Southern Charmer: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Charleston Heat Book 1)

by Jessica Peterson

  Sadness that disappeared, for a minute or two, while she ate the grits bowl I made her yesterday. A full belly has a way of making things feel a little less heavy.

  A way of making you feel a little less lost.

  Yoga works up an appetite anyhow. Case in point—I’m ravenous. More so than usual.

  I blame it on practicing extra hard because I was next to a gorgeous woman with a hot, strong body. Girl didn’t miss a pose. And the way the muscles in her calves flexed during locust pose—

  “You sweatin’ already?” A guy in a baseball hat and dirty shirt appears at my elbow, dropping a crate overflowing with produce on the counter. “It’s not even two! Dang, chef, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were nervous.”

  Smiling, I drop my pen. “Nervous? Me? Naw. Just startin’ to stress about my veggies being a no-show.” I hold out a hand and he takes it, pulling me into a hug.

  “How you been, brother?” he asks.

  Luke is one of my oldest friends. He and I were dishwashers together at a local fish camp when I first came to Charleston seventeen years ago. I stayed in the restaurant business, but Luke went on to play major league baseball. After an injury sidelined him a few seasons back, he returned to town to play for our minor league team, the Charleston Pirates.

  Now Luke splits his time between playing first base and tending to the enormous organic garden in his backyard on Sullivan’s Island. Man’s got one of the greenest thumbs I’ve yet to encounter. His produce, all local varieties that have been grown in the area for centuries, is second to none. I buy whatever he’s willing to sell me.

  Today, that looks like some beautiful collard greens, enormous heads of purple garlic, garnet sweet potatoes, and a whole bunch of leeks. I inhale the rich, sweet smell of sun and dirt that rises out of the crate.

  “Better, now that I’m seeing this,” I say, nodding at the potatoes. “What do you think? Sweet potato fries? Gnocchi? Maybe a simple syrup for cocktails?”

  Luke grins proudly. “The gnocchi, definitely. Maybe throw some of those leeks into a sauce—they’re lookin’ mighty fine, if I don’t say so myself.”

  “This all looks amazing. No surprise there.”

  “And The Jam?” he asks. “Any news?”

  My mood dims. “We’re hangin’ in there. How’re things with you?”

  He shrugs, digging his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “Garden’s good, baseball…not so much. We’re 27-81 for the season.”

  “Ouch,” I say with a grin.

  “Starting to think my playing days might be numbered.” He picks up a sweet potato, turning it over in his hand.

  “And why is that?”

  He shrugs again. “I don’t know. You know that girl I been seein’?”

  I scoff. “Luke, you been seein’ half this city.”

  “True,” he says, grinning. A grin that quickly fades. “Anyway. This girl told me I was washed up.”

  “What?” I pull back in disbelief. “I hope you told her to fuck off.”

  He’s still looking at the sweet potato. “Definitely got the hell out of there as quick as I could. Whatever. I know I should take it with a grain of salt. And part of me does. But another part…I don’t know.” Luke shakes his head, finally looking up. “What about you? Heard you had a cute stranger over for breakfast yesterday.”

  I roll my eyes. “Word travels fast in this city.”

  “Says the guy who not only loves Andy Cohen, but loves to gossip like him, too.”

  Laughing, I watch Luke toss the potato back into the crate.

  “That’s fair. You know how I like to feed strangers. And Olivia was hungry, so…”

  “Olivia.” Luke pokes his tongue into his bottom lip, grinning. “Haven’t heard you actually mention a girl’s name in a while, E. Anything you wanna tell me?”

  He’s right. I haven’t mentioned a girl’s name in this kitchen since I broke up with my girlfriend last year. I’m not the type to kiss and tell.

  But Olivia and I haven’t kissed.

  Yet.

  “She’s a Yankee,” I say, turning back to my clipboard. “Don’t know what her story is beyond that.”

  “But you’re gonna find out, aren’t you, you smug bastard?”

  My turn to grin. “Hope to.”

