Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  Greyson: Julia. It’s beautiful. but you don’t need me to tell you that

  Julia: I don’t. Still nice to hear though. Are werewolves too bashful to give praise in person?

  Greyson: Baby steps.

  Greyson: Where should I pick you up tomorrow for our doctor’s appointment?

  Julia: I can drive.

  Greyson: So can I. Let me hep

  Greyson: *help

  Julia: I’ll be at my office on campus. 23 Coming Street. Yellow building that’s leaning to the side. Can’t miss it.

  Greyson: always thought it was funny how all the sorority houses are on Coming Street.

  Julia: The irony right? The only time I came in college was with my vibrator. See you at 2.

  * * *

  I’m starting to have good days again.

  Don’t get me wrong, the bad days are still there. The exhaustion is real, as is the anxiety. But the depression that’s plagued me for weeks has started to lift. I’ll get whole hours of energy and clarity, the fog that’s clouded my brain thinning just enough for me to get decent work done.

  Today is a good day. Even my students notice I have some pep in my step during class and office hours. It’s so nice to feel even a little bit like myself again that I get excited.

  Or maybe it’s the fact that I get to (hopefully) see the baby today that’s got my heart beating a little faster. I’ve read a lot about my first ultrasound. They’ll measure the baby to determine exactly how far along I am.

  They’ll also measure its heartbeat, which is a very good indicator of how healthy the fetus is. At this stage, a healthy heartbeat means I’ll likely carry this baby to term. But a sluggish one, coupled with a baby that measures smaller than expected, could mean bad news.

  I’m nervous. But more excited. I cling to that excitement like a drowning woman clinging to a life preserver she’s just been tossed. The uncertainty and the anxiety about everything have been relentless lately. It’s nice to feel good about things for a change.

  Nice, and confusing, if I’m being honest. I (clearly) have very mixed feelings about impending motherhood.

  I love the idea of starting my own family. But I hate the way I feel, physically and mentally.

  I’m excited to teach my son or daughter all the things my parents taught me—the things I wish they’d taught me, too. But I would kill for a perfect margarita on the rocks. Salt, silver tequila, serious deliciousness.

  I miss uninterrupted sleep. I get up at least once a night to pee now.

  I miss feeling sexy.

  I love waking up refreshed and dried out. No hangover, no alcohol or cigarettes giving me a day-after headache.

  I miss being master of my thoughts. My emotions. My body.

  The alarm on my phone goes off at 1:55 P.M. I finish the email I’m working on, make a few notes in my planner, and pack up to go.

  Then I wait.

  And wait.

  2:05. 2:12. 2:22.

  My appointment is in less than ten minutes. The drive to my doctor’s office takes twenty.

  We’re going to be late.

  Really late.

  I shoot Greyson a text, but get no response. I try calling him too. He doesn’t pick up.

  Just when I start to panic—and get pissed off—I hear the familiar growl of an engine outside. Irene, my TA, leans back to look out the window.

  “Who is that?” she asks, leaning back a little farther.

  I grab my phone off my desk. “Blue Yukon?”

  “Yup. Guy behind the wheel is—” She lets out a low whistle. “God. Literally a god.”

  I grin. “As in Jesus?”

  “As in Achilles. The one played quite memorably by Brad Pitt.”

  Scoffing, I rise to my feet.

  “You have the essays?” I ask.

  Irene blinks. Turns back to her desk and sets her hand on a neat stack of papers. “On it. I’ll type up my thoughts. I’ll also enter the participation grades for Rom 101 and send out an email about next week’s office hours. Anything else?”

  “You’re the best. I’d also love some ideas on topics for Rom 101’s exam paper. I’m thinking something to do with endings—happily ever afters—and what we expect from them as readers.” I slide the straps of my tote bag over my shoulder. “I’ll have my phone if you need me. Otherwise, see you in the morning.”

  Irene nods, a small smile playing at her lips.

  “Just out of curiosity—does Achilles out there belong to you?”

  My pulse skips a beat. “No. No, he doesn’t. Why?”

