The late morning sun is just getting hot. I stick to the shady side of the street when I can. My legs yawn awake as I pedal, my calf muscles stretching pleasantly with each lazy rotation.
I’ve decided that while I’m here, I’m not going to rush. For one thing, no one else in this town seems to be in a hurry. Fowl included.
For another, I’ve always got my foot on the gas back home. If I’m not running to work, then I’m running to a meeting. If not to a meeting, then to the gym, or to the grocery store.
And damn it, I’m tired of running. Maybe it’s time I start thinking about why I do all that running in the first place. Because everyone else does it?
I blame my sudden change of pace on Eli’s slow, intentional way of moving around his kitchen yesterday morning. The way he made me sit and eat a real breakfast with him, like we were Europeans and the idea of not sitting down to a meal was sacrilege.
How he took his time making the perfect cup of coffee.
That coffee. If I had to think of a word to describe it, orgasmic comes to mind. So different from Ted’s. So delicious. I’ve never had anything like it.
I could’ve used some of it earlier today. My writing mojo is nonexistent. I just can’t seem to get to the actual story. I have too much going on peripherally, trying to capture on the page how the characters look and smell and behave in my head. What they want. Their histories. Their weaknesses and favorite sexual positions and clothing.
Then there’s the themes I want to get at. The feminism. Matching up the character arcs so the hero and heroine touch on the other’s sore spots, which then forces them to confront their demons. And then of course there have to be great secondary characters who drop nuggets of wisdom just when the hero and heroine need them…
Whew. Anyone who says writing a romance is easy has clearly never attempted the feat themselves.
Although I have to admit I enjoyed mentally dressing Eli in a riding jacket—no shirt underneath, naturally—and breeches as a stand-in for my hero.
I enjoyed mentally undressing him even more. Even though I knew I shouldn’t. Even though thinking about anyone other than Ted was weird. Weird and exciting, if I’m being honest.
I try not to think about what that means.
I pedal up Meeting Street, enjoying the breeze being on the move creates. I can’t remember the last time I rode a bike. In New York, I’m always inside or in a car.
It’s nice. Especially when my route takes me through the College of Charleston’s bustling campus. I’m suddenly curious; I don’t know much about it, other than the fact that Julia teaches there.
I ride past as slowly as I can without running any students over. It’s very pretty. Very southern, lots of big oak trees draped in Spanish moss and pastel buildings held up by towering pillars.
Out of the blue, I wonder if they have a creative writing program. Julia did say they have fiction writers on staff. On bad days back at my university, I fantasize about ditching my classes on twentieth-century literature and teaching classes on writing instead. On fiction. Romance.
Not that it matters. Teddy would shit a brick if I did something so impractical and…well, kind of strange. I can just imagine him saying something along the lines of, “You’re capable of more than that”. Or even, “What will people say when they find out you went from teaching premier classes on the greatest writers in the English language to teaching courses on how to write trashy books? Come on, Olivia”.
Come on, Olivia. Ted says that a lot. But he’s right. I have to keep my head screwed on straight.
It’s a quick ride up to Spring Street. The city is much newer and younger up here. I nearly swoon with delight when I see Yoga First is housed an adorable pink cottage beside an even more adorable inn. I lock up my Gwyneth Paltrow bike on the rack beside the door and head inside.
I don’t roll out my mat as often as I’d like. Teddy prefers golf—he belongs to a local club near our house—and even though I suck at it, I try to play with him as much as I can. Once I get good at it, I’ll start to like it. That’s what he tells me, anyway.
I’m immediately hit by the smell of incense. I smile. The funkier the yoga studio, the better, in my opinion. I fill out some paperwork and rent a mat. In the meantime, several people have checked in. Class is going to be crowded.
The friendly woman behind the counter escorts me to Studio A at the front of the building. Opening the door, she peeks inside, then looks at me and grins.
“One spot left. Lucky you.”
I thank her and step into the studio.
