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

by Jessica Peterson

  Scratch that. All will be right when Olivia is sitting on a stool beside Grace, cutting me hungry glances while the two of them poke fun at me.

  I can’t wait for that day. Although truth be told, I am starting to feel a twinge of doubt that it will ever come. Maybe I fucked up too bad.

  Maybe Olivia will never be ready.

  Blind faith that I’m wrong is the only thing keeping me going at this point.

  Right now, faith is all I got.

  I’m not usually late to class. Yoga has been a big part of my healing process—I’m in the studio three times a week, minimum, since Olivia left—and I like to get there early. Give myself time to land on my mat before practice begins.

  But I spent the morning fixing a kitchen crisis. Our fish vendor ghosted with zero explanation. Kind of a big deal, considering we’re doing a seafood tasting this week. I had to call in the cavalry. With Maria’s help, we were able to piece together what we needed from a motley crew of local fishermen, generous restaurant owners, and sneaky sous chefs.

  Crisis averted. At least until tomorrow.

  By the time I pull into the parking lot at Yoga First, my usual 11 A.M. class is just beginning. Thankfully it’s not crowded, and I’m able to nab a spot by the door at the back of the studio.

  Even though everyone else is already on their sun salutations, I take my time warming up. Child’s pose. Downward facing dog. I melt my heels to the ground and lift my belly to the sky, giving my hamstrings a good stretch. Lordy are they tight.

  I move into my first sun salutation.

  I get on my feet, sinking into warrior one, and that’s when I see her.

  Her.

  Olivia.

  I feel a sudden, sharp throb inside my chest.

  It’s definitely her. I’d know that wild dark hair anywhere. Those long, muscular legs. They glisten with a fine sheen of sweat.

  I just stand there like an idiot, stuck in warrior one as I watch her move through her poses. Totally unaware of my presence behind her.

  She’s thinner than she was. Her arms tremble as she hovers in low plank. I haven’t seen her in the studio since she left back in October. Has she not been practicing at all? Or has she just not been practicing here?

  My pulse thrums inside my skin. It’s too hot in here. I’m too close to her.

  Too far.

  Longing hits me like a freight train.

  Jesus, I miss her.

  I don’t realize she’s caught me staring until it’s too late. She’s in downward facing dog, looking at me between her legs. Her eyes are so blue.

  So fucking blue.

  My heart seizes when they widen. I can hear the force of her exhalation from across the room. She falls to her knees, and the instructor goes over to her, gently rocking her hips as Olivia settles into child’s pose.

  Legs shaking, I do the same. There’s no way I can practice with her in the same room. I’m gripped by the wild idea of rolling up my mat, grabbing Olivia, and getting the hell out of here so we can talk.

  I wanna talk to her so bad.

  But talking is a big no-no during practice. And it’s important I don’t overstep my boundaries with her. Me wordlessly plucking her from a yoga class she may really, really need is definitely overstepping.

  I try not to stare at her for the remainder of the class. I’m worried I’ll combust and/or pass out, for one thing. For another, I don’t want to fuck up her practice. I know firsthand how a great class can turn around an otherwise shitty day.

  Fuck me, it’s just hard to keep my eyes on my own mat. I feel like it’s some kind of test devised by Satan himself. I feel her presence. Like she’s the center of the universe, and everything—the floor and my feelings and my heart—is pulled in by the force of her gravity.

  I wonder if she feels it, too. Or if she’s moved on in a way I haven’t.

  I’m starting to think I’ll never move on.

  Approximately one hundred years later, class finally ends. I’ve had sixty minutes to think about it, but I still have no idea what I’m going to say to Olivia when I approach her. Or if I should approach her at all.

  I want to wait for her to come to me. That’s how this is supposed to go, because I’m not pushing her again, remember? But I also don’t want to be rude. And what if this is the last time I see her for another four months? I can’t fucking bear the thought.

  With shaking hands, I roll up my mat and grab my water bottle. Sweat drips down my temples onto my chest as I stand up.

  “Hey.”

  I nearly jump at the sound of Olivia’s voice. I turn around, and immediately my heart melts. She’s a fucking mess. Hair sticking up. Red face.

  She’s smiling.

  I have never seen a more beautiful woman in my whole goddamn life.

  Stay cool stay cool stay cool.

  “Olivia,” I say, pulse beating a drum inside my ears. “I’m—wow. I’m really glad to see you.”

  She looks at me for a long beat. I look back. Something moves between us. Something good.

  Letting out a breath, she tucks her rolled up mat underneath her arm.

  “How have you been?” she says. Her voice trembles a little.

  She’s nervous, too. Good sign? Bad?

  “I’m okay,” I reply. “What about you?”

  She nods. “I’m okay.”

  We’re looking at each other again. After a stretch of uncomfortable silence, we both laugh at the same time.

  “Sorry,” she says. “It’s just…been a while since I’ve seen you, Eli.”

  Four months, thirteen days, and one-point-five hours. Not that I’m counting.

  “How’s the book coming?” I say.

