“Yes!” Julia says around a mouthful of ice cream. “It’s been so long since I watched the first season. I love how we get to see all the families together—the Starks in particular—before basically everyone dies.”
“You know”—finger poised above the play button, I glance at her over my shoulder—“all your movie and TV show picks are about family. Creating it. Losing it. Loving it, even when it’s made up of a bunch of murderous Italians or sparkly vampires.”
Julia’s face is lit by the glow of the screen. Her spoon halts midway between her bowl and mouth. She looks at me for a beat. Looks down at the spoon. Then she slides it into her mouth. Slowly pulls it back out again, a sliver of pink tongue making an appearance as she licks at the corner of her mouth.
She swallows.
I scream. Silently. As the head of my cock glides up the seam of my sweats.
Shit no stop.
“Haven’t thought about it that way,” she says, looking down at her bowl. “But you’re right. Now that I’m thinking about it, too, everything I’ve read or watched over the past year kind of is about family in a way. I guess…well. I really miss mine.”
“I’m sorry. I know I’ve said that fifteen times already, but I mean it.” I look at her. A day ago—hell, even just this afternoon—I don’t think I would’ve been comfortable talking to her about this stuff.
But now it seems wrong not to. Maybe because I’m inspired by Julia’s way of cutting through bullshit to get to marrow. I’m inspired and frankly awed by her willingness to give this part of herself up and be vulnerable. I want more. Which probably makes me an asshole, considering I’ve given her nothing beyond headaches at work and a surprise fetus.
“I honestly can’t imagine how much it fucking sucks to lose your parents.”
Her eyes are getting wet.
“It does suck. I think about them a lot anyway. But now that this whole thing is going on,” she says, making a circling motion in front of her belly, “my grief has hit a new low. I think all the time about how much they would’ve loved being grandparents. How proud they’d be. The joy of telling them this news—even though I got knocked up by a Satanist—Greyson, it would’ve been awesome. I’d give anything to see their faces when I told them about Charlie Brown and how healthy he is. My mom would go crazy buying all that smocked baby shit for him. She really, really loved kids. Dad would already be building this, like, post-modern swing set in their backyard. They’re missing this, I’m missing that part of this. I want so badly for it to be different sometimes…it’s hard.”
Tears clump on her eyelashes. She lets her spoon fall into her bowl with a clank. I sit back so that we’re eye to eye on the couch. Candlelight flickers across her hair. The curve of her cheek.
My heart is pounding, and I don’t know why.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent,” I say. “But I do know how it feels to want so badly for something to have gone differently. It haunts you. It hurts.”
“It does.” Julia turns her head a little to look at me. “You know that’s part of the reason why I chose to keep this baby—because I lost my family, and this is a way of creating a new one. It won’t be the same, obviously, but maybe it’s not supposed to be. Maybe this is my chance to make lemonade.”
“When life hands you lemons,” I say with a tight grin because I can’t fucking breathe. “Right.”
“I’d actually prefer to use those lemons as a twist in an ice cold martini. But I guess lemonade is the next best thing when you’re pregnant.”
Can’t help it. I reach up and catch a tear with my thumb. I’m gripped by the desire to take her face in my hand. Hold her and kiss her and tell her, without having to say a thing, how much I admire her.
You’re devastating.
You’re stupid gorgeous.
You’re brave in all the best ways, and you’re making me want to be brave again, too.
Which is dangerous.
So fucking dangerous. I’m going to hurt one or both of us. All three of us.
But I still find myself leaning into the conversation anyway. Like I have nothing to lose.
Like I deserve another chance.
“Takes courage,” I say. “To put yourself out there again with this baby after losing so much. I’m in awe. How? Why?”
Her eyes bounce between mine. “Because I have to. What’s the alternative? Staying down? Living small and scared? Yeah, it takes balls to get back up after you’ve had your ass handed to you. When you’ve lost the people who matter most to you. But the people whose lives and careers I admire are the ones who kept trying. Who fucked up or fell short or lost again and again but still got up one more time. Maybe I’ve read too much fiction, but I’ve found that it’s usually that last ditch effort that turns things around. If it doesn’t, at least you go down trying, you know? At least you did the brave thing. The right thing.”
“But what if you didn’t do the right thing? What if you did something really fucking terrible?”
She looks at me. Waits for me to explain.
When I don’t, she continues.
“You learn from it. You take it as a lesson and try to do right the next time around. Just because you’re a villain in one story doesn’t mean you can’t be a hero in another. I happen to like characters with complicated pasts. Nuance is a big turn on.”
When was the last time I spoke so honestly to someone?
When was the last time someone spoke so honestly to me?
It’s terrifying.
It’s the fucking tits.
“You saying bad guys turn you on?”
“I’m saying guys who sometimes do bad things for good reasons get me wet. Humanity in all its messy, imperfect glory is sexy AF.”
I laugh. What a peach this woman is. Cracking dirty jokes in the middle of crying.
Also. Deep down, I knew ending my marriage was the right move. But it all felt so horrible—my ex’s heartbreak, my family’s too, the emotional and financial fallout—that the bad kind of overshadowed the good.
