That’s it. That’s all I say. Her name.
But it’s enough to let her know what I’m about to say.
She reaches for my hand. Tangles her fingers in mine.
“Tell your inner villain not to worry,” she says. “I’m not going to fix you. I’m definitely not going to save you. But I am going to listen.”
The world tells us that men aren’t supposed to have feelings. If we do, we damn well better not show them.
But I feel more like a man than I have in years when I look at Julia and pry open my chest, blood and guts and truth spilling out between us.
“Three years ago, I walked out on my wife. She was a good girl, and she loved me, and I broke her heart and destroyed her life.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Greyson
I wait for Julia to recoil in horror.
Will her exit be dramatic, I wonder? Will she call me out and slap me across the face and slam the door on her way out? Or will her disgust be of a more quiet variety, where she silently judges me, slowly begins to loathe me as she stops answering my calls?
I wait.
But Julia just looks at me. Her fingers moving gently through mine.
In her eyes—
I don’t see loathing.
I see sympathy.
Makes the throb inside my chest and ears lessen. Just the tiniest bit.
Just enough to encourage me to keep going.
“I’ve struggled to forgive myself for breaking the promises I made to a woman whose life I completely leveled.”
“Understandable,” Julia says, nodding. “I think that’s a doozy by any standard.”
“On paper, what Cameron and I had was perfect. Our families were old friends. We grew up in the same neighborhood, moved in the same circles. Both of us had successful careers. From the beginning, everyone loved that we were, well, falling in love. They called us the Barbie and Ken of Charleston.”
Julia’s lips twitch.
“I know, I know, totally gross,” I say, scoffing. “But looking back, I see that I was swept up in it all. The fairy tale. How perfect everything looked from the outside. Now I understand that I was more in love with how happy that story made everyone else—my family especially—than I was with Cameron. I was in love with how it all looked on paper and in pictures.”
“But your parents are so cool. They don’t strike me as the type to be caught up in appearances. Pretty sure they didn’t need you to be the picture perfect son who married the picture perfect girl.”
“I know. My parents are awesome. Authentic. I love them for it. They didn’t put that pressure on me to have, this, like, insanely perfect, insanely accomplished life. I put that pressure on myself. I wanted to be that son for them.”
“Why?”
Lifting a shoulder in a shrug, I say, “Not sure. Maybe I thought that that was the kind of kid they deserved because they gave me every privilege imaginable. Maybe I, you know, wanted to save them from how stressed I remembered them being when I was growing up. They’re pretty chill now. But they were overwhelmed a lot when Ford and I were younger. Like all parents, I imagine.”
“I felt that too with my parents—the stress,” Julia says. “Parenting is hard. As we’re about to find out first-hand.”
I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—we’ll figure it out, Julia. People way less prepared than we are do it every damn day.”
“You’re right.” She gives me a smile. “I mean, I hope we’ll figure it out, anyway.”
A beat of silence passes between us. She’s waiting for me to continue. Patiently.
“It became clear pretty quickly once Cameron and I were married that we wanted different things. We both worked a ton, which didn’t help matters.”
“Who, you? A workaholic?” Julia arches a brow. “Never.”
“You don’t do big things by working a nine to five.”
“I don’t disagree, although I want to challenge you a bit on that later. But I want you to keep telling me about Cameron. You’ve only blown me off, what, twice now?”
I grin. “Third time is a charm.”
“Keep going.”
“Right. Okay. So Cameron very much wanted to live the same life as her parents. Same white picket fence, same friends, same country club. It’s how we both grew up. So I get it. But I began to get really bored doing the same things with the same people all the time. She was obsessed with always going out, always with just the right people at just the right places. It felt superficial. I began to wonder if that was all there really was. I thought it was the life I wanted. But it didn’t…I don’t know, it didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like me. We grew apart. She wasn’t happy, and neither was I. She still wanted to hold on, though. She really wanted that perfect, beautiful existence we promised everyone. Kids especially. But I knew—deep down I just knew—that was a big mistake.” I let out a breath. “I was the one who called it quits after a year of therapy got us nowhere. I’ve always taken pride in being a workhorse. I make shit work. Literally. But I couldn’t make my marriage work. I couldn’t make myself fall back in love with her. And one day I just woke up and felt tired. I couldn’t do it anymore. So I ended the perfect marriage.”
“That wasn’t actually so perfect.”
“Right.”
Julia’s still looking at me. Sympathy still in her eyes. In the slight curve of her brow.
She is still here.
“So why the struggle to forgive yourself then for walking away?” Julia asks. “If you were unhappy and you knew that you and Cameron didn’t want the same things? If you knew that being shallow and fake was…well, shallow and fake and wrong?”
I spear a hand through my hair. Let out another breath.
“I can’t help but feel that I shouldn’t have married her in the first place. I should’ve known better. I should’ve seen the signs for what they were. Why did I make that choice? I’m so methodical in all I do. I’ve been trained to consider every outcome. Look at things from every angle. How did I not see that I wasn’t head over heels in love with the woman I promised my life to? I lied to her, Julia. Lied to our families and to myself.”
