Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  “Hashtag adulting sucks. Why do you ask?”

  Julia lifts a shoulder, gliding her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “I feel like we should celebrate all this good news. Charlie Brown’s alive. So am I. You and I haven’t stabbed each other yet. Probably our biggest win to date. Not to mention the Rodgers’ Farms project is wrapping up, and we rocked the shit out of that thing.”

  I’m grinning, too, as I slow my steps. Meet her eyes.

  I should not.

  Should not give in to the temptation of basking in this woman’s sunshine a minute longer than I have to. It’s dangerous, this want.

  But what am I supposed to do? Let her go home to her empty house by herself? Yeah, I’m sure she’s got friends to call. Gracie. Luke. Olivia.

  But this is my baby. This is our good news to celebrate.

  I also like the idea of having someone to cook for. I miss it. Opening a bottle of wine and making a fucking mess of my kitchen.

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner?” Julia continues. “My treat this time. I don’t cook, but I’m kind of the best at DoorDash, so…”

  “I cook,” I reply, making a mental note to call my mom after I drop Julia off. “Come over to my place. Supposed to be shitty weather tonight—we can eat and maybe watch a movie or something.”

  Julia runs the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip.

  I bite back a groan. Lord, that lip. What I would give to sink my teeth into it. Taste it for the first time.

  Stop. It.

  “That sounds nice. Really nice. But you have to know that this pregnant woman doesn’t Netflix and chill. Like, chill chill.”

  “Please.” Stopping, I spread my legs. Cross my arms. “That shit’s for amateurs. I don’t ‘chill.’ I’d never ask you to ‘hang out.’ I’ll fix you a real meal, pour you a shot glass of really good wine, and put on a movie you pick.”

  Her blue eyes dance. “You don’t fuck around, do you, Greyson?”

  “Not when it comes to the women I knock up.”

  She laughs. The sound making butterflies take flight inside my torso.

  Fu-uuuck. Fuck.

  Should not.

  But Lord help me, I’m in it now.

  “All right,” she says. “That sounds great. What can I bring?”

  “Just your stretchy pants.”

  “Stretchy pants?”

  “Yeah. Stretchy pants time is my favorite time. Bring yours. And the ultrasound pictures.” I nod at the folder Julia holds in the crook of her arm. “I’d like to make some copies on my printer.”

  “Done.” Her eyes rove over my body. “No offense. But I’m surprised you own stretchy pants. Hell, I’m surprised you own any pants that aren’t perfectly tailored, custom made slacks.”

  My lips twitch. “You noticed my pants.”

  “I’ve stroked many things of yours. I’m sorry to say your ego will never be one of them.”

  I laugh. Flutters erupting inside me.

  Fuck these butterflies for life.

  I’ve missed them.

  * * *

  My mom picks up on the first ring when I call her as I dash from one meeting to the next. I haven’t told her about Julia or the baby yet—timing hasn’t felt right—but that doesn’t mean she’s not excited to hear from me.

  “Grey,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Hey, baby. How you doing?”

  Not okay. Excited. Relieved.

  Terrified.

  Yeah, I’d say mostly terrified.

  “I’m all right. What about you? Sorry to be a bother.”

  “You’re never a bother. Everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.” I clear my throat. “That chicken and rice recipe you make. You know, with the sausage and onions and celery and everything? Tell me about it. I’ve made it before, but it’s been a while.”

  “Chicken Bog. Your grandmother’s recipe,” Mom replies. “It’s a keeper. Lots of work, but that’s never stopped you. Having some company over this weekend? Someone special, maybe?”

  My heart clenches. Mom sounds hopeful.

  Guarded.

  But hopeful nonetheless.

  Unlike Ford, my parents have never explicitly encouraged me to start dating again. They’ve never been pushy. Never forced an agenda on me. One of the five thousand things I love and admire about them.

  I know they want me to be happy again. And even though they don’t say it, I can tell they’d love more grandchildren.

  That, I can help with. The happiness bit—

  Not so much.

