Southern Player: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  I meet his eyes. “Grits that tell a story.”

  “Yes!” Luke says. “So much of our history here in South Carolina is divisive and downright awful. But food—you know, food’s brought people together over the centuries. Same way it does today. It tells a story, yes. But it also creates community. It gets people interacting. Talkin’. Sharing. Shit that’s more important than ever right now.”

  I feel like there are bubbles inside my chest. I’ve only ever seen Luke so excited about something once before—on the day we met, when he talked about how much he loved to grow things.

  There’s an earnestness about his passion for this stuff that’s so bright and so honest I can’t help but be drawn to it.

  To him.

  I also can’t help but think that the goals I have for Holy City Roasters sound an awful lot like the ones he has for Rodgers’ Farms. I love how he’s talking about community. Interaction. Stories.

  That shit is my jam.

  “Mills like this one were always gatherin’ places,” Luke continues, lifting up his foot and resting it on the edge of the mill. “Farmers from all around would bring their grains to be ground and turned into flour and the like. Can’t make bread without havin’ flour first. A lot of the time, mills were built before anything else—churches, schools—because they were that important to the community. People need to eat.”

  “Do people still come here?” I ask.

  Luke meets my eyes. “Not in a long time. But I’d like to change that. I got big plans for Rodgers’ Farms. Starting with my grits. You know how much of a foodie town Charleston has turned into over the past decade or so.”

  “Of course,” I say with a nod. “Eli’s restaurant is a case in point. People down here appreciate good food.”

  “They appreciate good food done the right way. Inventive, unique. Made from locally sourced ingredients. Food that tells the story of the people who made it.”

  “The people who grew it—the ingredients, I mean,” I say. “People like you.”

  Luke lifts his foot off the mill, sliding a hand into his back pocket. Muscles in his back bunching as he moves.

  “That’s my hope, anyway,” he replies. “I’m tryin’ to make a name for myself. E already has the Rodgers’ Farms name on his menu.”

  “He showed me. Anytime he mentions grits, he mentions you. ‘Rodgers’ Farms Grits.’”

  “Yup. So I’m thinking that when I scale up production, and I’m able to sell to more restaurants, I’ll pop up on more menus. People will start recognizin’ my name.” Luke glances up at the mill. “I’d like to get to the point where I package my grits and sell ’em all over. To restaurants in town, yes, but also to restaurants across the country. Sell ’em to retail, too, so people who have my grits at, say, The Pearl can go and buy some at the grocery store. Eventually I’d like to open up a market right here on the farm. Got that old barn back by the road that would make a great spot—sell my produce, grits, stuff from other farms in the area. Maybe do monthly dinners or brunches or something with my regulars and neighbors.”

  The butterflies are back. In my stomach. My chest. My throat as I take in this mostly nude man and his ambitious plan to build a community around his stone ground grits.

  I had no idea his plans were this deep. This thoughtful.

  This wild.

  Wildness—that’s what Luke makes me feel. Wildly adored. Wildly aroused.

  Wildly, insanely inspired.

  I move to stand beside him. Elbows brushing.

  “Luke,” I breathe. “You have to.”

  He reaches over and curls a hand around the nape of my neck. “Have to what?”

  “Do it. All of it. The retail and the restaurants and the market. I think it’s a fucking amazing idea. No one else is doing it. And there’s nothing in the area like it—a guy milling his own grits from locally grown corn and selling them right on the farm where it all goes down. Like you said, people down here appreciate good food. They appreciate local suppliers and like to support them. I’m all about building community—as you know—and I feel like you got a real shot at it here.” I cross my arms, ideas already starting to percolate. “Maybe you could start with a stand at the Farmer’s Market in Marion Square downtown. That always draws a good crowd. Start getting your name out there. Show up shirtless if you really want to get some attention.”

  Luke smiles. “I ain’t too proud.”

  I give him a slow, intentional perusal. Up and down. Down and up.

