Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  Eva draws back. “Holy shit. That’s actually really sweet.”

  “Right? I was shocked,” I say. “But I’m excited. To meet his family, obviously. But also to find out where he comes from. Maybe get a few clues as to why he is…you know, the way he is. He’s been slowly opening up to me, but I haven’t gotten the full story.”

  “I know he got divorced a few years back,” Gracie says. “Greyson is a very private person, so he’s never explicitly mentioned it to me. But I bet that has something to do with his growling.”

  My pulse skips a beat. I had no idea Greyson was married. I’ve had a few friends go through divorces, and it’s pretty horrible for all parties involved.

  I remember that sliver of vulnerability I saw in him the other night. I thought it was at odds with his intensity. But maybe I was wrong.

  He’s intensely focused at work. Intensely involved, down to the last detail.

  Makes sense that he’d feel things intensely, too.

  My pulse skips another beat at the thought of him hurting. The thought of him being wounded.

  Or was he the one who did the wounding?

  “Maybe,” I say absently, glancing at Eva’s margarita. “I just want him to let me in.”

  “If he’s as crazy about you as it sounds like he is, then he will,” Olivia says. “It took me a good bit to let Elijah in. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, you know? So maybe Greyson taking things slow is his way of protecting you.”

  Shit, I’m going to cry again.

  I shove a chip into my mouth. Chew. Swallow.

  If Greyson is protecting me—

  If he’s holding back on my behalf—

  If he gives that much of a fuck—

  The idea is making me ache. The kind of ache I feel when I read an especially juicy romance novel.

  Eva nudges me with her elbow. “You all right there, killer?”

  “No. Nope. I’m—y’all, I’m so overwhelmed. In the best way? Kind of?”

  “Want to talk about penises instead?” Gracie pops another chip into her mouth. “You said Greyson’s got a nice one.”

  “That’s as much info as y’all are getting,” I say, laughing. “If you need more penis in your life, read one of Olivia’s books.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Julia

  There’s a prenatal class later that afternoon at the yoga studio Olivia recommended. Stuffed to the brim with lady love and shrimp tacos, I decide to give it a shot.

  I just barely fit into my stretchiest pair of workout tights. My sports bra strains over my ever-growing breasts. I feel chunky and unwieldy. But I am determined to make it to class nonetheless.

  So I drive to the studio and rent a mat. The dude at the front desk directs me to studio C, all the way at the back of the building.

  I put my shoes and purse in a locker and tuck my mat under my arm. The smell of incense tickles my nostrils as I head down the hall, painted orange and decorated with posters advertising various classes and yoga-related trips.

  I pass studios A and B on the way. Through the frosted glass doors, I can see there are classes going on in each one. They’re packed.

  Makes me think there’s a real community at this studio. Or maybe that’s just me hoping there’s a lot going on here. Don’t get me wrong, I have an amazing support system in my life right now. But I don’t have a lot of mom friends.

  I don’t know anyone who’s going through what I am right now.

  It would be really, really nice to have some people to commiserate with.

  I pause in the threshold of studio C when I see the twenty or so pregnant women inside. They come in all shapes and sizes, same as their bellies. Some are heavily pregnant, their inverted bellybuttons poking sweetly through their tank tops. Others, like me, aren’t showing much at all.

  Everyone is chatting. The room buzzes with energy.

  I feel equal parts intimidated and…relieved, maybe?

  The teacher, an Asian woman with a sleeve of flower tattoos, greets me warmly, beckoning me into the room. She holds a plastic model of a pelvis in one hand and extends the other to me.

  “I’m Katie,” she says. “Welcome to class. I don’t recognize your face. Is this your first time in the studio?”

  I don’t know why, but my voice shakes a little when I introduce myself. Which in a way delights me, as I’m used to addressing rooms full of people. I’m out of my comfort zone here.

  Not a bad thing.