  “A friend. Julia.” I take a sharp breath. I don’t know why I just shared her name. It’s almost like I want my mother to ask me about her. “She hasn’t—uh—been feeling so great, so I thought I’d make her some comfort food. Your specialty.”

  Mom pauses. I can see her in my head: eyes and smile lighting up with curiosity.

  “Bless your heart. That’s very sweet of you. I can’t remember the last time you had a friend over for dinner.”

  I swallow. Hard. “So, the meat. I remember you said to have the butcher cut up a whole fryer chicken—split the breasts so the pieces are all the same size and cook evenly.”

  “This Julia—do y’all work together? How did y’all meet?”

  “Yes, at work. And it’s andouille sausage, right? I’ll go borrow some from Elijah. Maybe he’s got some homemade stock I can get in on, too.”

  “I’ve got a couple quarts in my freezer with your name on them. Has Ford met Julia yet?”

  Oh, Jesus. This was a stupid idea. The last thing I want is to get Mom’s hopes up. I crushed her before. I won’t do it again.

  But Lordy, do I want to talk to her about Julia. Tell her how she’s got me in knots. That she’s interesting and accomplished and likes to dance. How she makes me want to dance.

  I do not dance. Not to Bowie. Not to anyone or any song.

  I miss it, though. Having fun. Letting go. Taking chances that don’t involve balance sheets or business plans.

  “He’s worked with her, too, yeah,” I say.

  “Well I’m happy for you, Grey. You deserve some excitement and happiness in your life. Is Julia from Charleston?”

  “Mom,” I groan. “She’s just a friend, all right? And as far as happiness and excitement are concerned—”

  “You deserve them, just like everybody else. You work hard, baby. You’re a good brother and a good son. A good boss, if the tiniest bit demanding. Let yourself have some fun. It’s long overdue.”

  I let out a breath, feeling a slight thickening in my throat.

  Sometimes I wish my family wasn’t so awesome. The knowledge that I disappointed them would be easier to swallow. But instead, they readily forgive me for things I don’t know if I can forgive myself for. And offer me homemade chicken stock to boot.

  How the fuck am I supposed to turn that down?

  What if I accept Mom’s stock and her forgiveness too?

  I still don’t feel like I deserve either. But now, out of the blue, I want it. The forgiveness. The happiness and excitement.

  I want to put this guilt down. I just don’t know if I can. Carrying it has become second nature. It’s my why, my how. My life.

  Who am I if I’m not the workhorse? What do I do if I’m not punishing myself?

  Am I really allowed to just…I don’t know, let this go and be free? Julia’s kind of free.

  Am I the one who gets to decide?

  If not me, who?

  If not now, when?

  I don’t have answers. But I do have dinner to make. Wine to pick and pour.

  So I finish my meetings, swing by Mom’s house for instructions and stock and grab some andouille from Elijah. Pick up the rest of what I need at the grocery store.

  I take a quick smoke break on my balcony before the rain starts. And then I put on my stretchy pants, roll up my sleeves, and get to fixing Julia dinner.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Julia

/>   Back at home, my mood dips after the high of the appointment wears off. I’m learning this is the new normal as I hit the end of my first trimester and inch toward my second. Just when you think you’ve turned a corner, your body screams “psych!” and you’re back in the throes of first trimester trauma: a vicious bout of nausea, depression, or fatigue.

  Right now, I’m feeling all three. So on my walk over to Greyson’s, I put in my earbuds and listen to My Romp With the Rogue. It’s the third time I’m listening to the book. Nothing like some broody-hero-castle sex to lift one’s spirits.

  Charlotte climaxed with a soft shout, her fingers curling into his bare chest. Her sex pulsed around him, making him shout, too.

  Looking down at him, she bit her lip and rolled her hips. Milking him to his own completion despite being nearly boneless with hers.

  He slid his hands up her sides. Caressed her skin, her breasts. Her back. Saying with his hands what he couldn’t with his words.

  At last she collapsed on top of him, sweaty and warm, and he felt his heart thump soundly in his chest.