  “Good luck.” Luke claps me on the shoulder. “I gotta get goin’—we have a game tonight that we’re probably gonna lose. I’ll be back on Thursday with another delivery. Got some heirloom acorn squash coming up that are lookin’ mighty tasty.”

  “I’ll take ’em. Be good, you hear?” I call after him as he heads out of the kitchen.

  Luke flicks me the bird over his shoulder. “Couldn’t be good if I tried.”

  Wasn’t that the truth. Man has a little black book as thick as all the Harry Potter novels combined.

  Shaking my head, I pick up my pen. Glance at the potatoes in the crate.

  Time to rice these beauties and get a start on the gnocchi.

  I hope Yankee girl likes pasta.

  “Ho-ly shit, chef. That’s out of this world.”

  My head chef Maria’s eyes nearly roll to the back of her head as she chews.

  I smile, turning to run a damp prep towel around the rim of the shallow pasta bowl. In it, the bright orange sweet potato gnocchi—tiny pillows of pasta goodness—glisten in the light gorgonzola sauce I’ve whipped together. I added a handful of spicy arugula, and another handful of earthy, slightly sweet hazelnuts, finely chopped.

  Simple. Savory. Satisfying.

  Exactly what I was going for.

  “Good, right?” I say.

  “Good? Chef, I just creamed my pants. Luckily I keep an extra pair in my locker.”

  I smile harder. Maria may be only one of two women in my kitchen here at The Pearl, but she’s got the dirtiest mouth by far.

  Wiping my hands, I cross my arms. “My work here is done.”

  “Chef.” I look up at the sound of my manager Kip’s voice. “Our guests for the seven o’clock tasting are all here.”

  “All of them?”

  Kip’s lips twitch. “Yes. Including your personal guest Olivia.”

  “Personal guest?” Maria cocks a brow. “You fucking this girl, chef?”

  “If he isn’t, then he definitely wants to,” Kip adds, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “We haven’t had a personal guest of Eli’s visit us in a while.”

  “That’s why you put oysters on the menu,” Maria says, nodding. “You want to get her in the mood, don’t you?”

  I run a hand through my hair. “Keep it down, would you? And my personal life is none of y’alls’ business. But if you must know, no, I’m not fucking her. And no, I’m not tryin’ to get her in the mood. She’s new in town, and I just want to feed her the best food she’s ever had. Nothing more. Nothing less. That so hard to believe?”

  Maria snorts in reply.

  “The oysters speak for themselves,” Kip says. “I’ll go ahead and get everyone seated. And yes, chef, before you ask, Olivia’s going to get the best seat.”

  “Best seat?” I ask.

  Kip wags his eyebrows, tilting his head toward the dining room. “One where she can see you. So y’all can, like, make eyes at each other all night or whatever.”

  “Eye fucking.” Maria is still nodding. “Best kind of foreplay there is.”

  Chapter Eight

  Olivia

  I gawk shamelessly at my surroundings as Kip, the sprightly manager who immediately introduced himself when I walked into The Pearl a few minutes ago, leads us to our table.

  The restaurant is take-your-breath-away gorgeous. There’s a hefty sense of place about it. You know you’re in Charleston the second you step inside. Lest you forget, there’s the exposed brick walls, antique wooden beams, and miles of roughed up leather banquettes to remind you. It’s like a 1920s speakeasy and a hipster-y gentleman’s club had an especially stylish baby.

  There’s dark paint for days. Artsy brass li
ght fixtures. An enormous bar with a mirrored wine cellar beside it.

  I see Eli’s touch everywhere.

  The whole vibe is so sexy it’s literally turning me on. I press my legs together, willing my body to behave itself.

  The dining room is filled with a good-looking but casually dressed crowd. Every table is occupied; the bar is two or three people deep in most places. I hear the clank of ice in a cocktail shaker, followed by a distinct crack when the bartender—bearded, just like every other guy I’ve seen in this city so far—opens it and pours a drink.

  It smells ridiculously good in here. Like meat roasting in a wood burning oven.

  My stomach grumbles.

  The noise of the crowd dims for a second, and I catch a strain of music. Daughter by Pearl Jam.