  “It’s done,” she replies, brightening. “Gunnar and Cate nearly killed me toward the end. But I clawed my way through the story. I actually just sent it to my ARC team this morning.”

  I arch a brow. “ARC team? I don’t know what that is, but if it has something to do with My Enemy the Earl, then I want in.”

  Olivia laughs again, and I worry I’m going to melt into a literal puddle of goo at her feet. I love the sound of her laugh. Love the way it touches her eyes.

  “It’s a team of reviewers you send ARCs to—advanced reader copies. The thinking is that bloggers and reviewers who like the book will post glowing reviews of it, and that will help spread the word about it before publication.”

  I nod, impressed. “Word of mouth is the best kind of marketing there is.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you decide to go through a publishing house? Or are you publishing it yourself?”

  “I’m indie all the way,” she says, proudly. “I’ve done a lot of research. Traditional and indie publishing each have their pluses and minuses. But I like the freedom I get with self-publishing. Plus it gives me a good excuse to hone my marketing skills.”

  As if this woman could get any sexier.

  “’Cause you’re the boss.”

  “Yup.”

  I shift on my feet. I resist the urge to ask her out for a cup of coffee or something. She’s gotta be the one to make that call.

  I find myself praying that she will.

  “Welp,” I say. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you. I can’t wait to find out how the story ends—you know I’ve been a fan of Gunnar and Cate’s from the very beginning.”

  Olivia bites her lip, her eyes moving over my face. I get the feeling she’s weighing the scales in her head, too. Wondering what to say next.

  “Release day is next Thursday,” she says at last. “I’m doing a signing over at Rainbow Row Books to celebrate. You should come.”

  My heart sputters inside my chest.

  I don’t want to read too much—

  Fuck it. I’m gonna read too much into her invitation whether I’m supposed to or not.

  “I’d love to,” I reply. “I’ll get the details from Louise.”

  Olivia’s smile deepens. “Great.”

  “Great. I look fo
rward to seeing you again.”

  We say our goodbyes, and then I pretend that I have to talk to the instructor about something so Olivia can leave without me awkwardly following her out.

  My mind is already racing. I can’t let this opportunity slip through my fingers. I’m shaking I’m so excited. And so nervous.

  Time for the grovel. The grand gesture.

  I need to talk to Gracie. And Luke. And Louise. And anyone else who can help.

  This has to be perfect.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Olivia

  I straighten the stack of paperbacks on the table at Rainbow Row Books for the millionth time. I can’t get over how gorgeous they are. I splurged and hired a well-known cover artist for My Enemy the Earl. She did a fantastic job. The cover is just colorful and different enough to stand out, but historical romance readers will recognize some familiar elements: gorgeous, scantily clad couple, cursive script, and a sweeping, sunlit background.

  I also can’t get over that these paperbacks exist. Touching my book—all three hundred and eighteen pages of it, in the flesh—is as surreal and joyous an experience as I fantasized it would be. I’m so damn proud of it.

  Which means I am also terribly, terribly nervous about sending it out into the world.

  “You think I brought too many books?” I ask Louise.

  She looks up from the cheese plate she’s unwrapping and grins. “I think you brought just enough.”

  “Sorry,” I say, smoothing my sweaty palms down the front of my dress. “I’m just worried. What if no one comes?”

  Louise tosses the plastic wrap in the trash and gets to work uncorking a bottle of my favorite $4.49 Trader Joe’s Pinot Grigio.

  “You’re going to do great.” She yanks the cork free with a grunt. “And I don’t think you need to worry about people coming.”

  I resist the urge to grab the bottle from Louise’s hands and take it to the face. I bet I could finish the thing in less than sixty seconds.

  I flip through a paperback instead. “But I’m brand new. No one knows who I am.”

  “All the right people in this town know who you are,” Louise replies easily. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered, word spreads fast down here. I promise you don’t need to worry about attendance.”

  She pours wine into a plastic cup and hands it to me. I notice she’s wearing a small, knowing smile.

  “Louise.” I take the wine. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  Wagging her eyebrows, she zips her fingers across her lips. “I don’t know a thing. I am merely your assistant tonight.”

  My insides do a somersault, all at once. I gulp at my wine.

  Because the idea that Elijah might come wasn’t nerve wracking enough. Now lots of people are apparently coming to my humble little signing.

  Save my soul.

  Speaking of Eli. I almost had a heart attack when I saw him last week in class. He looked good. So, so good. And tired.

  I wanted him to invite me somewhere. His bed, preferably. I wanted to climb in his truck and go back to his house and have hard, dirty sex over and over again until we were too spent to keep going. Then we’d lie there and talk. Figure out how we can make a relationship work.

  Because I really, really want to be with him. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. A lot of time to be on my own. And as much as I love my life as it is—and I love it, I do—I’d love it even more if he were in it. I miss the way his mind works. I miss his hands. His food.

  His unwavering support of my dreams.

  People start to trickle in. One by one. Then in pairs.

  Then all of the sudden it’s like the floodgates open, and people pour into the bookstore, crowding it with heat and noise and requests for autographed copies of my book.