  I grab one of the few remaining spots toward the front of the room. Katie sets me up with “props”, as she calls them. Two foam blocks, a bolster, and a blanket.

  To start class, she has us go around and introduce ourselves.

  “Tell us how far along you are, if you know the gender, and how you’re feeling. Please, don’t be shy with details. We love to overshare in this class!”

  I feel a swell of—of I don’t know what as the women around me introduce themselves. They talk about a lot of the things I’ve been feeling. The exhaustion, the strangeness of the whole experience.

  But more than that, I notice how they talk about it all like it’s perfectly normal. Perfectly normal to be pregnant, and perfectly normal to be in love with it or not. The introductions run the gamut from a black woman named Hallie who’s had trouble sleeping to a tall woman with blue hair named Fiona, smiling as she tells us this is her fourth baby and that she’d do it all over again because she loves giving birth so much.

  Relief.

  That’s what I feel. A huge, overwhelming sense of relief.

  I’m not alone. And I’m not making a mistake by having a baby, and I’m not any less of a woman or a mother for having the feelings I do.

  “I’m Julia,” I say when it’s my turn. “I’m just shy of nine weeks. This is my first baby, and we don’t know the gender yet.” We. Me and Greyson. Sounds weird to say that. Weird and wonderful, too. “I’m feeling…all right. To be honest, the first trimester has been rough.”

  The room erupts in sympathetic murmurs.

  “Mine sucked,” Hallie says, nodding. “I felt sick the whole time. Not throwing up sick. Just awful sick.”

  “Same here. That first trimester is all about getting through. Trust me when I say it gets better,” another woman adds as she cradles her cantaloupe-sized bump.

  I feel like the room is wrapping me in a big old hug.

  “Thanks.” I swallow. “I’m starting to see glimmers of the light. I’ve been having some low back pain—I sit a lot at work—but otherwise, just fighting some residual nausea.”

  “We’ll be addressing that low back pain a lot throughout class,” Katie says. “It’s a very common problem throughout pregnancy.”

  We move through a series of slow, deep poses that feel fucking amazing. I haven’t felt well enough to really exercise all that much, save for a long-ish walk here and there. But it’s nice to feel my body blinking awake. Stretching long-neglected muscles. Using my arms and my legs to just move through the flow, breathing deeply as I go.

  I suck at almost everything. I have to glance at my neighbors to see what Katie means by cat and cow poses, and I can barely hold downward dog—a “resting pose”—for more than four seconds before my legs start to shake.

  But no one seems to give a fuck. Most of us are tired, and slow, and we have aches in places we never knew existed. This isn’t about perfecting poses, or breaking a sweat (although I am definitely getting clammy.)

  It’s about being kind to ourselves and our bodies. Acknowledging the hard work they’re doing while we attempt to go about life as usual.

  I know I keep saying this, but I feel it here more than ever—I feel like myself as I jump rope my hips, stretch them out in something called pigeon pose. Totally present. Not wanting to fast forward because I want to die. Not wanting to rewind to remember my parents, or the life I had before I got pregnant.

  I just move between Lauren, 36 weeks, on my left, and Jordan, 22 weeks, on my right.

  Jordan kn
ocks her water bottle over in the middle of class, spilling it all over her mat. I hand her my towel and she thanks me, smiling. Not long after, when we’re stretching our elbows away from each other by reaching down our backs, Jordan hands me her strap when I can’t make my fingers touch.

  It’s a simple gesture. Small. But it fills me with this sense of warmth—faith and gratitude, too.

  Faith that I’m going to be all right.

  Gratitude that I’m not in this alone.

  As I move, I can’t help but think that my body feels tender and strange. Mine, but not.

  Just like my mind.

  Letting my thoughts continue to wander as I breathe in and out through my nose, I think about how pregnancy is constantly giving me all the feels. Bad ones. Good ones. It’s emotional and sensory overload.

  It’s life, turned all the way up.