Yep, it’s definitely crowded. Which always makes me the tiniest bit nervous. I’m not exactly a graceful yogi. I wish I could say I’ve never fallen onto my neighbor while attempting crow pose, but that would be a lie.
It takes me a second to find my spot. Ah, there it is. Up front. Beside a man.
A huge, shirtless, tattooed man.
My stomach clenches.
He’s laying face up on his mat, knees bent. I recognize the swirling script tattooed on his upper ribs, just beneath his left pec.
Eli.
Despite the studio’s blaring heat, my blood turns to ice. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The teacher, a smiling, ripped twenty-something man with dreadlocks hanging down to his butt, looks at me and points at the empty spot. “You’re right there.”
“Thanks,” I say, blinking.
“You can take your spot now,” he gently prods. “Class is about to begin.”
I blink again. “Yup. Got it.”
I feel like I’m wading into the deep end of a pool as I head for my assigned spot. Eli is facing away from me, so he has to look up toward his eyebrows to meet my gaze.
When he does, he smiles. A wickedly handsome, utterly masculine half-smile that lights up his face and turns my knees to jelly.
“Olivia!” He sits up. “I’m glad you came! You’re in for a treat.”
The excitement in his voice is obvious.
He can’t be this happy to see me.
Can’t be.
Can he?
“Why am I in for a treat?” I ask, looking away as I roll out my mat. “Because I get to practice next to you?”
He laughs, the sound a deep rumble in his chest, and reaches out to help flatten the rolled-up edge of my mat. From the corner of my eye, I notice the woman beside him checking him out.
I don’t blame her. The guy is gorgeous. And mostly naked.
“That,” he says, “and the fact that Peter is teaching. His classes are hard, but you feel so fuckin’ good afterward. Like your body and your mind are wrung out, you know?”
I sit down on my mat, careful not to let my knee touch Eli’s.
“Exactly why I’m here,” I say, turning my head to look at him.
Eli’s got one arm draped over his bent knee, making his already bulging bicep bulge even more. To an almost pornographic degree.
Can biceps even be pornographic?
I start to sweat. Hope—pray—that I don’t make a fool of myself practicing next to him.
“What’d you have for breakfast?” he asks.
I stick my tongue into my cheek, fighting a smile. “Protein bar. Coffee from the Nespresso machine.”
“Now that’s just plain sad.” He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Shoulda come to my place. Whipped up a mean fried green tomato eggs benedict. I made enough for two, but since you didn’t show, I had to give your plate to Billy.”
I give up the fight against my smile. “Lucky Billy.”
“Coulda been you, Yankee girl.”
Peter calls the class to attention. Eli gives me one last half smile—one last flash of hazel eyes—and then he’s getting on his knees and settling into child’s pose. My heart skips a beat at the way the muscles in his back ripple beneath his skin.
I begin to wonder if I’m going to make it out of this class alive.
The flow is familiar, thank God. We start with a series of sun s
alutations. I’ve always struggled not to rush through my poses. I hold all my tension in my shoulders and neck, and it’s easy for my arms to get fatigued from so many chaturangas in a row.
I can’t help but notice how beautifully—patiently—Eli moves on his mat. From the corner of my eye I see him flow from one pose to the next as easily as water coursing through a stream. He’s taking deep, even warrior breaths in and out of his nose.
My eyes catch on the muscles in his arm. They bunch and ripple against tattooed skin that glistens with a fine sheen of sweat.
If my shoulders are burning like they usually do, I don’t feel it.
Peter has us meet in downward facing dog. Underneath the pyramid formed by Eli’s gorgeous body, I meet eyes with the woman on the other side of him.
Wow, she mouths, gaze flicking to Eli.
I suppress a grin.
I know, I mouth back.
“Just a reminder to keep your eyes on your own mat,” Peter says as he walks behind me. “Find your drishti—your point of focus.”
Right. I’m here to clear my mind. Not check out hot shirtless southerners.