  I can’t believe how many people come. I sit at my table and sign copy after copy of My Enemy the Earl. I take pictures with readers and chat with a local blogger. It’s not long before my supply of paperbacks starts to run dangerously low.

  But then Louise appears with a fresh box of them, which she unpacks on the table.

  “From an anonymous fan,” she explains with that knowing smile. “Here, let me get you more wine.”

  I sit and I sign, too bewildered—too overwhelmed—to really process what is going on. An anonymous fan? But who? My first thought is my parents. But while they’re coming around, slowly, to the idea of me becoming an author, I know they would never encourage me like this.

  Louise then? One of my friends from the writers’ club or the university?

  I stop to change Sharpies when my first one dries up. From the corner of my eye, I see someone step up to the table.

  “Hi there!” I say, uncapping the Sharpie and grabbing a book. “Who can I make this out to?”

  “Elijah Jackson, if y’please,” a man says.

  My heart stutters. My stomach dips.

  That growly voice. That velvety accent.

  That ridiculously perfect name.

  I glance up and see Eli looking down at me.

  I know I invited him to come. But I’m still so taken off guard by his hugeness and his smile and his searing eyes that I drop the Sharpie, my hands overtaken by a violent tremor. For a second, I worry I’m going to be sick.

  He looks delectable. Good enough to fucking eat. He’s trimmed his hair since I saw him last week. It’s still wet, and the ends are boyishly curled in the humidity. (Only in Charleston would it be humid at the end of March.)

  I can smell him. I have a full body reaction to that smoky sandalwood smell. My skin lights up and my sex clenches and I’m overwhelmed by a wave of longing so powerful it knocks the wind out of me.

  He’s here.

  Holy shit, he’s here, and he wants me to sign a copy of the book he helped me to write.

  The book that has changed my life in so many insanely rewarding ways.

  “You came,” I breathe.

  His eyes get warm. Soft. “‘Course I came. Wouldn’t miss your debut for the world.”

  My mouth has gone dry.

  “Nice turn out you got here,” he says, looking around the store. “Looks like I’m not Cate and Gunnar’s only fan.”

  “But you were the first,” I reply, and I suddenly feel like I’m going to cry. “Which is the most important fan.”

  He looks at me and smiles.

  I have to look away.

  Sign the book. Right. He’s here for the book.

  My hand shakes so badly that I can hardly write. To Elijah—Thank you. For everything. This book happened because of you. Xx, Olivia.

  “Thanks,” he says when I hand it to him, meeting my eyes. “I’m proud of you, Yankee girl.”

  His words wrap around my heart and squeeze.

  I manage to give him tight smile. “I would have never kept writing if it wasn’t for you, Eli. I mean it—thank you for everything. Thank you for being you.”

  He taps the book against his palm, once. Twice. He wants to say something, I know he does. I can tell by the gleam in his hazel eyes.

  Eyes that are currently locked on my face.

  Oh, I want him to say it.

  But then he draws a breath and straightens. “Don’t want to take you away from your fans.” He glances over his shoulder. “I’ll be hangin’ out with Louise if you get a breather. Although that doesn’t seem likely. There are a lot of people here.”

  “I know,” I say. “I have no clue where they came from, but…”

  Eli looks at me, and I’m struck by an idea.

  No way.

  He didn’t.

  Did he?

  Before I can ask him, he’s turning away.

  “I’ll look out for Max and Jane’s story next,” he says, referring to secondary characters in My Enemy the Earl who clearly wanted to suck each other’s faces.

  And then he disappears into the crowd.

  A young woman approaches the table and smiles, clutching my book in her hands.

  I manage
a smile. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m Olivia. What’s your name?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Olivia

  It’s well past closing time when I sign the last of the books.

  My hand is cramped. My mouth feels tacky from talking so much to so many people. I’m wiped.

  And blissed out beyond belief.

  My first signing for my first book was a success. I lost count of how many readers told me they heard “amazing things” about My Enemy the Earl. I don’t know how they heard about it.

  But I have a good idea.

  I make a quick trip to the bathroom. When I come out, I look around the room at the few remaining people. I see Louise, popping the last of the cheese into her mouth. Eli’s sister Grace, getting awfully cozy with Luke in the Nonfiction section.

  But I don’t see Eli.

  “I don’t know where he went,” Grace says when I ask, glancing up from the book on gardening Luke holds. Then she gives me a pointed look. “But you should definitely find him. He wants to talk to you.”

  Luke gives her a gentle nudge.

  “Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “Maybe my brother quite possibly would like to have a potential conversation with you. But only if you want to, too.”

  I look from Luke to Grace and back again. They stare at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to know what the hell they’re asking me to do.

  “Right,” I say at last. “I’ll go find him.”

  I get stopped by a few people on their way out of the shop.

  They open the door. And I catch a glimpse of a broad-shouldered figure in the parking lot. I see the end of a cigar light up. An ember in the darkness. A beat later, I’m hit by the earthy scent of tobacco.

  I nearly sag with relief. I didn’t miss him. Eli is still here.

  “Louise,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t hurry!” she replies.