Southern Charmer: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  Then I crash, hard, when I think about Eli not being a part of it. I glance at my phone, half hoping to see a text from him. A missed call. It hurts that he hasn’t reached out, especially after the things he said. I’m going through a lot at the moment—calling off engagements, quitting jobs, breaking my parents’ hearts—and I could really use a little moral support right now. Eli felt like my North Star when I was in Charleston. A reminder that I was always headed in the right direction.

  But maybe I need to go through this on my own.

  Maybe I need to learn to be my own North Star.

  As much as it sucks, I want to know I’m making this decision because it’s what I want. Not what Eli wants. Not what my lusty pants feelings want.

  What I want. Truly. Deep down.

  Doing this by myself will hurt. It will be lonely and hard.

  But I’d like to think it will be worth it.

  I’m also not sure if I’m ready to forgive him for the way he behaved. My eyes still well up when I remember the look on his face when he said I’m done waiting on you. That was unkind. Unfair, too.

  Maybe Eli’s not the guy I thought he was.

  Sighing, I close the internet and open My Enemy the Earl. I’ve missed these characters over the past few days—with everything going on, I haven’t been able to work on them.

  This has been a difficult book to write. Whoever said “do something you’ll love and you won’t work a day in your life” was full of shit. Writing always feels like work to me. It requires extreme focus. It’s often boring. But when I wake up and read through what I wrote the previous day, I’m bowled over by a sense of joy and fulfillment I feel all the way to my toes.

  I wrote this. I came up with these characters. This story. I’m so proud of it, and so scared of it at the same time. I recognize writing a book and selling it require two distinct skill sets. But I hope to get a good grip on both.

  I make a note on my digital calendar to email Kathryn Score, the professor-slash-romance author Julia introduced me to down in Charleston. Then I get to work on Gunnar and Cate.

  Cate made the most of what she was given. She’d thought her family was all she needed. They filled her days and her heart. But recently—since she’d kissed Gunnar beneath the stars at Castle West—something had changed. Something inside her shifted, was different. Like a light shone inside the dark cavities of her heart, revealing a starkness, a bleed, she hadn’t noticed before.

  And now that bleed consumed her.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Eli

  I can’t get out of bed.

  A week passes. Another.

  I have never been laid low like this before.

  Then again, I’ve never failed like this before, either. Losing a restaurant—a dream—and a dream girl all at once is not for the faint of heart.

  But I don’t shy away from feeling it. The pain. I let it pin me to the mattress. I let it keep me there, sweating and praying. Swearing and hoping.

  Friends come and go in a steady, quiet stream, leaving behind casseroles and bottles of ibuprofen and books. Grace tries to take Billy, but he refuses to leave my side.

  I appreciate the moral support. I get so lost inside my head—so twisted up—but Billy is always there to bring me back to the present. The little yelps he makes when he has nightmares. The way he licks my face in the mornings. How he wolfs down whatever bits of casserole I can’t finish.

  He’s my lifeline to the real world. Without him and my therapist, I’d be lost.

  It’s fucking weird not being at work. I’ve never taken more than a few days off at a time. I want to check in. I want to go in. Lose myself in the screaming bustle of the kitchen on a Saturday night. It’d be so easy.

  But that would defeat the whole purpose of this little sabbatical I’m taking. I’m dealing with my fuck ups all on my own. So I leave instructions with Maria to call me in the event of an emergency. Otherwise, she’s in charge.

  She hasn’t called once. Knowing that my kitchen is in such capable hands is both a relief and a disappointment. I’m not as essential as I thought I was.

  Not as important.

  Which begs the question: who the hell am I outside of Chef Elijah Jackson?

  I glance at the stack of pages on my nightstand. My Enemy the Earl. All two-hundred some odd pages of it, marked up with my notes. Olivia left it here the last time she spent the night. I’ve re-read it countless times since. Made more notes. Thought about possible endings. Possible sequels.

  Reading Olivia’s beautiful words makes me miss her so much I get downright rage-y about it. And hard. I’m angry with myself for chasing such a passionate, beautiful person out of my life.

  For being such a fucking idiot. I feel horrible about the things I said to her. Things I can’t ever take back.

  I want to call her. Want to apologize and do my best to win her back. But I’m getting glimmers of a new understanding. And I understand that any reunion we may have has to be on her terms. I’m bettering myself for her as best as I can. Facing my fears rather than distracting myself from them. If she’s still not ready for me whenever our paths cross again, though…

  Well.

  I’ll deal with it. Just like I’m dealing with my failure right now.

  But this editing thing is one of the few bright spots in my darkness. Who knows if I’m actually any good at it or not. But that could potentially be a fun little side hustle. Maybe I could edit cookbooks or some shit like that. I have no interest in writing my own. I’d rather be cooking than writing about cooking. But I like the ritual of sitting down with a manuscript and uncapping my pen and focusing my mind on words, sentences, ideas.

  Or maybe I just like focusing on Olivia and how she’s totally going to knock it out of the park if—when—she publishes this book.

  Jesus, I’m dying to call her. I miss hearing her voice. I want to know where she is and what she’s doing and if she really gave that ring back to her ex.