  “No reason. You’re just kind of…red.”

  I put a hand to my face. My skin is hot.

  Well, shit. Because I’m not feeling discombobulated enough over running late to the ultrasound. Now Greyson Montgomery has to revert me into a blushing teenager with a crush.

  Granted, it’s a tiny crush. I blame the lemon tree and the surprisingly self-aware Satanist jokes he made. Grits didn’t hurt, either.

  Neither do the cutesy texts.

  Who knew the guy had a soft side? Makes me wonder where he’s been hiding it all this time.

  Why he’s been hiding it. The lit professor in me—the romance enthusiast, too—hungers for the story.

  There’s definitely a story here, that I know for sure.

  I also know the guy never runs late for business meetings. But he’s almost half an hour late for our first doctor’s appointment together.

  Our baby’s first ultrasound.

  Greyson’s eyes follow me through the windshield as I make my way down the sidewalk.

  My face is on fucking fire. I’m feeling a million things, too many, too much, all at once.

  I run my fingers through my hair, releasing it from behind my ears. Hoping it’ll cover the worst of the inferno.

  Greyson is finishing up a call as I climb inside the truck.

  “Agreed about inventory”—he cuts me a look and mouths sorry—“yep, yep, we’ll do the classics in addition to some picks that are off the beaten path…yep…hey, John, I hate to do this, but I really have to go.”

  I buckle my seat belt. Greyson guides the truck into traffic.

  “Right. Sounds good. Okay. Thanks.” He hangs up and tosses his phone onto the dashboard. Blows out a breath. “Sorry. So sorry I’m late. Got stuck at lunch with one of our biggest investors. Then I got stuck on that fucking call for an hour. We’re partnering with a local sommelier to open a champagne bar in NoMo, and the whole thing is turning out to be the biggest pain in the ass ever.”

  I look at the clock on the dash. Look at him. “You’re half an hour late, Greyson.”

  “I know, I know, and I’m really fucking sorry.” He brings his brows together. “Julia, I mean that. It won’t happen again.”

  “It never happens for work-related things, does it? You being late.”

  He adjusts his grip on the wheel. “I’m trying here, Julia. This juggle is new to me.”

  “It’s new to me too,” I say, remembering how cool he was about me cancelling that meeting with our contractor the other night. “But this a big appointment. I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I’m going to be really upset if we have to reschedule because we’re late.”

  “I’ll be upset, too. Look.” He accelerates the truck. “I’m putting the pedal to the metal. I’ll bribe the doctor if I have to so she’ll see us. We’ll get these pictures taken, come hell or high water. I promise.”

  I arch a brow. “And you don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  He cuts me a look. “Exactly. We’ll make it, Julia.”

  Letting out a breath, I fall back in my seat.

  “Fine. Just try to be on time next time, okay?”

  “Of course.” He glances at my massive work tote, stopping at a light. “Got everything you need?”

  “I think so.”

  I turn to set the bag in the backseat, but Greyson lifts it out of my hands and sets it back there himself. The fabric of his button down s
tretches across his massive chest as he twists. I can see his nipple, hard enough to poke through his undershirt.

  My mouth waters. The stress over being late all but forgotten. He looks so good today.

  So good. Crisp button up—this one is light blue, making his eyes really pop. Rolled up sleeves, square jaw, full lips.

  A dimple in his chin I’ve never noticed before.

  I miss that. The nipples. The poking.

  Focus. I have to focus. Not on nipples but on prenatal appointment stuff.

  “Still feeling good?” he asks, turning back around. “You said you were ‘pretty fucking fabulous’ this morning.”

  “Pretty good, yeah. Just lots of ups and downs lately. One minute, I’m feeling good. The next I feel like shit—yesterday my back was killing me. One minute I’m totally convinced that keeping this baby is the right decision. The next, not so much.” I swallow. “It’s a lot to handle. But you seem to be handling it okay. The baby. Minus the whole being-thirty-minutes-late-to-our-first-ultrasound thing.”

