Jesus, those genes are strong. I can’t help but wonder whether Charlie Brown—if he’s a boy—will inherit them.
Something about the idea makes my heart skip a beat.
“I’m Greyson senior, but everyone calls me Monty,” he says, extending a hand.
I turn to Grey. “So you’re a junior?”
“I’m actually a third,” he says, glancing at his dad. “Dad here is the junior.”
Monty claps his hands and rubs them together. “What can I get you to drink, Julia?”
Eliza’s eyes drift to my chardonnay. “Some white wine? I’ve already got a bottle open. Monty can also whip up whatever cocktail you’d like. I’ve got tea, too, sweet of course, and some sparkling water…”
“Tea would be great, thank you. And these are for y’all.” I hold out the wine and the book.
“Well, doesn’t this look inviting,” Eliza says, taking the book. “I do like a man in a kilt. Have you watched that show Outlander?”
“Love it,” I reply with a grin. “Did you read the books? I think the casting in the show is A-plus.”
“I’ve read them all. Twice. Good Lord, is that Jamie Frasier a tall glass of water or what? I’ve half a mind to travel back to the eighteenth century to find him myself.”
“And that’s our cue to keep moving. Let’s head inside.” Greyson puts his hand on my back and guides me into the kitchen at the back of the house. It’s open to a living room that’s beautifully furnished and strewn with toys. Dolls, books, a red and blue tricycle.
No one seems to bat an eye at the mess. In fact, Eliza beams at the little girl in leggings who sits in the center of the toy hurricane. When the girl sees Greyson, she immediately leaps to her feet and heads our way, face lighting up.
“Uncle Grey!” she says, holding up her arms.
He leans down and swoops her into his arms, airplane-ing her over his head—noise effects and everything—before he bends his arms and presses a kiss to both her cheeks.
“Bryce!” He shifts her easily onto his hip, like he’s done it a million times before. “Where have you been, girl?”
“Workin’.”
“Workin’ on what?”
“My computer”—she points to an iPad—“just like you and Daddy.”
“Are you CEO of your own company yet?”
“I am.” She nods proudly. “Can I be CBD of yours too?”
He laughs. Ford does, too, from his perch on the sofa.
“You must be a pretty chill boss, then,” Grey replies.
“She is anything but chill,” Ford says. “But you already know that.”
Bryce crosses her arms. “You gonna make me the boss or what?”
“Hm. What are your qualifications?”
Bryce rolls her eyes dramatically, letting out an aggravated sigh.
“Girls run the world, Uncle Grey.”
“Yeah they do,” Greyson says, looking at me.
I bite back a laugh while simultaneously fighting a joyous sense of what the ever-living fuck.
It’s obvious Greyson is very close with his niece. Again, no awkwardness, no hesitation. Just sweetness and warmth and familiarity. He’s literally radiating affection. Joy.
Not only that. He’s already talking to Bryce about owning businesses and being a boss.
He’s helping to raise a feminist in the making.
I mean. Stick a fork in me. I am done.
This isn’t me heaping praise on a man for doing what’s merely expected of a woman (and never, ever rewarded with said praise, by the way); it’s not me giving him too much credit for being an involved, helpful family member, or being good with kids.
This is me seeing a whole new side of him. The warmth beneath the corporate, cold-hearted veneer that I’ve gotten glimpses of but have never witnessed in such unabashed, unafraid glory.
This is how I was with my family. Because I loved them and they loved me.
Greyson loves these people. Loves them.
Fiercely.
I’m gripped by a fierceness myself. It’s a primal and possibly problematic longing, but it’s there. Lodged in the very center of my being.
I want him to love me like that.
I want to have this man’s baby.
Because I know he’s going to love Charlie Brown this way.
The thought of starting a family with him fills me with this brimming happiness. One day that’s going to be our baby on his hip.
One day our baby will be a part of this loving, tight-knit family.