  I’m not sure why this makes me smile. But it does.

  We move away from the bar, and the gleaming white kitchen comes into view. A large, open window is cut into the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, allowing diners to watch the kitchen staff at work.

  There, front and center, is Eli. Wearing a crisp white chef’s jacket he fills out to perfection, JACKSON embroidered in simple black letters above the breast pocket. Tattoos peeking out from underneath the sleeves. Dark hair slicked back neatly from his handsome face.

  A face that is a mask of concentration as he holds a plastic bottle over a plate and gives it a quick squeeze.

  My stomach does a backflip. Only instead of landing, it keeps falling.

  Eli looks so handsome it hurts. Those hands and forearms and shoulders.

  So different from the reedy guys in crisp collared shirts I’ve dined with in the past.

  I might as well be a million miles from home. From who I am there.

  I feel a pang of guilt that I’m about to enjoy what is sure to be an extraordinary meal without Ted. This is exactly the kind of thing we’d do together.

  But then I remind myself that I’m not here to think about Ted. I’m here to write. To experience things that will inspire my creativity.

  And I find Eli and his food all kinds of inspiring.

  Kip points us to a long trestle table that runs parallel lengthwise to the kitchen. When I try to sit at the far end, he grabs me and seats me smack dab in the middle of the table instead. I’m facing the kitchen.

  Facing Eli. Head on. Ten feet—probably less—the only thing separating us.

  As if he knows I’m staring at him, Eli looks up. He smiles at me. Winks.

  I smile back, my face growing warm.

  My hands shake when I pick up the menu. I feel like a teenager again. A little sick with longing.

  Longing I don’t want to feel. But there it is.

  I imagine this is the kind of longing the heroine of my novel feels for the hero. It’s forbidden. Exciting because it’s forbidden.

  Already a scene is taking shape in my head. The hero and heroine meeting eyes across a crowded room. Everything and everyone else falls away as wordless, primal understanding passes between them. Sounds, sights, smells—it’s overwhelming and distant, all at once. Time slows and goes too fast.

  Anticipation thickens the air.

  Maybe—just for tonight—I give in to this longing. Not give in give in—like in the biblical sense. But maybe I let myself feel it. Maybe I pretend that I really am a writer, and I really am living here, and I really am free to lust after Elijah Jackson the way my heroine lusts after her hero.

  I try it.

  I give in, meeting Eli’s eyes across the restaurant. For strictly literary purposes, of course. He smiles. So do I.

  The sommelier pours the wine for our first course. It’s an Albariño, a crisp Spanish white that tastes like green apples on my tongue.

  Then there’s the food. Course after course of fresh, inventive, supremely satisfying amazingness. We start with biscuits that are served with something called pimiento cheese, made in house. It’s so good I literally can’t stop eating it. When we run out of biscuits, I beg our server not to bring any more. I’m worried I’ll ruin my appetite for the real meal.

  After the biscuits comes oysters on the half shell and a salad of pickled shrimp and green beans. Then broiled local snapper on a bed of collard greens cooked in coconut milk. Gnocchi made out of sweet potatoes follows, served with this tangy, yummy, buttery cream sauce that’s so good I have to resist the urge to lick my plate.

  I feel like my senses are turned all the way up. It’s all too much. The wine and the food and Eli holding court in the kitchen. I find myself closing my eyes, willing myself to remember these moments, these flavors. This pure, fleeting bliss of just sitting and enjoying and lusting.

  And often I find Eli watching me when I open them. Almost as often as I watch him working in the kitchen.

  I can’t stop watching him. It’s full on competence porn. I stare as he grabs a pair of enormous tweezers from his breast pocket and uses them to painstakingly place a mint sprig on a perfectly round scoop of cream.

  I feel myself getting wet.

  There’s something so steady about him as he works. His economical movements. The steady way he plates each meal. There’s no rush. No second guessing. Eli is clearly in his element; watching him work alongside the other cooks, all of them putting these gorgeous dishes together without saying a word, is like watching a dance.

  I drink my wine, my buzz so happy I feel it tingling behind my knees. The more I drink, the more I watch. The less I care about being caught watching.