  He cuts me another look. Brows furrowed just enough to make the slanted creases between them appear.

  “What?” I ask.

  He looked at me this way when he came over for dinner. Like he doesn’t know what to make of me.

  “You’re honest to a fault, aren’t you?”

  “Try to be. I already told you—I really can’t stand people who are full of shit.”

  He turns, focusing his attention on the road.

  His hand moves as he tightens his grip on the wheel.

  “I didn’t realize how many of those people there were in the world,” he replies gruffly. “My world.”

  “Kind of shocking, isn’t it? Not only the amount of bullshit-y people, but also the people who buy their own bullshit. Like they genuinely believe the lies they tell the world and themselves about how perfect their lives are.”

  “Yes!” he says. “Exactly. It blows my mind. Like appearances are the most important thing. Warping your entire existence to fit that perfect mold.”

  I arch a brow. “Sounds like you have some personal experience with that mold.”

  A shadow moves over his features, dampening the excitement of seconds before.

  “It’s easy for me to feel certain. About the baby, I mean,” he says, and I fight a sense of whiplash at the sudden change of subject. I struck a nerve. I want to know why. “You’re the one who’s pregnant. This baby is affecting you a lot more than it’s affecting me. I don’t feel like ass all the time. I don’t have to give up booze and cigarettes. It’s unfair. If I could be pregnant for you, I would.”

  I scoff. “You’d really be a werewolf then. Biting everyone’s heads off because you’d want a cigarette so bad.”

  “I’d end up in jail.”

  “Oh, yeah, no question about that.”

  One side of his mouth curls into a smile so handsome I feel it inside my skin.

  “You’re handling this with much more grace than I ever would, that’s for damn sure,” he says.

  “Grace? Please. I bitch and moan constantly. I’m still waiting on that ‘glow’ all pregnant women are supposed to get. And I’ve offered my soul to David Bowie more times than I can count in exchange for everything from a very large glass of wine to a good night’s sleep. A paragon of happy motherhood I am not.”

  He’s looking at me again. Like that.

  Like he has no clue what I am. But whatever it is, he kind of adores it.

  Adores me, just for telling my messy, often nonsensical truth.

  “Good thing you’ve got a Satanist to help you through.”

  I laugh. The tickly, happy kind of laugh that runs up and down my sides and lands in the center of my being.

  “Satan owes you a solid, huh?”

  “Many favors, yeah. Happy to call a few in on your behalf.”

  It’s my turn to look at him. The square, solid, masculine lines of his profile.

  Feeling rises up inside me.

  “What if it’s not okay?” I say quietly. “The ultrasound. The baby. My depression. What if something’s really wrong?”

  His eyes meet mine. “Then we’ll deal with it. You and me and David Bowie.”

  I smile. The words you and me sticking inside my head.

  Maybe this isn’t where I thought I’d end up.

  But right now, it doesn’t feel half bad.

  Chapter Twelve

  Greyson

  Venture capital makes for strange bedfellows. I’ve courted baristas-turned-entrepreneurs. Farmers intent to sell their grits, milled from heirloom varieties of corn, to the retail market.

  I’ve fielded proposals from foul-mouth chefs tatted up to within an inch of their life and surgeons seeking a second life as restaurateurs. I do business with Harvard grads, hardscrabble fishermen, chemists-cum-distillers with a talent for making the best gin this side of the Atlantic.

  But I never thought I’d find myself hanging on every word a chatty ultrasound tech in heart-spattered scrubs utters as she squirts a lube-like substance onto Julia’s belly.

  It’s surreal.

  And it happens so fast. One second, the tech is flicking the lights off and directing our attention to a TV screen on the far wall.

  The next, the inside of Julia’s uterus is on that screen and my heart is pounding so hard my head throbs in time to its beat.

  A small black space appears on the screen. Inside that space is a tiny, tiny baby-shaped thing.

  “Looks like there’s just one sac,” the tech says, pressing the wand a little more firmly against Julia’s belly. “No twins this time.”

  “Thank God,” Julia says. Words tight, like she’s holding her breath.