When is breaking someone’s heart ever not a bad thing?
When your reasons are good.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, at some point during my divorce, I’d considered that concept. Turned it over in my head and heart, ultimately discarding it because it meant I could absolve myself of guilt, and I wasn’t ready to do that yet.
What if I’m never ready?
What if I’m ready now?
“You learn all that from romance?” I ask.
“Sure as hell did,” she says proudly. “It’s a genre that’s criminally underrated.”
“I believe it.”
“So are you going to tell me about this bad thing you did? Or are you going to politely ignore me like you did in there”—she tilts her head toward the kitchen—“and hit play on the Starks?”
I look at her, running my tongue along the inside edge of my front teeth.
I feel close. Close to ready.
But that’s not ready enough. This is years of emotional weight I’m trying to shed. Years of fucked up thinking and living.
I lean forward and hit play. I half expect Julia to call me out. Call me a coward.
I deserve it.
But instead she settles into the couch and picks up her spoon.
Her shoulder touches mine. I don’t move. Neither does she.
We watch Ned Stark’s life unravel in companionable silence. And even though part of me feels riled up inside, another part feels calm and contented and quiet.
I could get used to Julia’s brand of Netflix and chill.
Chapter Sixteen
Greyson
Halfway through episode two, Julia’s head lolls and falls lightly on my shoulder.
My heart skips a beat. Body warms.
I look down and see that she’s asleep. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling in an easy, slow rhythm. She feels warm and solid against me.
There are few places Julia and I h
aven’t touched each other. I’ve had fingers and tongue all over her body. She’s had me in her mouth, between her legs, between her tits.
But we’ve never had contact like this. Flirty, soft, fun touching that’s making those butterflies in my stomach take flight.
She’s trusting me. Me, the wolf.
This smart, brave woman thinks I’m worthy of her trust, despite knowing the strength of my bite.
Is it fucked up that that fills me? To the brim?
I want to wrap her in my arms and fall asleep with her right here on the couch. But she’s exhausted, for one thing, and probably is in desperate need of a good night’s sleep in a real bed.
For another, I don’t trust myself not to wake her up and fuck her five ways to Sunday.
That can’t happen. For a lot of reasons.
A new one that wasn’t there before. I like Julia. Like her. What if I show her my dark side—what if I tell her the truth about what I did—and she hates me for it? Judges me? I don’t want to lose her.
What if she sees the real me and runs?
So I reach for the iPad, careful not to move her, and turn it off. I slip one arm under her torso, the other underneath her knees. Bending my legs so I don’t lift with my back, I stand, cradling her against my chest.
Julia makes a noise, eyes fluttering open.
“Shit, did I fall asleep? I’m sorry. I’ll go home. Wait, Greyson, are you—”
“Carrying you up to my bed? Yes.”
Her lips curl into a sly, sleepy little smile. “Are you going to have your way with me? How villainous.”
“Nah. Thought I’d play the hero tonight and let you have your rest. I’ll sleep down here.”
Julia lifts a brow. “See? Villain in one story, hero in another.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I grunt, climbing the stairs. “If you knew what is going through my mind right now, you wouldn’t be saying that.”
“Heroes are allowed to have dirty minds.” She loops her arms around my neck, resting her head against my chest. “I actually prefer them that way.”
Sweet baby Jesus.
As if I couldn’t want this woman more.
“Help yourself to anything you need,” I say as I carefully maneuver Julia into my bedroom. “Bathroom’s right in there, and I’ve got plenty of clothes in the closet if you’d like to change. Usually I enforce a strict no-clothes policy in my bed, but I’ll make an exception tonight. If you get hungry, just come get me and I’ll whip something up for you. There’s plenty of leftovers, and I’ve got some Greek yogurt in the fridge, too. I was reading that pregnant women should have some protein in their snacks, so…”
But Julia is asleep again, arms falling from around my neck.
I tuck her in, careful not to wake her. Grin when she lets out a contented sigh as I pull the covers up to her chin. I turn the heat down at night, so I don’t want her getting cold.
I want to climb into bed with her. God, do I want that. But I have no illusions about what will go down if that happens. Plus, I don’t want her waking up in the middle of the night next to a dude she doesn’t remember falling asleep with.
So I leave the hall light on and head back downstairs.
The rain’s let up a bit. I grab a cigarette and step outside onto the balcony, making sure to shut the door firmly behind me. Don’t want any second hand smoke getting into the house with Julia inside.
Outside, the air is chilly but humid. Charleston in late autumn and winter.
I light the cigarette and take a big inhale. I wait for the usual release that comes—the fleeting lightness—as I slowly exhale, tilting my head up to the sky.
But it doesn’t come.
Furrowing my brow, I take another drag.
The realization hits me on the third inhale.
The lightness doesn’t come because it’s already there.
In my head and my chest. My limbs. My mood.
I don’t need nicotine to make me feel better because I already do.
I already feel warm and fuzzy. Julia is upstairs. Charlie Brown, too. Both of them safe and warm under my roof. I fed Julia, I made her laugh. I lit her up and drew her out. Drew parts of myself out in the process.