I do my best to keep my drishti on my mat. Even so, I’m aware of Eli moving beside me. His practice really is beautiful. Patient.
I find myself moving patiently too, breathing through the tight pull in my hamstrings and the fire in my quads as Peter leads us through an interminably long series of chair poses. I’m not graceful. But moving more slowly allows me to arrive in every pose and stay there for as long as Peter cues us to.
Once, during a chair twist, I twist the wrong way, and Eli and I end up facing each other. His eyes are kind when they meet mine. My eyebrows go up when I realize my mistake. He grins.
I find myself grinning back, despite the way my legs have started to shake.
His hotness is becoming less intimidating. Probably has something to do with this generous, down-to-earth charm of his.
By the grace of God I make it through class without embarrassing myself. I even attempt side crow pose—something I’ve never done before—and manage to fly for approximately half a second. Of course Eli held the pose for what had to be ten minutes. Sitting in my sumo squat, I watched the thick veins and sinews pop against the backs of his hands as he balanced his legs on his triceps.
I imagine what those hands would feel like on me.
Stop. I need to stop thinking about him like this. This fantasy goes nowhere.
Eli and I walk out of the studio together when class is over.
“How good did that feel?” he says, opening the front door for me.
I step out into the sunshine. This heat is unreal.
“Pretty damn good. I needed to work off those grits from yesterday,” I reply. I nod at the bike rack, where Julia’s tricked out bike awaits. “That’s me.”
“You biked here? Good for you. I didn’t have the time this morning. Gotta be at the restaurant in half an hour.”
“Oh?” I slide my sunglasses onto my face. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
He tucks his mat underneath his arm and looks at me, one eye screwed up against the sun. “Why don’t you come find out?”
I flush with pleasure at the invitation. “I did some reading up on you yesterday.”
“Uh oh.”
“Only the good articles,” I tease. “But everyone says The Pearl is the hardest reservation to get in town—that you have to book it months in advance. It’s gotta be too late to get one for tonight.”
Eli just grins, shaking his head. “Olivia, you just gotta say the word and I’ll get you in anytime, at any hour.”
I tell myself he’s just being neighborly. It’s too exciting—too bewildering—to think there’s something more behind his kindness.
I cannot think there is something more between us.
“Okay,” I say. “I’d like that. I’m—I’m pretty much free all night, so…whenever you can fit me in is great.”
“How about seven?” he says. “That’s the seating for the chef’s tasting.”
“Chef’s tasting?”
“The Pearl seats eighty. But every night, we select ten guests at random to do the chef’s tasting. You sit at a big communal table right next to the kitchen, and we feed you five courses of whatever the hell we feel like cooking that day. It’s an experience you don’t wanna miss.”
My stomach dips. In a good way.
“Sounds fancy,” I say.
“It’s not,” he replies. “But the food is fuckin’ ridiculous. My best work.”
“Better than the grits bowl?”
Eli laughs at that. “If I blew your mind then…well, I just might push you over the edge tonight.”
We’re standing close.
Were we always standing this close? I can smell the sweat on his skin. Salt. That woodsy, smoky cologne.
I swallow. Manage a smile. “Seven it is. Thank you very much for the invite—I’ve never done a chef’s tasting before.”
The sunlight catches on his eyes, turning them into translucent pools of green.
“I don’t wanna make a joke about popping your cherry, because we just met and all, but…”
It’s my turn to laugh. It brings a lightness to my chest I haven’t felt in a long time.
“It’s been a while since I had a cherry popped,” I say. “I could use a little excitement.”
“Happy to do the job.”
He’s smiling, and I’m smiling, and we look at each other for a beat too long.
Shit.
“So,” I say at last, blinking. “Tonight at seven.”
“Yeah.” He runs a hand up the back of his head. “Seven o’clock. You like wine?”
I roll my eyes teasingly. “Do I like wine.”