  No surprise that Eli catches me again. This time he shakes his head, teasingly, like he’s so sick of being the center of my attention. His eyes, though—they flicker with heat.

  With a dare.

  Keep looking, Yankee girl.

  The guy’s incredibly sexy outside the kitchen.

  But in it? He’s a god.

  The kind I’ve only encountered in the pages of the romance novels that I love.

  Finishing my wine, I feel a renewed surge of inspiration. This is how you capture a hero’s strength. His virility.

  This is how he should look. Move. Exist within his world.

  I grab my phone and open the notes app. I jot down all the ideas I’ve had tonight so far. I can’t wait to get back home to work on them.

  By the time our server clears our dessert course—something called Coca-Cola sheet cake with ganache frosting that’s so good I eat every last crumb, even though I’m beyond stuffed—it’s late, and the restaurant has cleared out.

  I notice everyone at my table is signing their bills and standing up.

  Glancing around, I can’t find my check.

  “Excuse me,” I say, flagging down our waiter. “I’ll take my bill when you have a second.”

  He smiles. “I’ll be right back.”

  My neighbor didn’t finish his cake. Taking a quick peek around to make sure no one is watching, I swipe the tip of my finger in the frosting and bring it to my mouth.

  “I saw that, Yankee girl.”

  I jump at the sound of the familiar, rumbly voice right behind me.

  Turning, I see Eli standing there, looking bigger and broader and hotter than ever. The muscles in his forearms rope and bunch as he crosses his arms over his chest.

  He’s smirking. Ted would be horrified if he caught me eating with my fingers. Especially if we were out in public.

  But Eli—he loves it.

  The suffocation that has gripped my throat and squeezed for the past however many years feels so far away it might as well not exist. I can breathe here. Be myself—my messy, slightly drunk self—without being afraid of embarrassing or disappointing anyone.

  A girl could get addicted to feeling like this.

  “Guilty,” I say, grabbing a napkin to wipe my finger. “If you didn’t want me to be rude, you shouldn’t make your food so damn delicious.”

  “You enjoyed it, then?” he says. There’s a hint of uncertainty in his tone. A hint of hope.

  It’s cute.

  A warning b
ell goes off in the back of my head. But I’m too far gone on wine and food and him to take heed of it.

  “Hated it,” I reply with a smile. He lets out the breath he’s been holding. “So much so that I want to get my bill and get the hell out of here so I never have to come back. Speaking of—”

  “Bill’s taken care of,” Eli says, waving me away.

  I stare at him. “Stop it. Eli, you have to let me pay.”

  “Seeing the look on your face while you ate was payment enough. You wear your stomach on your sleeve, Olivia.”

  A new, more potent rush of heat to my face.

  “Oh, Jesus, what kind of look are you talking about?” I ask.

  His lips twitch. “The kind I like. C’mon, let’s grab a drink at the bar.”

  Eli holds out his hand. I hesitate. Then, remembering to give in for the sake of my art, I take it. As he helps me down from my stool, an unmistakable charge of lust bolts through me from the place where my palm touches his.

  I can’t be the only one who feels it. But he makes no outward sign of acknowledgment. Just smiles at me, eyes meeting mine, and walks me across the restaurant.

  Probably for the best.

  He pulls out a stool for me at the bar and heads to the other side. The bartenders, who were busy loading the dishwashers and wiping down the counter, now nod at Eli and slip out of sight.

  My heart is pounding. I know I should go home. Call it a night. But I don’t want to.

  Not yet.

  “What are you drinking?” Eli asks, grabbing a shaker.

  I look at the wall of liquor in front of me. “I’m really full—nothing too heavy. What would you recommend?”

  He narrows his eyes playfully, searching my face.

  “I got you. Hang on.”

  Watching Eli work a cocktail shaker—the way he casually knows his way around the bar, the liquor, the glasses—

  I am sweating. This town is turning me into a perpetually sticky, sweaty, lusty mess.

  My body is practically throbbing by the time he slides a heavy bottomed glass across the bar. He’s holding another in his hand.