She swipes her thumb across the back of my palm. “You said it yourself. You were blinded by the gorgeousness of it all. By your need to be the perfect son with the perfect, beautiful life. Why you did what you did—it makes terrible sense, Grey. And you made a terrible mistake that hurt people you cared about.”
“Yup,” I say, my throat swelling. “Cameron was devastated. So were my parents. I couldn’t forgive myself for hurting them so deeply. Julia, I have never, ever felt so awful in my life. And I was once awake for seventy-two hours straight when I was put on a deal back in my banking days. While I had the flu. And pink eye. I was surrounded by a perimeter of trashcans I’d puke into between working on decks.”
Julia laughs. “Bet your co-workers loved you.”
“They hated me. I gave all of them the flu and pink eye.”
“You really do destroy everything you touch.”
“Whoa whoa whoa.” I hold up my hands—one of hers, too, still clasped in mine—in mock consternation. “I’m pouring my shriveled black heart out to you, and you’re gonna hit me below the belt? You play dirty.”
Julia levels me with this saucy, simmering look. “You like it dirty.”
“Well, yeah. But so do you.”
“And I’m damn proud of it.” She tilts her head. “So. Why you felt the way you have about your divorce is totally valid. You made a big mistake. But you also learned a big, important lesson. You learned to tell the truth, even when it hurts. That takes courage.”
“I wasn’t courageous. I was tired. And lonely.”
“Of course you were tired. But you were also brave, Grey. And when you’re brave like that, you’re inevitably going to hurt people. By telling the truth, your truth, you’re going to hurt them. But telling your truth, and living it, is always the right thing. Maybe it s
ucks. Maybe it complicates things beyond repair. Keeping it in, though? Smothering who you truly are to fit into some Instagram-sized box of what passes for happiness? That’s much worse. You’re not a liar. You’re honest and brave, and I adore you because you did the hard thing when it would have been so much easier just to keep quiet. Keep pretending that everything was perfect. That’s how tragedies happen—tragedies like spending the rest of your life pretending to be someone you aren’t.”
I look at her. Heart swelling now, too.
I love that she doesn’t judge me. She doesn’t absolve me of everything, either.
She’s got a nuanced understanding of me. My story. The world.
Makes me want to judge less, too.
Judge myself less harshly.
“I had the fairy tale, but I walked away from it,” I say hoarsely. “Why the hell do I deserve another shot at happiness?”
“Because that wasn’t the right fairy tale for you. You say you were the villain in that story. And I say you were in the wrong story. Stop thinking of yourself as the big bad. Stop punishing yourself for not knowing better then, and start celebrating the fact that you know better now. Take that knowledge and live the life you risked your soul for.”
I can only stare at her. “That’s beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she says, the skin around her eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. “I only study beautiful language for a living. Think about it, Grey. What’s the worst that could happen if you give yourself another shot? You get to spend eternity with David Bowie and/or The Prince of Darkness. I think your inner werewolf would be quite content with that scenario.”
I grin. Butterflies swarming inside my belly.
There have been few times in my life when I could pinpoint the moment that separated before and after. Before I knew my marriage was over, after. Before I became a lame thirty-something who spends his Friday nights building models or in meetings, after.
But I can tell that this is one of those moments. One that changes everything. The one that marks the time before I put down the gun I’ve been holding to my head, and after.
I am putting that fucking gun down.
Who the hell knows if it’s the right call.
Who knows if I deserve another chance. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.
But either way, I’ve been given that chance. She’s sitting right here beside me, hand in mine. Clear blue eyes and trust and warmth.
I’d be an idiot not to take the leap. Every bone in my body is telling me to do it. Take Julia with me.
“My past doesn’t excuse my behavior on the Rodgers’ Farms project. I want you to know that this—you and me—it feels different. My feelings for you are so different.” I lean down and brush my lips against her knuckles, inhaling her scent. Blood pulses through my cock, gathering in the head. It presses greedily against my fly. “I mean this in a good way—but I didn’t want to want you like I did. I fought it. Resisted you as best as I could, because I didn’t want to hurt you. Didn’t want to involve you in my mess. But you still got under my skin, and staying away from you was agony. Agony that pissed me off to no fucking end. I’m sorry, Julia. Truly, deeply sorry. I guess I’m just…I was smothered by superficiality for so long that you—your real and your deep—felt like this huge breath of fresh air. I was insanely attracted to it. Still am. Although it pisses me off a lot less now.”
She’s smiling, eyes twinkling. “Well that’s good news. Although I have to admit it was fun pushing your buttons. Now I get why you always rose to the occasion. You had a big old crush on me, didn’t you?”
“The biggest fucking crush of my life. Also the most inconvenient.” I kill the ignition. My cock is screaming, and I want to show Julia exactly how insane my attraction to her is. “Do you forgive me?”
“I do,” she says. “I get why you acted the way you did. Doesn’t excuse it, but I appreciate the apology nonetheless. Thank you for that.”
I look at her. Heart thudding inside my chest.
“Come to bed.”
She grins. A soft, wicked thing. “Only if the no-clothes policy is still in effect.”
“Sweetheart, that policy will be in effect from now until forever as long as it’s you in my bed.”
