The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2)

by Melanie Munton

  By

  Melanie Munton

  The Six Month Lease

  Copyright © 2020 Melanie Munton

  All rights reserved

  Cover Design by L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations

  www.mayhemcovercreations.com

  eBook Edition

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  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then it was pirated illegally, and you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Chapter One – The Meet-Cute

  Chapter Two – The Gin in the Milk

  Chapter Three – The Fake Bridal Package

  Chapter Four – The Bright Orange Reflectors

  Chapter Five – The No Flirting Rule

  Chapter Six – The Taming of the Shae

  Chapter Seven – The Vagina-Jungle Metaphor

  Chapter Eight – The Jealousy Battle Royale

  Chapter Nine – The Bathroom Stalemate

  Chapter Ten – The Quinn-less Trifecta

  Chapter Eleven – The Shower Shock Factor

  Chapter Twelve – The Cell Phone Tower Tension

  Chapter Thirteen – The Lipstick Treasure Map

  Chapter Fourteen – The Table Temptation

  Chapter Fifteen – The Last Shot Favor

  Chapter Sixteen – The Princess and the Pea-nis

  Chapter Seventeen – The Boiling Point

  Chapter Eighteen – The Cockpit Coronation

  Chapter Nineteen – The Law of the Motherland

  Chapter Twenty – The Woman in the Red Dress

  Chapter Twenty-One – The Harbinger of Death

  Chapter Twenty-Two – The Public Be-Heading

  Chapter Twenty-Three – The Yoga Breakdown

  Chapter Twenty-Four – The Last Homecoming

  Chapter Twenty-Five – The Rooftop Reveal

  Epilogue – The Wedding Wrap-Up

  Sneak Peek of Sweet Attraction

  Sneak Peek of The Divorce Attorney

  Also by Melanie Munton

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Melanie Munton:

  Southern Hearts Club:

  The Divorce Attorney

  Brooklyn Brothers:

  Lace & Lies

  Scars & Sins

  Sultry Nights:

  Salsa (Sultry Nights 1)

  Tango (Sultry Nights 2)

  Rumba (Sultry Nights 3)

  Samba (Sultry Nights 4)

  Mambo (Sultry Nights 5)

  Standalone romance:

  King of the Court

  The Unforgettable Kind

  Slow Seductions series:

  Casual Affair (Slow Seductions #1)

  Sweet Attraction (Slow Seductions #2)

  Cruz Brothers series:

  Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers #1)

  The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2)

  Always Mickie (Cruz Brothers #3)

  Timid Souls novellas:

  Stubborn Hearts

  Unexpected Love

  Possession and Politics Trilogy:

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  May

  Life can be one cruel bitch.

  Taunting you with things you’ll never have. Making you wish for impossibilities. Dreaming for non-realities. I suppose this particular form of torture could be prevented if I’d just avoid coming to the Charleston City Market altogether.

  But that’s like telling the sun to stop rising.

  Or a nun to stop praying.

  Or Donald Trump to stop tweeting.

  Ain’t gonna happen.

  Walking the long row of vendor booths inside the aged, gazebo-like brick structures that have been a staple in this city for two hundred years comforts me. It’s familiar, almost soothing, to shop the local merchants and artists, absorb the southern flare of the handmade treasures, and inspect how all the small businesses and entrepreneurs are marketing themselves in today’s environment. Call it research, I suppose.

  And life is cruel because I want to be on the other side of one of those booths, selling my homemade products to the public.

  Also ain’t gonna happen.

  First, you have to sign a lease and pay rent for a coveted booth at the City Market. And before that can even happen, you have to snag a spot on the crazy long waiting list, which requires an application that has to be approved by the City Cultural Board.

  All things that aren’t really in my wheelhouse right now.

  Yet I’m a regular here, pointlessly longing. Aimlessly wandering.

  Why pointlessly? Because I’m a slave to family tradition. I’m following—ahem, more like being hog-tied and dragged against my will—in the footsteps of my older sister, our mother, our mother’s mother and so on. In this town, the St. Clair women have a reputation for being leaders of Charleston’s highest social class. The St. Clair name might as well be permanently etched in stone on the top tier of the community hierarchy. Fulfilling certain roles and duties is my familial obligation.

  No matter how square of a peg I’m trying to fit into the roundest of holes.

  I stop at one of my favorite vendors, a pottery booth showcasing some of those most interesting pieces I’ve ever seen. Bowls, vases, pitchers, mugs—each one is completely unique and hand-painted with the artist’s signature intricate designs. This is my favorite time to come to the market, right when it opens. Before the hoards of tourists swarm the place and crowd the aisles. This way, I can browse and pine for a different life in relative peace.

  I’m examining a small bowl that looks like the perfect size to hold rings and stud earrings when a male voice comes from the jewelry booth next to me.