I want to be a part of it, too. So badly it hurts.
Am I an idiot to even entertain the idea? I’ve known Grey for, what, six months? And his family all of six minutes?
But you can just tell. They’re close. They’re in each other’s lives and help each other out.
They love each other. Unconditionally.
They belong to each other, too.
“You tell ’em, Bryce,” Eliza cuts in. “And don’t you let these boys forget it.”
“She may not run the world yet, but she sure as hell runs this family,” Ford says. He smiles and gets up, coming over to give me a hug. “Hey, Julia. Glad you could make it.”
All this hugging. The toys. The sweating glass of deliciously sweet tea in my hand.
Amazing how I already feel right at home.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, tilting my head to look at Bryce. Greyson’s got her on his shoulders now. “And who is this?”
“This is my daughter, Bryce. Bryce, can you say hello to Miss Julia?”
“Hi, Bryce,” I say with a little wave.
Bryce looks at me for a full beat, brown eyes locked on mine. Serious and steady and smart. I struggle not to laugh. She’s got this intensity about her that I immediately recognize, because she shares it with Grey.
“Hello,” she says at last.
Grey grins. “Give her a little bit to warm up to you. She’ll get there.”
“Hey, boys, do y’all mind coming to help me outside?” Monty asks. “Time to put the steaks on.”
Grey puts Bryce back on the ground. Then the three of them grab their cocktails and head out back. I join Eliza in the kitchen, where she checks on a huge pot of mashed sweet potatoes and some collards simmering with bacon and sugar in a dutch oven.
“What can I help with?” I ask.
Eliza waves me away. “You just sit, honey.”
“Bryce is too stinking cute,” I say, turning to look at her. She’s playing quietly on her iPad, her wispy brown hair tucked neatly behind her ears.
“She’s got my boys wrapped around her little finger, that’s for sure.”
“Greyson clearly adores her.”
“Oh yeah. He’s been a big part of Bryce’s life since she was born.” She lowers the lid onto the pot of potatoes. Lowers her voice, too. “Ford’s wife died when Bryce was just a baby. Grey stepped up in a big way. We all did, but he took his role as surrogate parent very seriously. Same as he took his role as the responsible older brother seriously when they were growing up.”
My heart has started to pound. I swallow to keep it from working its way into my throat.
“So Greyson was, like, the Prince William to Ford’s Prince Harry.”
“That’s it exactly,” Eliza replies, an easy smile breaking out on her face. “Ford wasn’t wild, but he was definitely more of a free spirit than Greyson. More sensitive, too. When Rebecca died, Greyson knew Ford needed time to heal. Time to acclimate to being a single parent. So he told Ford to focus on his family while Grey focused on the business. He’s been running Montgomery Partners single-handedly for a while now, supporting them both. I think that’s what motivates Greyson more than anything—growing the business so he has a way of giving back to our family. Sweet of him, but I worry he’s too hard on himself. He can be very intense about things, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I have,” I say with a scoff.
Eliza’s smile deepens. “Hard not to. He means well,
Julia, even if it doesn’t seem like it at times. When Grey isn’t at work—not often, granted—he’s over at Ford’s. Bringing dinner. Hanging out with Bryce.”
“Teaching her about leadership and girl power.”
“He really does mean well.”
I swallow again. This time to keep from tearing up.
I guessed at it Friday night, when he told me how his love of food was what spurred his interest in venture capital, and that he was close with his family. But now I’m seeing the proof firsthand: this is why Greyson is so obsessed with turning a profit.
Not because he’s a greedy, egomaniacal asshole. But because he’s been supporting his widowed brother and three-year-old niece.
Because he wants to give back to the people he loves. Do right by them.
Show his love by working to build them a stable, happy future. While showing up in every way that he can.
That’s some kind of fierce love right there.
And such a beautiful idea that for a second I can’t breathe.
If I wasn’t falling for Grey before, I sure as hell am now.