“Then I’ll put you down for the wine pairing, too. My sommelier is a crack shot. She always knows how to make the meal come together.”
Jesus Christ, he is relentless. In the best way.
“Sounds great,” I say. “See you tonight.”
“See you tonight, Olivia.” His gaze is steady as it holds mine. “I’m lookin’ forward to it.”
Then he heads for the parking lot behind the studio.
My hands shake a little when I unlock my bicycle. Yoga always leaves me a little shaky. But I think I’m shaky with excitement, too. A little disbelief.
I don’t know what good deed I did to deserve a (temporary) neighbor like Eli. If anything, I feel like the villain of my own story right now. Like I’m tipping the karmic scales against myself for escaping a perfectly nice life. A life I chose.
I don’t understand any of it. Not Eli’s reasons. Not my own.
But my gut is telling me the key to untangling my feelings isn’t holing up and licking my wounds in private.
It’s telling me to get out. Something I don’t do often enough, especially by myself, in small town New York.
So tonight, I’m going out.
Chapter Seven
Eli
I’m still sweating from class when I pull up to The Pearl. The ninety degree temperature isn’t helping. We’re at the end of September, but the heat has yet to abate. When it’s this hot outside, it’s a fucking inferno inside the kitchen.
Greeting my prep guys who are busy making stock, chopping veggies, and butchering meat, I duck my head into the walk-in refrigerator to make sure we have a supply of clean, wet towels cooling on their usual shelf. The cooks and I will wrap ’em around our heads and necks tonight in an attempt not to die during service. Then I head for the kitchen.
My happy place.
I still get butterflies every time I walk in, even though it’s been years since I opened the place. I’ve known from the time I could walk that I wanted to be a chef. My earliest memories are all about food: sitting on Grandaddy’s lap, shoveling my mother’s famous potato salad into my mouth with both fists. Watching my uncle smoke an entire pig in a pit in our backyard, then helping him butcher it on a picnic table. Keeping quiet while Mama made mayo fr
om scratch because “noise ruined it”.
I love food and I love family. In my kitchen, I get to have both on a daily basis, as the staff at The Pearl has gelled into our own not-so-little family over the years. We have very, very little turnover. People—whether they be line cooks, servers, sous chefs, bartenders, or busboys—like working here. I’d like to think it’s because they feel connected to a higher purpose. We’re not just filling people’s bellies. We’re filling their eyes, their heads, their souls, too. There’s an exquisite kind of beauty in sitting down to eat good food with good friends. Connecting over cocktails, forgetting worries while savoring a cup of perfect peach ice cream (hand churned, of course).
I try not to think about the family at The Jam. The one that I’m probably going to have to break up soon. Just this morning, I poured more of my own money into The Jam’s coffers—an emergency cash infusion to keep the doors open. Things are not looking good over there. So in addition to the money, I’m pulling long shifts in the kitchen there alongside Naomi whenever I can. We’re scrambling to adjust the menu while sticking to my “simple is better” philosophy. But no matter how many menu items we tweak, or how many hours I spend pouring over the books or working my ass off in the kitchen, nothing seems to help.
I feel a familiar heaviness settling on my chest. Blinking, I get to work.
Work always helps chase the anxiety away.
So does yoga, and hanging out with Olivia. I was more excited than I should’ve been to run into her in class this morning.
Just like I’m more excited than I should be to cook for her again.
Pulling a clipboard and pen from a nearby drawer, I start to jot down ideas for tonight’s specials and tasting menu. I reserve a spot or two for dishes my line cooks pitch. As hard as they work, it’s important to allow them to flex their creative muscles.
I always feed my staff before service, so I make some notes about what to cook for them, too.
I take my time with all my menus. But today, I’m especially thorough. Which may or may not have to do with the fact that I want to feed Yankee girl the best damn meal of her life. Despite the pretty smile Olivia flashed me during class this morning, there was still pain in her eyes. Sadness.
Southern Charmer: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 5