Is this what happy feels like? It’s been so long.
But these butterflies—they just won’t quit.
Part of me wants to smoke the rest of this cigarette. No question I’m 100% addicted, and my body craves the nicotine. But another part—a part I don’t recognize—wants to see if I have the willpower to put it out. Right now.
Exactly how deep am I in here?
How much power do I really have to choose what happens next?
Julia’s making me want something other than hurt.
But do I really believe I can heal? Do I really think I deserve to?
Just because you’re a villain in one story doesn’t mean you can’t be a hero in another.
I take one last drag. Sneak another. My hand shakes as I stub it out.
But I do it. I put the fucking thing out.
I duck back inside before I change my mind.
* * *
Julia
I wake up in a bed that’s not mine.
The sheets are silky cool. Cotton percale, Egyptian if I had to guess.
And the pillow smells like bergamot.
It smells like Greyson.
A rush of heat floods my core. I blink open my eyes and suck in a breath. I’m swimming in the middle of an enormous bed, the covers tucked tightly around me.
I’m a burrito. In Greyson Montgomery’s bed.
Last night comes back to me in a rush. The sonogram, The Sopranos, Greyson’s grandmother’s chicken and rice and a half shot of Pinot.
My God, that chicken. And that rice.
And the way he looked in those tight joggers and tighter henley.
I remember him carrying me up the stairs, Callum-the-angry-Scot style. The way he held me was so careful. Grip firm but touch gentle.
He made me feel safe.
Never in a million years would I have thought I’d feel safe with this man. Egomaniac boss. Instigator of fights. Slayer of vaginas.
But here I am. Tucked sweetly into his clean, cavernous bed. Still full from the amazing meal he made from scratch to celebrate Charlie Brown’s first ultrasound.
My stomach flips when I think about Greyson sleeping next to me. We didn’t have sex—that much I know—but maybe we slept together. Literally. For the first time ever.
I turn my head. Feel a pinch of disappointment when I see the other half of the king bed is neatly made. Where did he sleep, I wonder? Sofa? Guest bedroom?
Why didn’t he sleep with me? The shock of waking up next to him is almost too delicious to contemplate.
An ache fills me.
I miss the smell of his skin and the weight of his body. The feel of his mouth on my neck. The things he’d do with those big, knowledgeable hands of his.
I’m so drawn to his confidence.
Last night, that confidence faltered when we were talking about taking risks and second chances. But I’m drawn to that, too—the crack in his facade, the glimpse of real human vulnerability.
As much as I want to know what his story is, he’s got to be ready to tell it.
I’ll wait patiently in the meantime.
My heart stumbles around my chest as I pad to the bathroom, already punch drunk at the prospect of seeing a scruffy, sleep-rumpled Greyson first thing in the morning.
I find him passed out cold on the sofa downstairs. He’s got one arm bent behind his head. Snoring softly.
I smile and pull the thin blanket a little higher over his chest. He may run hot—his skin was always scalding to the touch—but it’s freezing in here.
The scent of last night’s meal lingers in the air. My stomach grumbles. I glance at the kitchen. I may not cook, but I know some people who do.
I wonder how Greyson takes his coffee. Does he even drink it?
Only one way to f
ind out.
Half an hour later, there’s a soft knock at the front door.
Gracie stands on the stoop, a tray of coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
“So y’all needed some nourishment after working up an appetite last night, huh?” she says with a grin, holding out the goodies. “This should do the trick. Two bacon-egg-and-cheeses on Marie’s croissants. I threw in a pumpkin scone, too. Good for that quick sugar energy if y’all, I don’t know, decide to go for another round or whatever.”
I press a kiss to her cheek, and pass her a few bills as she hands me the coffees and food. “I already told you that this sleepover is as innocent as it gets. Please note my hoodie and pregnancy pooch. But thank you for bringing all this over. Greyson made dinner last night, so I figured breakfast was the least I can do.”
“Are y’all, like, ‘hanging out’ now?” she says, bending her fingers in air quotes.
“No.” I play with the lid on my iced coffee. “Maybe. I don’t know. I think…Grace, I think have a little crush on him. More than a crush.”
She arches a brow. “Didn’t see that one coming.”
“Me neither. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. He was so awful for so long. But now that I’m getting to know him—”
“He’s actually turning out to be a good guy?”
I scoff. “I wouldn’t say good. Interesting, maybe. Layered. Complex. A little fucked up.”
“You’re in trouble,” Gracie says, still grinning.
I look down at the coffee. Let out a sigh. “Yeah.”
“Chin up.” She puts her hand on my arm. “You’re only tied to this guy for the rest of your life. You’ve got plenty of time to figure out how you feel about him.”
I laugh. “Thanks again for the impromptu delivery service.”
“Anytime. And don’t forget brunch tomorrow! The girls and I want to talk about your shower.”
“My shower?”
“You knew we’d want to throw you a baby shower. I know it’s early, but let’s at least pick a date and get you going on your registry, all right?”
I feel a familiar swelling in my throat. “Thank y’all. Really. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 12