  “How,” she panted, “does this keep getting better?”

  He brushed the hair back from her face and met her eyes.

  Because you’re unafraid, he wanted to say.

  You’re not afraid to tell your truth.

  Would she be afraid of his truth, he wondered?

  “Have you not heard?” he said instead. “We Scots excel at many things. But we truly are the best at this.”

  She shook with laughter, cuffing his shoulder. “What about me? Am I not the best at it, too?”

  His wife was so unafraid in taking her pleasure.

  In her curiosity.

  She was brave where others—strong men, men of title and stature—had cowered.

  She was open with him, and trusting with him, when he kept her shut out of his life. Except in here, in the comfort of her bed.

  He owed her more than that.

  “You are,” he said softly. And then, after a beat: “You should know I killed my brother in cold blood.”

  Turns out Greyson’s townhouse is only a few blocks from my place. Go figure we had all that sex out on Wadmalaw at Luke’s barn or in parking lots around town when we lived less than a five minute walk from each other.

  Bottle of bourbon tucked under one arm—along with cigarettes and condoms, I noticed he always had a bottle of brown liquor in his glove box—and the folder with Charlie Brown’s ultrasound pictures tucked under the other, I head his way a little after seven.

  He lives on South Adger’s Wharf, a cobblestone street that runs alongside Charleston Harbor.

  It takes a lot to charm a seasoned Charleston resident like myself. But this street?

  This is about as charming and romantic as the city gets.

  Slowing my steps, I almost twist an ankle on the uneven cobbles as I gawk at my surroundings. This part of town is old. I can tell by the weathered brick facades of the homes I pass, original iron earthquake bolts dotting their walls. It’s a little known fact that Charleston sits on a fault line. Homes on the peninsula were constructed with bolts running through the walls that could be loosened when an earthquake struck, allowing the walls to move rather than crumble.

  The loamy smells of salt and marsh hang heavy in the air here. Weathered metal hitching posts, once used to tie up horses, stand attention just outside the front doors I pass.

  The street curves. Glancing down at the address Greyson texted me, I look up to find it in front of me.

  I take in the brick exterior of a two-story townhouse. It’s the largest on the block by far, facing the water. The uneven brickwork and creeping vines are juxtaposed by modern steel windows. Gas lamps flicker beside the black front door, which is tucked beneath a second story balcony.

  For several heartbeats I just stand there and stare. Stray raindrops catching on my hair, my shoulders.

  I don’t know what I was expecting Greyson’s home to look like. This place is sleek and sexy, yeah. Like any bachelor pad worth its salt would be. It’s in an exclusive—and expensive—part of town.

  But it’s got this beauty—this romanticism—that takes me totally off guard. Huge pots of purple flowers sit on either side of the front door. They line the balcony above my head, too. There’s a sleek brass knocker on the door itself. Custom made, from what I can tell.

  The place is immaculately maintained. Thoughtfully restored.

  Daddy would love it. This is exactly his wheelhouse: a thoughtful restoration where history and modernity meet.

  Grief, sharp and swift, slices through my chest.

  I draw a quick breath, blinking hard. For a second I contemplate turning around. Shooting Greyson a text to say I’m not feeling up to dinner. I want to lick my wounds alone. Maybe take a bath and go to bed by eight like the winner I am. This weird mood just won’t quit.

  But then the front door is opening, and Greyson appears, leaning one massive shoulder against the jamb. He must’ve been waiting for me. Watching.

  His eyes lock on mine. They are an arresting shade of blue against the early evening gloom.

  Literally arresting. My heart’s not beating anymore.

  Greyson doesn’t smile, but those eyes of his do when they take in my outfit. I went with my nice yoga pants this time and C of C hoodie.

  “I approve of your stretchy pants choice,” he says. He crosses his arms, making the muscles in his biceps bulge against his shirt.

  I run my eyes up and down the thick, broad outline of his body. I’ve never, ever felt weak in the knees. But right now, taking in Greyson’s off-white henley and the tight navy sweats that hang low on his hips, my left knee literally gives out.