My desire to know him, all of him, burns to need.
I get that Grey is the dutiful older brother, and I get that he takes said duty seriously. But I have this nagging feeling that maybe he’s atoning for something, too.
His divorce? I imagine a high-achieving, dutiful, firstborn son would rather die than disappoint his parents. Disappoint anyone, his ex included.
I look up at the sound of masculine laughter. Greyson is shouldering the back door open, an enormous tray of steaks in his hands.
He’s smiling, making the dimple in his chin really pop. When his eyes meet mine, they’re warm and happy and as different from the icy eyes I first saw at the barn as shadow from light.
“Steaks are done,” he says.
His mom claps her hands. “All right, y’all, let’s start fixin’ some plates.”
“Mind if I play a little music?” Grey asks, setting the tray on the counter beside me. His elbow brushes mine.
“Music?” Ford’s eyes go wide. “Since when do you like music?”
Grey shrugs, digging his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through what I can only assume is his music library. A second later, David Bowie starts to play on the speakers above our heads.
It’s “Young Americans.” One of my favorites.
“Ziggy Stardust?” Ford smiles. “Heck yeah.”
My heart—my stomach—my feelings—
They all bottom out. In the best way.
Grey catches me staring at him. He winks.
“Just in case the exorcist doesn’t show.”
“What’s an exorcist?” Bryce asks, trotting into the kitchen.
Ford picks her up, smoothing her shirt. “It’s what we’re going to need to make sure the kind alien life force that’s taken up residence in Uncle Grey’s body sticks around for a while longer.”
“Let’s eat,” Monty says. “By the way, is this song about what I think it is?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Greyson
I can’t take my eyes off her.
Julia doesn’t know my family. Hardly knows Ford. I assume she doesn’t regularly dine with three-year-olds who somehow always manage to get food in their hair and/or vomit whenever they eat.
But she’s still fucking radiant at the table across from me. At ease. At home. Chatting with my dad. Charming my mom. Cleaning her plate and going back for seconds, and then thirds, of Mom’s famous collards.
Julia and Ford wig out over their shared love of eighties rock and some poet named Paul Neruda (or maybe it was Pablo? Damn it, now I wish I paid more attention in lit class). She laughs, eyes lighting up mischievously, when he tells the story of my Jonas Brother-style tuxedo pants.
“So are you going to pull a Patrick Swayze?” she asks me. “You know I like to dance.”
“Lordy do I love that man.” Mom sighs. “I’ll be his Baby anytime.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Dad says.
“Greyson hasn’t danced in years.” Ford looks at me, Bryce dangling from his knee. “Julia, you gonna help us change that?”
She grins. “Only if he promises to wear those tux pants.”
It’s obvious my family genuinely enjoys her company, too. They brighten any room. Any mood. But with Julia here, too, that brightness is almost blinding. She’s witty and real and interesting, and they can’t get enough of her thoughts, ideas, stories.
I can’t, either. I just sit and stare like a slack-jawed, lovesick jackass. Soaking up her every word and every expression. The way she puckers her lips and pulls them to the side when she’s thinking about something. How she surrenders to laughter, a whole-being exercise that involves eyes and mouth and belly.
The way her gaze always catches on mine. Like she’s feeling this too.
This.
The stupid happy certainty that you’re exactly where you should be, with exactly the right people.
Your people.
Julia is my person. At least I’d like her to be.
I am downright obsessed with this woman.
Bryce is drooling on Ford’s shoulder by the time Dad brings out a dish of his brown sugar pecan bread pudding. He retired young and took up baking to keep busy. In the years since, he’s become one hell of a scratch baker.
Bryce magically wakes up at the mention of the words ice cream. Dad piles a heaping scoop of vanilla bean onto bowls of the warm bread pudding, making the ice cream nice and melty, and passes them around the table.