  “You’d have a dedicated clientele, that’s for sure. So yeah. You do that for a while with the goal of maybe creating your own farmer’s market out here. You could be open a few mornings a week. Nothing too crazy that you’d have to staff all the time. Just enough to have that face to face interaction with people—do some hand selling. I think that’s why I have such dedicated customers over at Holy City Roasters. I still spend as much time as I can putting in that face time. I genuinely love interacting with people. Getting to know them.”

  “Right,” Luke says. “And now they feel like they have this personal connection to you and your business. It’s what sets you apart from, say, a Starbucks.”

  I nod. “Exactly. I greet people by name when they come into my store. I think stuff like that goes a long way. And I think you’d be really, really great at it.”

  Luke gives my neck a squeeze. Making my blood rush a little hotter. “Dang, girl, you’re an easy sell.”

  “You’re not that hard to root for. How can I help?”

  “Help?” He raises his brows. “You don’t gotta help me. Like I said before, I just wanted to pick your brain for a bit. You already gave me plenty of good ideas.”

  I nudge his side with my elbow. Bare skin against bare skin. He’s so…thick. Solid.

  If anyone could move mountains—move literal tons of the world’s best grits in an effort to create a space of gathering, of comfort—it’s this guy.

  “You’ve done more than pick my brain,” I tease.

  His eyes search mine. “Can you blame me?”

  “Let me help you. Any way that I can—I’m here, Luke. Seriously.”

  He’s still looking at me. Smell of his skin all around me. Air between us thrumming with hopes and dreams and decisions yet to be made.

  Decide.

  It’s time to decide.

  Although I’m starting to think I made my decision the day Luke told me my crush on him hadn’t been so unrequited after all.

  Or maybe I made it the day we met almost a decade ago.

  No telling when. How. Where.

  All that matters is the why. And this right here—Luke’s patience, his passion—is a pretty damn great why.

  “You kiddin’?” he says at last. “Gracie, I’d be honored to have your help. I know you’re fuckin’ great at this stuff. Thank you, baby. It’s way too generous of an offer.”

  I lift a shoulder. “After everything you’ve given me? Least I can do. Rodgers’ Farms deserves a real shot, and we’re gonna give it one.”

  “I’m workin’ on it.”

  But I don’t want him to just work on it. I want him to make it happen.

  We have to make this happen.

  There are no guarantees when it comes to opening your own business. But my gut is telling me that, given the chance, Luke could turn this place into something really special.

  “I see how much care and thought you’ve put into this farm,” I say. “You love it. And for good reason. It’s perfect as it is right now. But if you take it to the next level—Luke, I can already tell it would be spectacular.”

  His expression softens. “My touch is that dang powerful, huh?”

  “Yes,” I reply matter-of-factly. “I would know.”

  Luke’s squeezing my neck again. He groans.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re killin’ me is all. At this rate, we’re never making it to dinner. And I wanna feed you before…” His eyes darken. “Let’s go back to the house. I’ll
put a shirt on.”

  I scoff. “Do you have to?”

  “Unfortunately, restaurants don’t operate according to Kenny Chesney songs. No shirt, no shoes—no service. At least in South Carolina.”

  “A pity.”

  “Not if it keeps me from maulin’ you before I treat you to a proper supper. How does barbecue sound?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Luke

  “Cheers,” Gracie says, holding out her bottle. “Here’s to whole hog barbecue and Bud Light. I ain’t mad at it.”

  I tap my bottle against hers, nodding at the red plastic basket in front of her. “You sure about that? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want some fancy-pants shrimp cocktail and a white Burgundy to wash it down with instead.”

  I’m teasing. But there’s some small, mean part of me that’s still stung by what happened the other night.

  A part of me that still feels insecure.

  But Gracie laughs. Dimples coming out to play.

  I forget about the fancy pants. Feel my own pants getting a little tighter instead.

  “Luke, it is hot as balls, and I’m sure we’ll be engaging in some pretty strenuous activity later on.” She wags her brows, motioning to the meal spread out between us on the picnic table. “So nothing better right now than this.”

  The ocean’s not far from here. I can smell it on the humid breeze.