  I lean forward in my chair. “You all right?”

  Julia nods, making the paper on the exam table crinkle. “I’m good.”

  “Let’s measure this little peanut”—a few more keystrokes—“yep, yep, eight weeks and five days. Puts your due date a few days earlier, but since you’re still within a week, we’ll leave it at June twenty-third for the time being. See that?” The tech points to a moving bit in the baby’s center. “It’s your baby’s heartbeat. We can listen…”

  She hits a few keys.

  Then: swoosh swoosh swoosh.

  The baby’s heartbeat is loud enough to drown out my own.

  I feel a sudden, searing pressure behind my eyes.

  “Look at that,” the tech is saying. She bangs a few more keys, and the sound disappears. “Heartbeat is 173 beats per minute. Perfect. Peanut is lookin’ real good, y’all.”

  I look at Julia. A single tear slips quietly down her temple.

  She’s smiling.

  She looks at me. Eyes all soft and earnest and so beautiful I’m suddenly the one who’s struggling to breathe. She reaches out and grabs my hand, giving it a quick squeeze. Hers feels small and warm in mine.

  Warmth that I feel moving up my arm into my chest. I sniffle, blinking hard.

  Julia’s smile gets bigger.

  “Looks like we won’t need David Bowie. At least for the time being,” she says.

  “That’s a relief,” I reply. Still blinking, because these goddamn tears won’t clear up.

  “You good?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I look away and swallow. “How about Charlie Brown or Lucy?”

  “What?”

  “The Peanuts. You know, the cartoons? What if we nicknamed our baby Charlie or Lucy?”

  She’s still smiling. “I like that. Charlie Brown.”

  I don’t want to think about the last time I cried. But I think it’s safe to acknowledge that this kind of crying feels different. Better.

  I can’t remember the last time something good happened outside of work. For me. In my personal life, I mean.

  Granted, I haven’t allowed good things to happen, because that’s how people get hurt.

  Why then, is this good thing going down right now?

  Why do I feel this good—why do I get to be
with a woman who makes me feel this good—when I fucked up so bad?

  The cynic inside me can’t help but wonder when the other shoe is going to drop.

  But for the first time in a long time, I want to let myself have this moment. Feel it. The relief and the happiness and the hope.

  I want to feel alive, fully. Julia’s kind of alive. The kind that makes you dance to eighties music while washing dishes.

  Because it feels so. Damn. Good.

  But there’s no way I can forgive myself that easily. I can’t just decide I’m done with the guilt. The shame. I have to earn forgiveness. And honestly, my crimes are such that I’ll be working to balance the karmic scales forever.

  That’s what happens when you destroy a perfectly good person’s perfect life.

  Julia and I are led to another exam room, where we meet with her doctor. We ask a million questions; the doctor assures Julia her symptoms should start to abate once she hits her second trimester in a couple weeks. She tells Julia to keep an eye on her depression and notify the office immediately if it worsens or she has thoughts of hurting herself. We set up our next appointment—12 week ultrasound—which I immediately mark on my Google calendar with the note DO NOT BE LATE!!!!!!!

  I’m still lost in my thoughts when I hold the office door open for Julia. I step out into the gloom of the late afternoon behind her. Typical of Charleston in November, the air has a slight bite to it. Crispness finally overpowering the humidity that’s cloaked the city since May like a wet blanket.

  We walk side by side, her elbow brushing mine.

  “I really am sorry I was late,” I say. “But I told you we’d get those pictures taken.”

  She grins. Eyes on her feet. “It’s all right. I’m glad we were both there to see it. The ultrasound, I mean. How cool was that heartbeat?”

  “The coolest,” I say, and I mean it.

  “So.” She looks up, squinting against the gloom. “What are you up to tonight?”

  “Tonight?” I blink. “Not much. I have a couple site visits to do this afternoon, a phone call with an architect, and then I was going to finish up some work at home. Go to bed early.”

  She grins. “Your Friday night sounds almost as exciting as mine. Such party animals, you and me.”