  But I’m sticking to Luke’s advice. I need to figure my own shit out before I give my grovel a go.

  Olivia hasn’t written that part yet in her book. I would love to know what Gunnar does to win Cate back. Might give me some clues as to how I can win Olivia back, too.

  Just another thing I have to figure out on my own.

  * * *

  Olivia

  I finish the semester in Ithaca. Just like I planned, I hand in my resignation the same day my students take their final exams. This time, my boss accepts it.

  The day after Christmas, I pack my car, say goodbye to my parents, and drive back to Charleston.

  My to-do list when I get into town is overwhelming.

  But I tackle it one item at a time from the bed in Julia’s carriage house, where we’re both staying while I figure everything out. She’s ecstatic I’ll be living permanently in Charleston.

  First things first: my employment situation. I set up a meeting with the head of the English Department at The College of Charleston. When I find out there’s a waiting list of students for their creative writing classes, I convince him to not only create an overflow class, but to let me teach it, too. I also needle him a bit on my commercial fiction class idea. He says he’ll consider putting it on the schedule for the fall semester.

  Teaching the class pays next to nothing. I knew it wouldn’t be much, but I’m still shocked by just how low the number is. I’ll be teaching as an adjunct professor, too, which means no tenure, and pretty much zero benefits. But the department head sounded hopeful about expanding my role in the creative writing MFA program going forward. And then of course I have whatever books I manage to write and publish.

  In the meantime, I have my savings to fall back on. It’s a decent chunk of change. Enough to buy me at least six months of solid writing and adjunct teaching time.

  The money makes me see my old job in a new light. Maybe this is why I worked a job I wasn’t crazy about for so long. To save up, quit, and work a job I love.
r />   The whole thing still feels very uncertain. The control freak in me rears her head in the middle of the night every so often, keeping me from sleep. I feel vulnerable. Like my skin’s peeled back, revealing every vein, every organ. Every dark wish and desire. Some days, just walking around town is excruciating.

  But as much as I worry, I also feel this ever expanding sense of excitement.

  I’m doing this.

  I am actually taking steps to honor who I am and make my dream come true.

  Although it would be nice to make that dream come true with Elijah by my side.

  I am terrified of running into him. I’m not ready yet. I want to figure out my new normal down here by myself. It feels important to do that. I fell in love with my life in this city before I fell in love with Eli. I’m determined to stay in love with it, whether or not it includes gorgeous, tatted up men who read romance.

  I find an adorable apartment on the second floor of a circa 1880 Charleston single house on Queen Street. It’s right on the edge of the French Quarter. It’s tiny and quirky and it gets incredible natural light in the late afternoons—my favorite time to write. The sloping porch faces St. Philip’s Church. You can just glimpse its stuccoed spire over the roof of the house next door.

  Julia and I find an elegant writing desk with a busted leg at a store in Mount Pleasant one day while we’re antiquing. The owner sells it to me for a song. Julia fixes the leg, and I put the desk underneath the wavy glass window in my shoebox-sized bedroom. I write there on days I don’t feel like going out.

  I sell my car and buy a mint green bike.

  Every Friday, I ride it to Kathryn’s house on the edge of the College of Charleston’s campus. She hosts the Charleston Writers’ Club’s weekly meeting. Over gin cocktails and cheese straws, I pick every brain I can about agents, contracts, traditional versus indie publishing. Some of the people belonging to the brains I pick become friends. They invite me to their homes, and I am continually impressed by their warm hospitality. Also by how much they can drink.

  Charleston is definitely a boozy town. And I don’t mind that one bit.

  I start teaching my class. I love my students and my subject matter right off the bat. The vibe in the department down here is much more relaxed than it was at Ithaca.

  I visit Louise at Rainbow Row Books often. We set up some signings with a few big names in romance—friends of other writer friends—and lay the groundwork for that romance book club we chatted about.

  When I’m not writing or teaching, I’m walking. When I’m not walking, I’m meeting up with friends, or faculty from the college. As the trees begin to blossom and winter bursts into spring with crystal clear blue skies for days, I settle into my new life.

  It is wonderful. Not perfect. I cry my way through the slog of writing the last chapters of Gunnar and Cate’s story. I cry again when I get quotes for health insurance.

  But life here is still dreamy in so many ways. Still better and more me. I don’t know if it’s the spring air, or the fact that I finally finished My Enemy the Earl, but every morning I wake up and feel this searing sense of freedom. It’s open windows and freshly brewed coffee and nothing but writing all the words and teaching all the words on my to-do list for that day.

  Some days, I almost feel guilty. Like I’m getting away with something for actually liking the person I’m becoming.

  But then I think, wait a second. If I don’t deserve to feel this way, then who does? No one?

  I fought so hard to get to this place. I know I still have a lot of fighting to do. But I’m not afraid to work hard if it means feeling like this most mornings.

  My nights, though, are a different story.

  That’s when the longing hits me. I thought by now, months later, I’d stop missing Eli so much. Especially after that last conversation we had. He was so awful. So mean.