  “You too hot? I can go look inside to see if anything’s opened up.”

  Taking a sip of beer, Gracie shakes her head. “This is perfect. We’ll catch the sunset this way.”

  We’re on the back patio of Lacy’s BBQ in downtown Sullivan’s Island. If you could even call Middle Street a “downtown”. It’s more like a country road with restaurants and a few bars crowded on either side. Throw in a gas station and you got what we call bustling in this part of the low country.

  But because it’s high season—tourists rent the large beachfront homes close by—the place is actually as busy as I’ve ever seen it. Which is why Gracie and I are outside, despite the ninety-degree heat. There were no seats left inside the tiny, low-ceilinged dining room.

  I watch Gracie sip her beer as I sip mine. The beer is ice cold, thank the Lord, and refreshing as all get out.

  She seems to be enjoying hers, too. Her skin is dewy with sweat, glowing in the twilight. Her hair sticks to her forehead. Tank top cut low enough for me to just peek at the lacy black bra she’s wearing. The one I like.

  My girl looks so good it hurts.

  Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s not my girl—not officially, not yet—that hurts. I’ve never been possessive of women. Never felt the need to claim.

  But with Gracie, I do, and I don’t know how to talk about it without scaring her off. I just…

  I been on the verge all damn night, ever since Gracie showed up at my place wearing those itty bitty shorts and a smile.

  Not to mention her excitement about my farm. My grits. My plans. For a city girl, she sure as hell showed a lot of enthusiasm for a hundred year old grist mill.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t picturing her bringing Rodgers’ Farms to life right beside me as I took her on that tractor tour. Sleeping in my bed under the eaves in my house. Walking beside me through the fields. Baby on my hip, dogs at her feet, the two of us working side by side at that farmer’s market she was talking about.

  Am I crazy to think we could make something like that work? Gracie said she wanted to help me transform Rodgers’ Farms. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  More than that, she clearly believed in my vision for the property. If she believes in that—if she sees the same magic and same potential I do—does that mean she could grow to love the place, too?

  Was Eli onto something when he said Grace and I got a shot at the real thing?

  I look at her. Grace looks back. Smiles a little shyly, holding the mouth of her beer to her lips.

  “What?” she asks.

  I shake my head. Not gonna ruin our date by diving into the deep end of the pool first thing. I’m no novice—I’m good at dates. Gracie asked to see more of my world, and I’m gonna show her.

  “Nothin’,” I say, grabbing a handful of napkins from the dispenser at the end of the table and passing them to Gracie. “Here. You’re gonna need these.”

  I set my beer down and pull my little basket of food toward me. Gracie and I ordered the same thing: pulled pork sandwich, side of slaw and collards. I may have snuck in an extra side of Mrs. Lacy’s mac ’n cheese for good measure.

  I take the top bun off my sandwich and set it to the side. Then I reach for the caddy of sauces beside the napkin dispenser. Don’t even need to look to grab my favorite sauce. I can just tell by the color—the sauce is in a clear plastic squeeze bottle.

  I go to town, soaking the pork with the sauce.

  “You’ve had barbecue before,” I say, more a fact than a question.

  Gracie dips her head in a nod. “Remember we had it at my Mama’s house? Back when we first met?”

  Like I could ever forget the day I met you.

  “’Course I remember,” I reply gruffly. “But you weren’t with me when you ate—I was helpin’ Eli in the kitchen I think.”

  She nods again, this time at my basket. “You really look like you know what you’re doing.”

  “Are you asking me to tell you the secret to the perfect pulled pork sandwich?”

  Gracie lifts a shoulder, grinning. Fucking tease.

  What would I give to lick the sweat off that shoulder right now? My firstborn. My soul. One of my balls. But just one, so I still had a shot at making those babies with her.

  “If you’d be so kind,” she replies.

  “I thought you didn’t like it when I was kind.”

  “I never said I didn’t like it when you were kind.” Gracie settles her elbows on the table, clasping them with opposite hands. “I just like it when you’re a dirty-talking dominant more.”