Lord have mercy, Julia’s definitely going to make noises while she eats that. And I’m definitely going to spring a very inconvenient boner unless I do something about it.
Shoveling a massive bite of bread pudding into my mouth, I swallow. Clear my throat.
“So. Y’all.” I meet Julia’s eyes across the table. “Julia and I have some news.”
Julia blushes. Ford looks up from wiping regurgitated ice cream off Bryce’s foot. Mom and Dad exchange a glance.
A happy, excited glance.
Lord, please don’t let me get their hopes up just to disappoint them again.
My heart is thumping loud and clear inside my chest.
I’m scared shitless. This is the first time my parents are meeting Julia, for Christ’s sake. First time I’ve brought a girl home in years. And we’re about to announce that we’re having a baby together.
But I’m reaching for Julia’s hand and holding it in mine and doing this fucking thing anyway.
“You want to tell them?” I ask her softly.
She smiles.
Her eyes are wet.
“It’s a bit of a surprise,” she begins. “Trust me when I say no one was more surprised than we were. But Greyson and I are pregnant. We’re going to have a baby.”
Immediate pandemonium ensues. Mom launches across the table to wrap Julia in a hug. Dad bursts into tears and so does Bryce. She climbs into my arms, sobbing, and tells me she doesn’t want a baby but will be nice to it if I ask her to.
And you know what? As overwhelming and as loud as it all is, it’s pretty wonderful. I’ve never appreciated how non-judgmental my family is more than I do now. Julia and I don’t get any questions about getting married. No sly comments about how fast we’re moving or what idiots we are for not knowing how birth control works.
I wouldn’t blame them if they judged us. Or at least had some hesitation about the suddenness of it all. The choices we’re making.
But my family—my parents and Ford and even baby Bryce in her own way (who’s not much of a baby any more, it kills me)—trust that I’m making the right decision.
Which makes me think—makes me hope—I can trust myself.
Ford pries Bryce off of me and gives me a tight hug.
“Congrats, brother. I don’t know if you deserve Julia”—this makes her laugh—“but you do deserve to be happy.”
I meet Julia’s eyes over Ford’s shoulder. She
’s crying and smiling all at once. Holding nothing in—hiding nothing—as usual.
My heart feels like it’s about to burst.
Can I do this?
Do I deserve this?
And why does my mom always ask so many damn questions?
“Oh my God y’all!” Mom is saying. “Oh my God! Bless your heart, Julia, you kept that news in all this while. I don’t know how you did it! How are you feeling? When are you due? Can I host a shower? What do you need? You’ve got to take all the leftovers tonight. Is my son cooking for you as often as he should be? Tell me your favorites, honey, and one of us will make ’em for you.”
Julia laughs, wiping away tears.
She’s glowing. Eating, too—she’s almost finished with her bowl of bread pudding and dessert, a fact my eagle-eyed father doesn’t miss.
He quietly refills her bowl. She thanks him with a smile.
I don’t have answers to my questions. I guess in a way I never will. Life will play out the way it plays out.
But I do know I want this baby. I want a family.
I want Julia. I’m definitely hurting all three of us—her, the baby, me—by not letting her in.
I’m so fucking tired of denying myself. I’m gonna take what I want. Finally.
But first, I have to tell her the truth. I owe her that much.
I just hope she doesn’t run after hearing it.
* * *
My heart is pounding on the drive home.
I’m also half hard. I keep catching whiffs of Julia’s perfume. And the top she’s wearing doesn’t hide the fact that her nipples get hard every time I look at her. Like she’s just as aroused by my attention as I am by hers.
One of the five hundred things I adore about her. She doesn’t lie, and neither does her body. She’s honest to a fault. Even when the truth is messy. Inconvenient.
I have so much to learn from her.
My hand shakes a little as I put the truck in park in my driveway. The sound of the engine shifts and so does the mood inside the car.
I look at Julia.
She looks at me.
“Julia.”
Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 17