  And just like most things in life, it’s not all good, and it’s not all bad, either. The experience falls somewhere in between. The grey where black and white overlap.

  A lot of narratives about pregnancy and motherhood would have us think otherwise—that it’s pure magic, that it’s happiness and butterflies, that it’s all good, all the time.

  Without knowing it, I felt like shit about myself because that’s not how my experience has been so far. It’s been a struggle.

  Being in this room has shown me that I am not alone in that struggle.

  And I think that is magic.

  By the time class is over and we’re cooling off in shavasana, or dead man’s pose, I’m kicking myself for not coming to a prenatal class sooner. This was awesome. And much needed.

  “Be sure to join the studio’s prenatal Facebook group,” Katie says as she collects our blocks. “It’s a great way to meet other mamas and stay in touch with each other.”

  I make a mental note to do just that when I get home.

  I introduce myself to everyone I pass on the way out and even manage to chat up Fiona and snag Hallie’s number. I don’t know much about this whole motherhood thing, but I have an inkling that finding good mom friends is going to be hard. I’m not about to let this opportunity slip through my fingers.

  Leaving the studio, I’m walking on clouds. I feel light. At ease.

  Comforted, knowing I’m okay, and normal, and just fine, just as I am. No matter what I’m feeling or thinking at that particular moment.

  Knowing my body is still there and so am I. Buried somewhere beneath all that first trimester awfulness.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Julia

  I admit to being one of those people who thought yoga wasn’t a “real” workout. But I’m already sore by the time I get home, and I end up passing out cold on my sofa for two hours because I’m so spent.

  Class soothed me, but my hand still shakes a little as I lock my door and head down to the driveway later that evening.

  I’m nervous about meeting Grey’s family. And excited.

  And nervous.

  The engine of his Yukon throbs in the driveway. A low, threatening sound.

  His eyes follow me through the windshield. Like always.

  He’s got one hand on the wheel. Like always.

  He lifts two fingers in greeting. I climb inside the car.

  But unlike always, he leans across the center console and kisses my mouth. Scruff catching on my skin.

  He smells clean. Like body wash. Hair is still wet and neatly combed. He must’ve just gotten out of the shower.

  My eyes flutter shut. Desire flooding the space between my skin and bones, gathering in my core.

  I’m acutely aware of how close his body is to mine. An awareness that’s new. Delicious.

  I open my eyes. As delicious as he looks in jeans and a blue v-neck sweater.

  I’m really liking these weekend versions of Greyson.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  I meet his eyes. Jesus, were they always so piercing?

  “I took a prenatal yoga class this afternoon that I absolutely loved. So that made me feel great.”

  He grins. “Awesome. I’m glad you gave it a try.”

  “But right now, I admit I’m a little nervous.”

  About meeting your family.

  About how much I want you.

  He reaches over and puts a hand on my thigh, just above my knee. Gives me a small squeeze that’s both reassuring and wildly arousing.

  “If you can handle the Starks, you can handle my family. They’re going to love you. What’s that?” He nods at my hands.

  “My favorite Chardonnay,” I reply, holding up one hand. I hold up the other. “And a signed copy of my current favorite read—Olivia’s My Romp With the Rogue. I’m on my third read of it. I’ve kind of taken it upon myself to be her one-woman marketing team here in town, so I’m always passing along copies of her books. I figure your mom might appreciate it. Maybe your dad, too.”

  Grey’s lips twitch. “Are you suggesting My Romp With the Rogue is going to have my mom waking up my dad in the middle of the night to have a romp of their own?”

  “Yup,” I say, grinning.

  “First of all, ew. Second—the sex scenes are that good, huh?”

  “They’re that good.”

  “As good as ours are?”

  The question hangs in the air between us for one beat. Another.

  I’m grinning. He’s grinning.

  Feeling blooms inside my chest. Along with the heady longing pumping through my veins, it’s a lethal combination.