  “Excuse me, can I get your opinion on something?”

  It takes me a moment to realize the voice is addressing me. My head jerks up, the masculine sound jolting me out of my wayward thoughts. I glance up to see a guy around my age—mid-to-late twenties—his gaze wildly darting from me and down to the collection of necklaces draped over his arms and hands.

  I would start laughing my ass off.

  If he didn’t look to be on the verge of needing an EMT.

  And if he didn’t have the kind of looks that Hollywood casting directors have boners over.

  His slightly bloodshot eyes are wide, his brown hair disheveled, like he just got out of bed. At ten o’clock in the morning, he looks to already have a five o’clock shadow smattering his chiseled cheeks. Presumably, he didn’t shave his leftovers from yesterday. His clothing looks clean
enough, if not a little wrinkled.

  But none of that takes away from his attractiveness.

  In fact, his somewhat harried appearance might only improve upon what he already has going for him. I mean, there’s no question about it.

  The boy is fine. Damn fine.

  Though those aren’t the muscles of any boy I’ve ever seen. The T-shirt he’s wearing with a local brewery’s name scrawled across it stretches across his compact chest. My fingers actually itch to lift up the corner of that shirt to see if his abdomen is as rigid as I’m imagining it to be. His board shorts and flip flops are typical attire for Charleston’s humid, summer weather, especially if you’re headed to the beach. He looks like a beach guy. Judging from the fact that he’s several inches taller than my five-foot-five height, I’d say he’s around six-foot-two.

  And for some reason, the aviator sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar have me literally licking my chops like a female dog in heat.

  He should put those on. With a leather jacket. And no shirt underneath. Maybe some ripped jeans. Mmm, yeah—

  I scoff, disgusted with myself.

  Hard up much, Harp?

  He doesn’t seem to notice my reaction to him, thank God. Like, at all.

  In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice anything that’s going on around him, except for those necklaces hanging precariously from his outstretched limbs. He keeps right on talking to me as if he’s completely oblivious to how he tends to affect the opposite sex.

  “Which one would you pick?” he asks, making the necklaces jingle when he shakes both arms in my face. “Say it’s your birthday. Which one is your favorite?”

  It’s taking me longer than I care to admit to process his questions. Because his biceps…

  They’re flexing with every minuscule movement he makes. Those small ripples are like freaking magnets for my eyeballs. I can seriously feel sweat start to gather at the base of my neck.

  I clear my throat. “Um. Well, I guess it depends on who you’re buying it for. What’s her taste like?”

  His face scrunches up in utter bafflement as his frantic eyes meet mine. “Hell if I know. The only information I have to work with is that she likes this particular designer.” He nods at the jewelry maker’s sign. “So, here I am.”

  I can’t help but wonder if he’s shopping for a girlfriend and feel my heart sink in disappointment. If someone else has already swiped him up, then I won’t be able to flirt with this guy.

  And I find myself really wanting to flirt with this guy.

  “Does she like vintage pieces, or does she go for the flashy stuff?” I prod, trying to take pity on him. Poor guy is acting like he’ll burst into flames if he buys the wrong jewelry.

  Maybe it’s not for a girlfriend. He doesn’t act like he does this often.

  “It’s like, uh, what do girls call it…” He frowns as he wracks his brain for the right words. “That…hobo look?”

  I clamp my lips shut to prevent the laughter from bursting out. He actually looks proud of himself and it’s adorable.

  “Boho?”

  His eyes relax in relief. “That’s it. Whatever the hell that is, it’s Cheyenne’s thing. So, which one of these is the most…bo-ho?” He shakes his arms again, drawing my attention back to his muscled arms.

  That seals the deal. He’s got to be shopping for a girlfriend.

  I’m not conceited by any means, but I know I’m not repulsive. And I don’t know how this guy even registered that I am a woman with all the attention he hasn’t paid to anything but my eyes. Even then, he seems to be looking right through me.

  For the first time maybe ever, I actually want this guy to deliver some corny pick-up line. I want him to lewdly check me out because I have a weird feeling that when he does it, it won’t feel lewd at all. Besides, it will give me permission to reciprocate.

  But he’s either already taken by one super lucky girl. Cheyenne, apparently.

  Or he doesn’t like what he sees.

  Or he’s gay.

  Or he’s the worst flirter in the history of the world.

  I cluck my tongue as I examine the pieces draped over his forearms, forcing all thoughts of shameless flirting out of my head. “Well, if it were me and my boyfriend was buying jewelry for my birthday, I’d want it to look like he put actual thought into it. So—”

  His booming laughter comes out of nowhere, making me jump. It’s a full-bodied sound, coming from deep within his chest. He puts his whole face into it, too. Huge smile, eyes crinkled in amusement, head thrown back.