I turn to open my door, but Julia catches me, giving my hand a tug.
“And thank you,” she says. “For telling me. I know that wasn’t easy.”
My throat—my cock—they’re all swelling now, and I can’t fucking stand it. She makes me wild. The werewolf in me yawning awake inside my skin.
“Thank you for not running. For seeing the good in my bad.”
“I’ve never been afraid of your werewolf side. Your growling. What made you think I was going to be afraid now?”
I laugh. “Good point.”
“Shadows come with the light. You can’t have one without the other. And you have to know by now that I believe they make the other more interesting. It’s our shadows that give us depth. Literally and figuratively,” she says, reaching up with her other hand to trail her thumb over the indent in my chin. “I like your depths. Same as you like mine.”
It’s rare that I’m rendered speechless.
But right now—
Fuck, I don’t know what to say.
I do know that shit just got real. We don’t have to talk about it yet. But I’m in this now. For the long haul. I promised Julia I’d be a real partner in raising the baby. Now I want to be her partner, period. In all things.
I want to grow a family with her. Grow old together. Is this happening fast? Yes and no. I was done for the second she and I met. I couldn’t stay away from her, no matter how hard I tried. It’s part of the reason why I showed up to all her meetings, whether or not I actually had to be there. I just wanted to see her. Soak up her laugh, her lust for real life.
Her way of being.
She’s already made me a better man. A more honest one. I could never talk to Cameron the way I talk to Julia. Openly. Without fear of judgment. She hides nothing and neither do I.
I want to be the man she deserves. One who’s real. Who takes care of his own and provides for his family.
I will work myself to the bone if it means keeping Julia and this baby happy and safe.
In the meantime, I’m going to make Julia come. A lot.
“Upstairs,” I manage. “Now.”
Julia shivers, drawing a breath through her teeth.
“Jesus, I like it when you growl like that.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Julia
Is there anything sexier than a growly man who’s raw with honest need and admiration and the desire to fuck you hard and well?
Watching Greyson tear off his sweater and undershirt as we head up to his bedroom, I think that no.
No, nothing sexier exists on this planet. Not by a long shot.
By the time we’re in his bedroom, I’m shaking. The smell of him fills my head and my body. Bergamot. Leather.
I’m so turned on it hurts.
Grey spins around to face me, hands at work on his belt buckle. I can see the outline of his erect penis straining against his fly. The sight of his bare chest—all that skin, all that strength—
It’s too much. Along with the strength he showed by sharing his pain with me, his shame and his truth, it’s overwhelming.
It’s beautiful.
He is so damn beautiful.
All of him. The hero and the villain. The good and the bad.
I love all of him.
I want to show him just how much I love his shadow and his light.
“Sit,” I say, making quick work of my shirt and my jeans. “There, on the edge of the bed.”
He looks up at me, bent over as he steps out of his pants one leg at a time.
“Baby, I gotta get my hands on you. I’m not gonna wait.”
“You’ll wait.” In just my underwear and bra, I back up against the wall. “Sit down.”
He shucks off his boxers, revealing an
impressive erection. “Absolutely not.”
“Sit the fuck down. Don’t make me ask twice.”
A flame ignites in his eyes. He takes himself in his hand and gives his cock a gentle tug.
“You playin’ games with me, sweetheart?”
I step out of my underwear. Slip off my bra. Then, eyes still on his, I slide down the wall, my knees falling open as my ass meets the floor.
“This is a game you’re gonna like.”
His eyes dart to my pussy. Spread open and wet.
He swallows, making his Adam’s apple bob.
“Okay,” he says. And then he does as I tell him and sits on the edge of the bed. Legs spread, dick still in his hand. He swallows again. “Sweetheart, you are so—Jesus, baby, you are gorgeous. Everywhere. That pussy—”
“Bet you’d like to fuck it”—I reach down and touch myself, dragging my finger through my folds—“wouldn’t you?”
He’s rolling his palm over the head of his cock. “I’d very much like to fuck it. Hard. The way you like it.”
I feel the low, rumbly timbre of his voice in my clit. My nipples pebble to hard points, the soles of my feet arching off the floor as I touch myself there, circling two fingers, circling in time to Grey’s movements. Slow and steady.
“See how much you turn me on?” I manage, sinking one of my fingers inside me. The sinews in his neck pop when he gives himself a long, hard pull. “This is all you, Grey. You did this to me.”
“I did”—he swallows, stroking himself some more—“what?”
I roll my hips against my hand, urging my clit against my palm. I want to make this last, but my orgasm is already close.
“Your bravery. It made me wild.”
“Yeah?” He grits his teeth. Legs spreading wider, allowing me a glimpse of his asshole.
So lewd. Dirty.
My arousal spikes.
“Your honesty made me—” My breath catches when my thumb hits my clit. My nipples are screaming for attention. I start to play with my nipples with my other hand. He growls.
“It made you what?” he bites out. I can tell he’s trying not to jack himself off too hard, too fast. He’s on the verge—having your arousal continually stoked over an hours-long period will do that—but he wants to draw this out. Savor the moment.
Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 18
