Southern Player: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  “I know,” I say quietly.

  “Go on and eat. You look like hell. Your mamas gonna check in on you? Or do I need to come back out here and make sure you’re gettin’ outta bed?”

  Waving him away, I smile tightly. “I’m good.”

  He waits a beat. Then another. I can feel his eyes on me.

  “All right then. I’ll get gone. You call if you need me.”

  “Thanks again, E.”

  He ambles down the steps. I watch him walk to his shiny black pickup.

  Putting his hand on the door, he turns to me.

  “What’s wrong with having a partner you look up to?” he says. “I admire the hell out of Olivia. I like that she challenges me. I like that she pushes me to do better, and be better. I’d be bored otherwise. Think about that.”

  I do.

  I think real hard on it. I know Eli’s onto something. I admire his relationship with Olivia. Two of them had to go through hell to get where they are now. But they are good together. The kind of good that doesn’t come around all that often.

  Could Gracie and I be that good together?

  I head back into the house. The quiet I enjoyed so much feels oppressive now. Empty.

  Setting the bag on my kitchen counter, I dig out the plastic container of food. It’s still warm.

  Did he make breakfast for Gracie, too? Lord, I hope she’s not too upset to eat.

  Underneath the food, there’s a book. I lift it out of the bag and see that it’s a paperback copy of My Deal With the Duke. Complete with a dude on the cover wearing some kinda jacket but no shirt, windswept hair feathered across his forehead. Breeches undone at the waist.

  I open the book. Olivia left a note on the title page.

  Luke—

  I heard Max and Jane helped inspire the ‘quest’ that led Gracie to you.

  Perhaps they can lead you back to her, too. Xx, Olivia.

  I eat what I can—half the sandwich, all the greens.

  Then I lay down on the couch. Tuck my arm behind my head. And I start to read.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Gracie

  I hear from Elijah.

  “Give it time,” is all he says.

  I don’t hear from Luke.

  I think about calling him. Texting him. Showing up at his door with a six pack and a plea to rethink his reasons.

  But then I think that’s too pathetic. He’s the one who walked out on me. If he wanted to rethink his reasons, he would.

  If he wanted me, he could come to me.

  Clearly he doesn’t.

  I know he said he wasn’t good enough for me. Still, I can’t help but feel that I’m the one who fucked up. Fell short.

  Maybe if I had just tried harder. Made him feel more comfortable. Took him to a few more events. Or a few less—

  Ugh, old shitty thought patterns die hard I guess.

  I loved how Luke made me feel like I didn’t have to try much at all to be adored. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that’s what made me fall so hard and so fast for him.

  But what if that was bullshit? Him accepting me for who I was? Because if he truly adored me for me, we’d still be together, wouldn’t we?

  I want nothing more than to lie very still in bed and let tears leak out of my eyes as I process everything that went down. I feel hollow and hurt and dazed, like I’ve been in a car accident or something.

  But businesses don’t run themselves. I need to capitalize on the momentum the grand re-opening gave us at Holy City Roasters. We’re all over blogs and news outlets. Never mind social media—the posts and tags and follows have gotten so out of hand I’m going to have to hire someone just to manage our social media accounts. Good problem to have. Just means more work for me in the meantime.

  So I show up. I wash my face and blame my puffy eyes on allergies and get through the day, one hour at a time.

  It’s the only time I feel like I can breathe—when I’m behind the counter with Dylan, or greeting regular customers by name, or running a meeting with my staff while we munch on Marie’s latest confections.

  I find myself saying little prayers of gratitude throughout my time at the shop. Thank God I have this, I’ll think as I walk into the kitchen to see trays upon trays of freshly baked cream cheese brownies and petit fours and these gorgeous mini muffins. Thank God I have these people who love me and know me and contribute so much to this cool little community we’ve built together.

  Makes me think of a few lines from My Deal With the Duke I listened to on my walk into work. Jane is really hurting after she breaks it off with Max the Duke and is thinking about how grateful she is to have a rich inner life to help her get through her heartbreak.

  The inner dialogue that had seemed like such a nuisance before—nagging Jane, making her second guess herself, making her wish for a reprieve from the constant barrage of thoughts and doubts—suddenly seemed like a gift. She realized that if she didn’t have the inner life that she and Max had talked so much about, then she’d have nothing right now. Nothing to comfort herself with. Nothing to come back to when everything went sideways.

  Because her world as she knew it was upside-down. She’d never been in love before. Not like this. She’d had no way of knowing it would leave her feeling so desolate.

  So alone.

  Alone, except for the light inside her and her books. Which, thankfully, seemed to feed each other.

  And they say romance is mindless fluff.

  I swear to God, if anything is going to get me through this week, it’s Max and Jane’s happily ever after. Maybe if I keep exposing myself to hope, fictional or otherwise, it will start to rub off on me.

  I’ll stop thinking I don’t deserve a happy ending of my own. Because that’s the thought that keeps haunting me. When I try to sleep, try to eat. Try to walk through those last few moments with Luke.

  Whatever happened, I was not enough to keep Luke around.

  I was not fucking enough. And that haunts me.