  “No, no boyfriend,” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “This is for my older sister. I swear, no matter how old we get, she always expects a damn present and a party on her birthday. Complete with cake and hats.”

  Why do I suddenly feel like my feet aren’t nailed to the ground anymore? Like I just stripped off twenty-pound ankle weights?

  “I see,” I muse, hoping I manage to bank my resurgence of enthusiasm. “And when is this sister’s birthday?”

  He swallows, all humor vanishing from this face. “Today. I sort of…forgot until this morning. And I can’t show up to our family dinner without a gift. She might”—he licks his lips, his eyes widening comically—“she might actually kill me. She’s a biologist, so she knows about a thousand ways to do it without leaving any evidence.”

  The only thing that keeps me from busting a gut at his horrified expression is the fact that he sounds a tiny bit serious.

  “I know a guy if you need to file a restraining order,” I deadpan.

  “It wouldn’t stop her. Forgetting a birthday is a Level I sin in my family. No scrap of paper would save me.”

  Fighting the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl, I shake my head teasingly. “I don’t know. A brother forgetting his sister’s birthday? I might be on her side.”

  “Hey, I’ve got an excuse,” he protests. “Everyone in my family knows I’ve got the worst memory in human history. It’s become our longest running joke. I might as well be a walking meme with hair.”

  “Is that so?” I decide to test him. “How many total home runs did Babe Ruth have?”

  “714.”

  “How many times have the Boston Celtics beat the L.A. Lakers in the NBA finals?”

  “Nine. Lakers have won three.”

  “And how many rounds did Muhammad Ali’s fight against Joe Frazier go?”

  “Fourteen.”

  I raise an eyebrow, as if to say gotcha.

  It appears all the hours I’ve spent pouring over sports facts and history in order to impress my frequently absent father wasn’t a complete waste of time. Thanks, Dad, for never being around.

  The necklace toter sheepishly rubs the back of his neck, making the situation all the more hilarious when the numerous pieces of jewelry he’s sporting on his very manly arm loudly clank together.

  “Okay, you win. I remember some numbers. But sports trivia is different than remembering dates on a calendar.”

  Feeling bold, I wink. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your homicidal sister. I don’t want to get popped for manslaughter.”

  He tilts his head to the side, his eyes clearing of some of the stress from before. It’s like he’s coming out of a hypnotism, reality seeming to intrude on his consciousness. His expression keeps changing as the wheels behind his light brown eyes turn faster and faster, looking more alert with every second that passes.

  Then his eyes lower to drag over me.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Pretty sure he doesn’t mean for that to come out so loud.

  I’m positive he doesn’t mean to shout it.

  At least, that’s how it sounds in my ears. I didn’t exactly expect that extreme of a reaction. But any kind of reaction is better than him looking straight through me like I’m invisible.

  I smile sweetly, cocking my hip out. “Problem?”

  The pose I’m striking deliberately makes my tight denim skirt ride up just a little higher, showing off more of my t
an leg. My white, flowy cami lifts with the movement, displaying a large sliver of my flat stomach. My platinum blond hair falls over my shoulders in natural, beachy waves that my mother hates. She prefers a perfectly coifed look, with hairsprayed curls that won’t tousle even in a hurricane. My makeup is also natural, with the touch of some shimmery bronzer and a tiny bit of sparkle around my mint green eyes. If it were my mother, there would be no sparkle, no shimmer. Just lots of foundation and concealer, mascara, rouge, and maybe some nude lipstick. Basically, nothing that would stand out.

  But I want to stand out around this guy.

  Don’t get the wrong idea here. I’m normally not this brave around men. In fact, I’m sort of known for being a giant scaredy-cat. But something about the powerful, visceral reaction I’m having to him makes me want to return the favor. I don’t want to be the only one affected here. I want him to physically react to me.

  His mouth hangs open, his gaze heating by degrees as it travels over me from head to toe. Unabashedly. Like he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—stop himself if he tried. His eyes are so expressive in that moment, it’s as if they’re shouting how the fuck did I not see this?

  He clears his throat, giving my legs one last parting glance before averting his gaze. “No, uh.” Another throat clearing. “I just didn’t realize—” He shakes his head. With renewed confidence, he turns back to me and holds out his hand. “Sorry, I’m rude. And I’m West.”

  Something about that non-practiced, genuinely flustered reaction endears me to him even more.

  I take his hand, allowing his strong fingers to wrap around mine and squeeze. “Hi, Rude West. I’m Harper. And I’m pleased to meet you.”

  His lips part when I squeeze his fingers back. My pulse jumps in my neck, forcing me to release his hand for fear that he can feel the moisture gathering on my palm, see the blatant arousal stamped all over my face.

  Because I don’t need a mirror to know it’s there.