  A rush of blood just where I don’t want it when I’m in a family establishment.

  “You takin’ notes from me, baby girl? ’Cause that was shameless as fuck.”

  She grabs her beer and takes this sassy, satisfied sip. Nods at my sandwich. “Show me.”

  “Fine.” I rub my hands together. While also attempting to get my shit together before I get thrown in jail for public indecency. “I like a nice fat barbecue sandwich. Dripping with sauce and topped with a big ol’ scoop of slaw.”

  “Sounds freaking delicious.”

  “It is. So you start with the sauce. Mrs. Lacy makes a bunch of ’em. My favorite is the vinegar sauce.” I lift the orange-ish sauce out of the caddy. “It’s an Eastern Carolina style sauce. Real tangy with a nice spicy kick. Not too much heat. Then there’s Alabama white sauce—mixture of mayo and vinegar. The red sauce is Piedmont style, made with ketchup. The mustard looking one is South Carolina style, made with mustard, obviously.”

  Gracie lifts her brows. “You’re up on your sauces.”

  “Please don’t force me to make a joke about your sauce,” I say. Half-kidding. Half-pleading.

  “Save the joke for later—I want to hear it,” she says. “Why is your favorite the Eastern Carolina one?”

  “’Cause it’s the best. Cuts the richness of the slaw real nice, and gives the meat more depth of flavor. Here.” I squeeze some onto my fingertip. “Try it.”

  She glances down at my offered finger. Glances back up, doing that thing where she digs her teeth into her bottom lip.

  She ducks down and takes my finger in her mouth.

  Swirls her tongue around my fingertip. And then, without warning, she sucks. One quick, hard pull of tongue and teeth and lips. Eyes still locked on mine.

  My cock jumps. My vision dims. I worry I’m about to have another Birdbox moment.

  “Mm,” she says, pulling back nonchalantly. “That is good. I’ll try it on my sandwich.”

  I watch, practically glowering, as she coats her pork with the sauce.r />
  “Then what?”

  Clearing my throat, I pick up my plastic fork. “Then I top it all off with the cole slaw. I like a lot of it on there. It’s a refreshing counterpoint to the pork. Otherwise I think the sandwich is plain. That’s where too many people go wrong with a pulled pork sandwich—not doctoring it up enough. If you do it right, it can be the most delicious thing ever.”

  “So first sauce, then slaw.” Gracie tops her pork with a few forkfuls of slaw. “On it.”

  I lift my sandwich with both hands. She does the same.

  “No erotic food noises, please,” I say. “I’m hangin’ on by a thread here.”

  “It’s that good?”

  I nod. “It’s that good, Gracie girl.”

  We take a bite at the same time. Hell yeah it’s good. The bun and the pork, the sauce and the slaw, all coming together to create this amazing flavor bomb. The coolness of the slaw cuts through the vinegary heat of the sauce, which gives the meat itself this really great, really satisfying bite.

  Gracie starts to nod as she chews. Swallows.

  “Wow,” she says, looking down at her sandwich. “Luke, that’s ridiculous.”

  She doesn’t even look up at me before leaning in for another bite. Then another.

  Look at this. My city girl devouring an eight-dollar dinner like it’s the best thing she ever ate.

  I love it.

  I do not love how it’s making me tent my fucking pants.

  Always had a thing for women with appetites.

  After finishing half her sandwich in less than a minute, Gracie sets it down. Wipes her hands on her napkin and grabs her beer.

  “You’re staring.” Dimples. Crinkly eyes. The whole thing. “Do I have shit on my face again?”

  Come home with me. Stay forever. We’ll make our dreams come true together. Make some babies while we’re at it.

  I shake those crazy ass thoughts from my head, busying myself with my dinner. “No. Although I wouldn’t mind licking your face again.”

  “That was fun.”

  “You havin’ fun now?” I ask. Nudging my knee against hers underneath the table.

  She nudges back. Taking another sip of beer. “I am. Best date I’ve had in a while.”