out. They definitely don’t do dishes.”

  Fuck, I’m smiling.

  I’m gripped by the wild thought that I’d just have to lean down to kiss her. On the mouth this time. Tilt my head and go in for the kill.

  “What do they usually do?”

  “Break hearts.”

  And just like that, the spell is shattered. Reality crashing through the happy haze of the moment.

  Bound to happen anyway. Doing one woman one favor doesn’t erase the very bad things I’ve done to others.

  I finish the dishes in silence. When the dishwasher is loaded and the table wiped down, Julia leads me to the front door.

  “Thanks again for dinner,” she says. “I really enjoyed it.”

  I manage a tight smile in reply. Shove my hands in my pockets. I know I need to keep my distance. But there is no way in hell I’m letting this woman deal with this pregnancy alone now that I know how difficult it’s been.

  “Let’s check in with each other more often, okay?” I say. “I won’t bother you too much, but I do want to know how you’re doing.”

  She looks at me. I look back.

  “Okay,” she says.

  “And you come to me if you need anything, all right? Even if it’s just a resupply of Topo Chico.”

  “Got it.”

  “I want you to mean that.”

  “I do. I’ll keep in touch.”

  She’s still looking at me.

  I’m still looking at her.

  Get. The fuck. Out of here.

  But my feet won’t move.

  The space between Julia and I thrums. Tightens, somehow, despite the bubble of feels expanding inside my torso.

  Before I know what she’s doing, Julia’s going up on her tiptoes and curling her arms around my neck.

  I stay very still, trying my damndest to ignore the fireworks exploding in my groin, my chest, my head.

  She feels so good against me.

  So damn good. Soft and vulnerable and warm.

  “This pregnancy thing is hard. And very heavy,” she murmurs against my shoulder. “But you’ve made it feel lighter for a little while. Which helps. More than you know. Thank you, Greyson.”

  Carefully—carefully, one or both of us will break if I move too fast, or squeeze too hard—I curl my arms around her waist. Close my eyes as I let myself hold her.

  Just for a m
inute, I tell myself.

  Just for right now.

  Her hair tickles my nose. I resist the urge to inhale a deep lungful of her. Scent and sweetness.

  My body electrifies at the feel of hers.

  I like this.

  This, whatever this is. The satisfaction of knowing I did a good thing?

  The knowledge that she’s trusting me—touching me—making me feel alive in a way I haven’t in a long, long time?

  “Some of the best things in life are the ones you have to work hardest for,” I say. “Maybe this baby is one of them.”

  I let her go, even though it kills me.

  The cigarette I smoke on the ride home does nothing to calm me down.

  I don’t think anything will when it comes to Julia.

  Chapter Eleven

  Julia

  Greyson: midday check-in

  Greyson: Go.

  Julia: Is this a thing now? You checked in this morning.

  Greyson: And you were feeling like shit post-coffee. Any better?

  Julia: Actually, yes. Starting to feel better on the whole. My Bumpin’ app tells me my symptoms could start to abate now that I’m inching toward the second trimester. Still have a few weeks to go though.

  Greyson: Praise David Bowie

  Greyson: just downloaded the app. It thinks I’m the one who’s pregnant. I’m 8 weeks and two days, and I may be starting to show.

  Julia: Nausea? Tender breasts?

  Greyson: Oh yeah. I honestly don’t know how you’ve been doing this for so long.

  Julia: Totally sucks. Not going to sugar coat that.

  Greyson: Don’t. I like your honesty.

  Greyson: So your dad was an architect. Did you learn design from him?

  Julia: You’re being nice again.

  Greyson: Amuse me

  Julia: Yes. He was a big fan of preservation. His specialty was restoring historic homes. You have him to thank for my appreciation of timeless design with a twist.

  Greyson: Your expensive taste you mean

  Julia: Don’t tell me you’re not obsessed with how Rodgers’ Farms is turning out. I see that twinkle of appreciation in your eye when we’re out there.