  Somewhere in the flurry of my misery the idea stands that I am enough, and that this break up is on him, not me. I just—

  I can’t help blaming myself.

  I thought I was past this. The second guessing. The self-flagellating. I want so badly to move on from it, and I thought I had.

  I’m in my office on the second day, staring at my laptop as I’m assaulted by my grief, when there’s a knock on my door.

  I look up to see Dylan and Julia.

  “We’re taking you out for a drink,” Julia says.

  “Nothing crazy,” Dylan adds. “But we think it might help if you get out a little bit.”

  “Take some shots from plastic shot glasses.”

  “Blow off some steam.”

  “Flirt with a few guys. Or tell them to fuck off. Whatever you want.”

  I manage a smile, even as my eyes burn at their kindness. Aside from my brother, they were the first people I told about the break up. My allergy story might have fooled my other employees and customers, but not these two—my best friends.

  “Thank y’all,” I say, folding my arms on my desk. “But I’m not really feeling up to it at the moment. Plus I’ve got about thirty eight thousand emails to reply to, so…”

  Julia takes a step forward. “Email can wait. Heartbreak can’t. You’ve been putting on a brave face here at the shop. You don’t have to do that with us. Come. At the very least we’ll get you tipsy enough so that you pass out and get some sleep.”

  I’m still smiling. “Y’all are such responsible friends.”

  “We know.” Dylan waves me toward her. “Come. We’ll grab a bite and many cocktails.”

  “Many,” Julia says.

  I look at my computer. Look at them.

  Let out a sigh. “All right. Thank you guys. I’ll be ready in five.”

  * * *

  Eli, being Eli, gets the three of us a table at The Pearl. Kind of a miracle, considering the place books up months in advance.

  I may
not have much of an appetite. But after a couple whiskey sours, courtesy of Julia, I end up eating most of my fried chicken special and a few bites of Elijah’s signature Coca-Cola sheet cake (rumor has it it’s the cake he used to seduce Olivia).

  Then we head to a cute little bar across the street, where we nab some stools on the patio outside. Now that the sun has set, the heat isn’t so bad.

  We sip our white wine slowly. For the most part, I just listen to Julia and Dylan chat. Comforted by their nearness. Their normalness, if that’s even a word.

  A nice reminder that I was a fully functioning human before, and I’ll be one again at some point.

  “You haven’t mentioned a guy in a while,” Dylan says, glancing at Julia.

  Julia shrugs. “The usual suspects aren’t doing it for me anymore. So yeah, things have been kinda quiet on my end these days.”

  Julia’s dad died a little less than a year ago. They were really close, and she’s been reeling a bit ever since. Totally understandable that she’s holding the world at arm’s length.

  If love has taught us anything, it’s that it hurts. Badly.

  “Speaking of usual suspects.” Dylan turns when a group of cute guys emerges from the bar inside. They’re clearly out for a post-work cocktail. Some of them in nice jeans, others in khakis. All in button downs in various shades of white or French blue.

  I have zero desire to engage these guys. I’m in pain. Exhausted. So over men and all the bullshit that comes with them.

  But I feel my hand going to my hair anyway. Smoothing it. Tucking it behind my ear.

  Ugly, familiar thoughts wandering through my head. Try to look like you’re having fun. Try to be less sweaty. Try to smile more.

  Try, because I am too fucking flawed as I am.

  It’s like a reenactment of a bad play. I hate it, I know it’s terrible, but I’m somehow still reciting the lines.

  Lines I thought I’d forgotten.

  Lines I’d replaced with ones from Luke.

  You’re just right.

  Tell me everything.

  Show me your truth.

  Maybe the lines I’ve been feeding myself for years are bullshit.

  But so are these. Luke was full of shit.

  I believed I was so close. So close to the truth.

  Turns out it was all a lie.

  And now here I am, lying to myself and to the world just like I used to.

  I take a deep breath. Be brave.

  I don’t need Luke to access authenticity. I can do it on my own.

  I can choose to bravely show up for myself.

  I get to decide, remember? I’m in charge.

  So I turn back to my girlfriends. Tear my hand away from my hair, letting it fester in the humidity. Ignore the guys and the heat and sip my wine. Slump in my stool because I’m tired and that’s what I feel like doing.

  Dylan tells a story about all of her hair falling out when she tried to bleach it on her own a few years back. Julia has us in tears when she says she bought a blue wig when she was in New Orleans last weekend and trolled around town telling people her name was Roxy Raspberry.

  By the time we get up to leave, I’m feeling the teensiest bit better. If only for a moment.

  Thank God.

  Thank God I have my girlfriends. Life would really suck without them.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Luke

  Max racked his brain, trying to think of ways his world overlapped with Jane’s.

  She’d said he deserved better. That she couldn’t help him achieve his dreams.

  Yet that was just it, wasn’t it? Yes, he had political ambitions. Yes, he hoped to climb ladders and rub elbows with Britain’s finest.

  But he didn’t do all that to feed his ego, or bring glory to his family name.

  He did it because he had a higher purpose in mind.

  Service.

  Max wanted to make the country a better place. To create a more equitable society, where things like safety and education and happiness weren’t privileges for the few but rights for the many.