  “Hate yours,” I manage.

  His lips twitch. He steps aside. “I can tell. Come in.”

  Stepping into his foyer, I hold out the folder.

  “For you,” I say. Then I nod at the bourbon in the crook of my elbow. “And this, obviously, is for Charlie Brown.”

  “Kid after my own heart. Eight weeks and she already has a taste for the good stuff.”

  “You have no idea what I’d do for a good Old Fashioned right now.”

  Greyson tilts his head. “I’ve got something better.”

  I follow him down the hall. Notice the picture frames on top of a chest of drawers we pass. There’s a baby in two of them, along with Ford and what I can only assume are other members of their family.

  During the interactions I’ve had with Ford, he’s always mentioned his daughter. I wonder what kind of relationship Greyson has with his niece.

  Glancing back up at him—the strong lines of his shoulders and back, the alarmingly satisfying way they press against the cozy fabric of his shirt—I wonder again what his story is. I’d had him pegged as a one-dimensional egomaniac. The typical greed-is-good, emotionally stunted corporate hack.

  It’s becoming clear he’s more complex than that.

  I like complex men. Same as I like complex characters in fiction.

  My hunger to know more about him is a pang that won’t go away.

  Speaking of hunger. The smell of something buttery and warm makes my stomach grumble as we head down the hall.

  It’s a homey smell. A comforting one. Growing up, my mom cooked dinner almost every night. The yummy smell would hit me all the way upstairs in my bedroom, where I’d be doing homework or chatting with my friends on AOL instant messenger on the off chance I could hijack our phone line for dial-up internet.

  When was the last time someone cooked a meal for me?

  Yeah, Greyson and I are wearing pants with elastic waistbands. But this—him cooking, the two of us sharing a meal that doesn’t come in takeout boxes—feels extraordinarily special.

  Vaguely I wonder where Charlie Brown will sleep when he or she arrives. I imagine we’ll need two cribs, right? One at my place. One here, at Greyson’s.

  The idea of seeing bottles and blankets and bouncy seats in his gorgeous home makes me smil
e.

  My weird mood, which had already begun to dissipate, clears altogether. Replaced by a kind of buzzy-soft excitement.

  I just have this feeling about tonight. A good feeling.

  The hall opens up into an enormous kitchen with exposed brick walls and soaring ceilings. My gaze roves appreciatively over the quartzite-topped island, the antique wooden beams on the ceiling, the cabinets that are just the right shade of off-black.

  It’s not my style—too big, too masculine, too industrial—but I can appreciate the craftsmanship and careful design that went into it.

  Go figure. Greyson is all about budgets and timelines at work. But at home, it’s obvious he’s got real taste. Or, at the very least, enough money to buy real taste.

  He sets the bourbon on the island.

  “Your house is beautiful,” I say. “Also. Whatever you’re making smells amazing.”

  “My grandmother’s chicken and rice,” he says, pouring red wine from a fancy looking decanter into two glasses: a wine glass and, as promised, a shot glass. “She called it Chicken Bog, that name is kind of unfortunate, so we go with chicken and rice. Best comfort food there is. Seemed right for a cold, rainy night.”

  I take the shot glass he holds out to me, swallowing the lump that’s suddenly formed in my throat.

  I don’t cook. But I do know about chicken and rice. It’s a classic low country dish that’s been around as long as anyone can remember. You simmer a bunch of veggies, rice, and chicken together in a huge pot. Sounds simple, but if you do it right, it actually requires a lot of effort. As evidenced by the countertop beside the range: it’s littered with cutting boards, measuring cups, the crispy skins of onions.

  Greyson put real work into this. And thought. And care.

  It’s his grandmother’s recipe.

  Also, he poured me wine. Granted, a teeny tiny bit of it. Two sips at most. But he’s not being judge-y about me having some, and I appreciate that. So damn much.

  In his own way, Grey is being supportive. Being there for me. And look how much better I feel. I need to take Olivia’s advice and go to that prenatal yoga class already. Build a support system there, too.