  But I only miss him more. I sit on my porch with a glass of wine and look out over the city, wondering where he is in it. The Pearl, most likely. Holding court in the kitchen, looking handsome as hell in his chef’s jacket and slicked back hair.

  He’ll pop up in the local news every so often. I can’t stand to look at his picture in the articles. That smile and the scruff and those eyes.

  Makes me want to see him again, despite how awful he was the last time we spoke. But what if he’s still not over losing The Jam? What if he is over me? There has to be a reason why he hasn’t contacted me. Eli’s not the type to play games. If he wanted to see me, he’d reach out.

  And he hasn’t.

  I drink my wine and I watch the sun set. My thoughts are a jumble. My neck and shoulders ache from another long day hunched over my laptop.

  Yoga classes aren’t exactly in my budget at the moment. But maybe I could take just one. Just to clear my head and work these knots out of my neck.

  I wonder if Eli still takes classes at Yoga First.

  I shove the thought from my head. I’m practicing for myself. And if he happens to be there?

  I guess I’ll find out if I really want to see him or not.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Eli

  I am back in the kitchen. Worse for the wear. But I am semi-functional, and I no longer play Post Malone on repeat. That has to count for something.

  I am also seeing glimmers of my old self. The man who wasn’t afraid. Who had character and conviction and a fucking wicked way with bacon fat.

  He pops up more and more as the months pass. By Gracie’s birthday at the end of February, I’m laughing again. The loss of The Jam still stings. I struggle not to fall into a black pit of depression whenever I think about it. But time is helping. I wake up every morning a little steadier on my feet. A little more confident. I feel my wounds healing.

  Every wound except the one Olivia left.

  That goddamn thing smarts and bleeds and hurts nonstop.

  “So are you gonna call her or what?” Grace asks one morning when she brings a pound of her latest Ethiopian blend to my house.

  I don’t look up from the pot of grits I’m working on. “Can’t.”

  “Why not?” Grace says, putting her first finger on the bridge of her very loud glasses and pushing them up on her nose. She sits down on a stool at the island. “We’re proud of you for taking the time—”

  “We?” This time I do look up.

  My sister blushes. I notice her eyes look…happier. Lit up.

  “Yeah. Luke and I.”

  “I didn’t know there was a ‘Luke and you.’”

  “There isn’t. We’re just—um. Friends. Good friends.” She clears her throat. “Anyway. Like I was saying—we’re proud of you for taking the time to work on your own stuff. But it’s been months, E. You’re clearly still torn up about Olivia. We—”

  “You and Luke?” I tease, cocking a brow.

  “Jesus, would you let that go? Yes, Luke and I think you’ve done the work on your own, and now you’re ready to be with her for the right reasons. I mean, come on, E. You were just telling me the other day how you’re drinking less, and sleeping more, and really coming to terms with everything that’s happened over the past six months. Just the fact that you’re talking about that stuff tells me you’ve changed.”

  I give the grits a stir, then set a lid on the pot. “That may be true. But the ball is in Olivia’s court. I pushed her way too hard. She wasn’t ready for what I wanted, and she balked. Understandably. I can’t push her again. She’s got to be the one who comes to me because she’s ready. Not the other way around.”

  Grace furrows her brow. “I get that. And I like how cautious you’re being. It’s definitely important to take her feelings into consideration. But what if she’s waiting for you to reach out? Like you said, you were the one who pushed her away. I know you’re the romance novel expert these days. But doesn’t that make the groveling your responsibility in this scenario?”

  I tug a hand through my hair, groaning.

  “Yes and no,” I say. “I just—my gut
’s tellin’ me to go gently. I do miss Olivia. And I do want to be with her. Which means my grovel’s got to be perfectly timed and perfectly executed. I gotta hit it outta the goddamn park, Gracie. The timing’s gotta be just right. Only when she’s ready.”

  She purses her lips and nods. “All right. That’s fair. But how’re you gonna know she’s ready if you don’t talk to her?”

  That’s the million dollar question. I’ve heard from friends that they’ve seen Olivia around town. Which means she did give her ex his ring back. Just like she said she would.

  Christ, I’m a piece of shit. A faithless, stupid piece of shit.

  Apparently she’s teaching creative writing at the college. Some small, mean part of me wanted to stalk her usual haunts so I could “accidentally” run into her. But that’s wrong. I’ve never played games like that, and I don’t plan to start now. So I’ve just stuck to my usual routine in the hopes of crossing paths that way.

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “I guess if it’s meant to be, it will be.”

  “I kind of hate that idea,” Grace replies. “I’m a woman of action myself.”

  I grin. Isn’t that the truth. I swear my sister came out of the womb with a planner in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

  “I hate it too. But I’m kind of at a loss right now. If enough time passes—well. I’ll reassess. In the meantime, I’m gonna go slow.”

  “As slow as you’re bein’ with this breakfast?” Grace sits up on her stool. “I’m starving.”

  I cock a brow. “You’ve never been a big breakfast person.”

  There it is again—that blush.

  Something’s up.

  Not that it’s any of my business. But I find myself hoping that something isn’t sleeping with Luke.