  Jane, too, wanted that, didn’t she? Tutoring the children in the village. Allowing those young women access to her father’s small but still impressive library.

  Maybe she felt out of place in a ballroom. But that’s not where his life’s work was going to take place. The real work. The work that mattered.

  That sort of work would take place in classrooms. Libraries. Small villages like the one just down the road.

  All places Jane positively shone.

  Their dreams—the big dreams, the ones that mattered—were very much the same.

  Max’s hands began to shake as the idea took shape. What if he opened his library, too? Hired tutors to sit with more children from the village a few days each week? Perhaps invite them, along with their families, to sup with him at that ridiculously large table of his? The one upon which Jane had cried out his name and God’s, too, that amorous afternoon not long ago.

  What if Jane helped oversee all this? As his partner. His confidante.

  His wife.

  What a team they would be! Her connections in the village, his in Parliament and beyond.

  The difference they could make together.

  Yes, it would take work. He’d have to think of ways to make her feel more comfortable amongst his set. Perhaps he might get the more progressive of his friends to help with their charitable efforts. Donations, time. Raising awareness amongst other influential people.

  Whatever needed to happen, he’d do it. Because he was miserable without Jane.

  Max sat down at his ducal desk. Took out paper. Ink. Quill and sand.

  He got to writing. There was not a moment to spare.

  Not when the woman he loved was hurting.

  I draw a sharp breath. Heart racing as I look up from my dog-eared copy of My Deal With the Duke to glance out the windows opposite my bed.

  I like this idea of Max’s. I like it a lot.

  And I agree—holy shit I agree—that the coming together of his and Jane’s worlds could actually work.

  My heart pops. Blares.

  I suddenly see it. Clear as the sunshine streaming through the windows.

  How the fuck did I not recognize this before?

  There’s a way to mesh my world with Gracie’s. Because the circles in our Venn diagram overlap for way more than just sex.

  They overlap for service. Creating community. Comfort.

  Wasn’t Elijah just telling me those were the things Gracie was after when she opened Holy City Roasters? Those were the things she cares about, right? The woman raised ten grand at the opening for one of her favorite charities, for crying out loud.

  And wasn’t I just telling Gracie that I wanted to create a community around the mill? Bring people back to the farm, gather people together around good food and good conversation?

  Gracie and I want the same damn thing.

  Of course.

  Of course.

  I feel like a shithead for not seeing it sooner. I could kick myself. Guess I was too wrapped up in focusing on our differences. Giving my insecurities too much leeway.

  But now that that particular light bulb has turned on, it’s causing a chain reaction. One light bulb after another lights up inside my head.

  Illuminating the way to our own happy ending.

  Obviously that depends on Gracie giving me another chance. I totally get why she wouldn’t. Hell, I get why she wouldn’t even answer my call, much less allow me to make my grand gesture, a la Max the Duke.

  Still. I gotta try. Because not only do Gracie and I share the same dream. But together, we could take that dream further—higher—than we ever could by ourselves. Because the things about myself that I thought would hold Gracie back are actually the things that would make us a good team. Elijah was right. There’s no need to compete.

  No need to compete because Gracie and I complement each other instead.

  She’s got her connections. I’
ve got a barn and big plans.

  She’s got her education. I’ve got my hands and a strong back.

  She’s got coffee. And I’ve got corn.

  We’ll get her fancy friends out here to the farm to raise money and awareness for causes we care about. Fill their bellies with grits and their hands with coffee mugs and create our own community made up of people who give and people who receive. One that straddles the line between downtown and down on the farm. Call it—I don’t know. Coffee and Community? Coffee and Grits?

  Grits and Coffee Grinds?

  That is how I bring our worlds together.

  What if I can actually make it happen?

  What if Gracie and I actually, truly have a shot at making a difference together?

  What if we really do have a shot at the real deal?

  I feel a sharp stab inside my chest. I suck in another breath, digging my fingers into the place that hurts just inside my breastbone.

  My God, do I want the real deal with Gracie.

  I’m just worried I fucked up too bad to make it happen. Because y’all, I fucked up bad.

  Real bad.

  To make up for it, I’m gonna have to pull out all the stops.

  I’m gonna have to make her see what I do. So she knows I got no intention of ever walking out on her again because we’re too damn good together.

  We got too damn much to offer each other.

  I know I can make this dream come true with Gracie. We made all her sexual dreams come true, didn’t we? I was right there with her. Bringing one fantasy after another to life.

  I did that.

  I can do this, too.

  I race through the rest of My Deal With the Duke. Too good not to finish. I’ve been unable to put the damn thing down. Olivia’s storytelling really sucks you right in. Who knew Regency England was such a racy place?

  I ain’t mad at it.

  I’ve underlined and highlighted and dog-eared the shit out of it. Desperately searching for ideas. Inspiration.

  I could kiss Olivia.

  I need to call her instead.

  But first, I need a plan.

  Setting the book on my nightstand beside my phone and a half-empty bottle of lube—I bought Gracie’s favorite kind to have at my place—I get up and start to pace. My body vibrating from the sudden burst of energy.