  “Jury’s still out,” I say at last. “Think I’m going to need to experience a few more before I decide.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  He slides his hand up my thigh. Growls when his pinkie flirts with the inner seam of my jeans.

  “You’re hot,” he says. “You feel hot right here.”

  “No shit. You smell so good—Grey, you look so good—I’m surprised I haven’t melted into a puddle yet.”

  He growls again.

  “Fu-uck, Julia.” He pulls back his hand and spears it through his hair. Takes a noisy breath through his nose, lets it out as he cuts me a glance. “Dinner will be two hours, tops. We can make it ’til then, right? I want you, baby. So bad. Right now. But once I start touching you I know I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

  I resist the urge to squirm.

  “We can make it. I think.”

  Greyson puts the car in drive. “Brunch. Talk to me about how brunch with the girls was before I break the zipper of my fucking fly.”

  “Brunch.” I clear my throat, giving my most stretchy pair of jeans a tug. “Right. The girls want to throw me a baby shower, which means I should probably put together a registry. I’d like your help with that. Researching what we need. Picking it all out.”

  “I’m in. Name the date and time.”

  “Thinking we can start researching now. Pick everything out when we—fingers crossed—make it to the second trimester.”

  He nods. “Sounds like a plan. Could be fun, too. I imagine it will really start to feel real then.”

  Looking away, I fight a grin. Not quite sure why I fight it, exactly. Maybe because I don’t want to count my chickens before they’re hatched. But the idea of browsing the aisles of Hello Baby with Greyson by my side is kind of really, really appealing.

  When I first got pregnant and decided to keep the baby, I assumed I’d be doing that stuff without a partner. Without Grey.

  Fills me with happy tingles to know I will have a partner, and that Greyson and I will tackle that task together. Seems a lot less daunting—and, if I’m being honest, a lot more exciting—now that I’ll have his help.

  His parents live in an elegant brick townhouse on a quiet, leafy street in Ansonborough, one of Charleston’s oldest and prettiest neighborhoods. Climbing the curved staircase to the second floor entrance, Grey’s palm on the small of my back, I notice how the light in the windows glows warmly against the approaching darkness.

  A spark of e
xcitement catches in my chest. I’m getting that good feeling again—the one I got on Friday night when I went over to Grey’s house for the first time.

  We stop at the door. Grey turns to look at me.

  “I’m glad you came, Julia.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  He opens the door and holds it, nodding for me to step in first.

  “Helloooo,” he calls.

  A woman appears in a doorway straight ahead of us. She’s wearing a snazzy pair of tortoiseshell glasses and a roll-neck cream sweater and matching jeans.

  She’s also wearing an enormous smile, her eyes lighting up when they land on me.

  “Welcome, y’all! I’m so glad you could make it. Grey, baby, give your mama some sugar, would you?”

  She pulls Grey into a hug. There’s no awkwardness. No hesitation. There’s a warmth and a familiarity about their embrace that makes me melt a little.

  This is not the coldhearted Greyson Montgomery I met at the barn how many months back.

  His mom has the same Southern drawl that Grey does. A little thicker, little slower. There’s something about her mannerisms, her gentle, easy warmth, that almost reminds me of a Southern Meryl Streep.

  “Mom, I’d like you to meet Julia Lassiter,” he says when they pull back, turning to me. “Please don’t scare her off.”

  Tucking the chardonnay into the crook of my arm, I hold out my hand. “Mrs. Montgomery, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much—”

  “Honey, please call me Eliza. And don’t be silly, you’re getting a hug,” she says. And then she pulls me into her arms. “We are so very glad you could join us tonight.”

  I meet Grey’s eyes over Eliza’s shoulder. He’s smiling.

  So am I.

  “Very glad indeed! Hey y’all!”

  We turn at the sound of another voice in the doorway, and I nearly start. The handsome man standing there looks exactly like Greyson, just with a few more wrinkles and salt and pepper hair. But the blue eyes, square jaw, and dimpled chin are the same.