Southern Heartbreaker: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  I look away.

  “I definitely didn’t see it coming. But like I told Grey after he broke the news that Julia was pregnant—the two of them being together actually makes a strange sort of sense. They’re the only people smart enough—ballsy enough—to go toe to toe with each other. I think he was smitten from the beginning. And now…” Ford turns his head to glance in their direction. “Hell, now he’s head over heels in love.”

  There’s something about the way Ford’s voice softens that has me looking back up at him. He may be dressed like a slick investment banker, but he’s talking about love and family and attraction with sincerity.

  With interest and awe.

  I can’t risk looking him in the eye. So I look at the satisfyingly sharp angles of Ford’s jawline instead. The fullness of his lips.

  That fucking dimple in his chin, the one I’d fill with the pad of my thumb when I’d pull him in for a kiss.

  Blinking, I focus my gaze on the box. I busy myself opening it, feeling his attention on me the whole time.

  I don’t say a word. Hoping he’ll take the hint and move on.

  “The way they feel about each other—their story—it’s kind of epic, isn’t it?” he continues.

  More sincerity. More softness.

  I don’t know what I was expecting Ford to be like when I saw him today.

  But I definitely wasn’t expecting him to be vulnerable. Real.

  “Epic,” I say carefully. “I like that.”

  “Also epic that it brought you and I together again after, what, ten years? Makes us—you and me—feel a little star-crossed.”

  The almost-English major in him is coming out.

  I allow myself a small smile.

  “Don’t you dare go Shakespearean on me,” I say, looking up. “I have a cake to prep and a baby shower to host. No time to get weak in the knees.”

  Ford’s eyes sweep to the knees in question. Sweep back up. My body, ever the traitor, arches into the pull of his gaze. Like he’s just reached for me and run one of those big hands up my side.

  I blink. I’m being an idiot, talking to him like this.

  But before I can excuse myself, Ford is reaching across my torso. With long, patient fingers, he starts disassembling the sides of the cake box.

  “Here, let me help you. Never hurts to have an extra pair of hands.”

  Chapter Three

  Eva

  Ugh, this guy.

  Ford is dropping innuendos left and right that are somehow both pervy and cute.

  His arm is brushing against my side.

  He is being helpful.

  And I need to be polite. Only what comes out of my mouth is not polite at all.

  “One hand usually does the trick,” I say.

  “Two—or three or four—are always better,” he replies. “But I don’t need to tell you that.”

  Goddamn, he’s indecent. And charming.

  Doesn’t mean I don’t want to throttle him for what he did. But this conversation is almost…pleasant.

  Fun.

  I turn to the box. Ford moves to stand beside me, and I ring with the memory of how delicious the bulk of his long, broad body feels next to mine.

  “I see you’re still the same shameless perv underneath that fancy suit.” We each take two corners of the cake platter in our hands.

  Together we lift the cake out of the box onto the table. The tip of my finger catches on the frosting.

  “Inner perv doesn’t come out all that often anymore, but yeah. Definitely still there.” His eyes move to my mouth as I lick my finger clean.

  They darken.

  Wrong that I take a sick kind of satisfaction in knowing I’m affecting him this way?

  Wrong or right, I have a lot I need to do before the shower starts. Grabbing the empty box, I’m just about to turn away when he speaks up again.

  “How have you been, Eva? You look great.”

  I blink. Talk about being taken off guard.

  “Thanks,” I say slowly. “I credit anxiety and brown liquor with helping me maintain my girlish figure.”

  Ford scoffs. “Still a whiskey girl?”

  “Always.”

  “So what’s on your mind that’s got you so anxious?” he asks as he opens a package of cocktail napkins dotted with gold-foiled bees.

  I have stuff I need to do. But if I’m being honest, I’m hungry for real conversation. Real connection. Working for myself, and by myself, can be awesome. But it also gets lonely.

  I can’t remember the last time someone other than my parents or my sister asked about me.

  I can’t remember the last time someone genuinely cared about my answer.

  “Life. Being a thirty-two-year-old self-employed woman. These days it’s work—well, mostly—that keeps me up at night. The deadline for my second cookbook is coming up—”

  “Second? You have a first?” He sets the napkins down beside the cake, eyes lit up. “Eva, that’s fucking amazing. You’re doing exactly what you always wanted to do. You know how few people can say that at this stage in life?”

  A flare of anger ignites in my chest.

  “Are you serious? Last time I checked, you didn’t approve of my choice of career path. At all. What was it you said? Something along the lines of me ‘not being ambitious enough?’”

  Ford groans.

  “Yeah, I was an idiot back then.” He runs a hand across the back of his neck, a red flush creeping its way up his chin. “Needless to say, I’ve learned a lot since undergrad. As an entrepreneur myself, I have a hell of a lot of respect for people who have a vision and go after it with all they’ve got. Especially if that vision is off the beaten path. I used to think—God, I thought a lot of stupid things, but now I see how brave you are. It’s inspiring. And so goddamn refreshing, Eva, I can’t even tell you.”

  His eyes are earnest as they search mine, and that flare inside my chest bursts into something like…pride. Surprise.

  Joy, even.

  Over the years, a lot of people have made me feel ridiculous for having the dreams I do. Ford didn’t when we first met, but the older we got, the more judgmental he became about them. Wanting to become a writer—and a pit master of all things!—has always made me stick out like a sore thumb. I’ve gotten a lot of amused, judgmental side-eye about it.

  Right now, though? Ford isn’t making me feel like a joke.

  He’s making me feel like a rockstar.

  What the hell is going on? Has he really changed his tune that much?

  “Thanks,” I say slowly, bewildered. “I love it. Usually. My readers are the best in the world, and they really seem to connect with what I’m doing, so. Yeah. Although I have to admit, sometimes being an entrepreneur is a lot less glamorous than it sounds.”

  “Being your own boss usually is.”

  “Right? People say, ‘oh, wow, good for you, you made it.’ Which is awesome in many ways. But the dirty little secret no one tells you is you’ve gotta hustle twice as hard now. You still have to work. Still have to produce. Only now, the bar is set higher. You can’t ever rest on your laurels.”

  “You can’t rest on your laurels,” Ford says. “But you can trust yourself. Trust your process, because it’s working. Clearly. Trust the universe, as cheesy as that sounds.”

  “C’mon. You know what a control freak I can be when it comes to my passions. I don’t trust. I try. I hustle.”

  “Stubborn as ever.”

  “Hard working, you mean.”

  “That’s always been a given for you, Eva. Overachiever extraordinaire, with a side of free spiritedness to go with it.”

  “Pot, meet kettle. Minus the fun free spirited part.”

  “I know, I know. Guilty as charged. But I’m in recovery.”

  “Good for you.”

  “So what about life outside work?” He’s sliding his hands shyly into his pockets, trying to look nonchalant. It’s cute. “Significant other? Kids?”

  “No significant
other, and no kids. I’m plenty busy otherwise. I write, I cook, I do a lot of kickboxing—helps with the anxiety.” I cut him a glance. “What about you? How are things?”

  Ford lets out a breath. “Crazy. Good. Crazy good. I’m not seeing anyone—”

  “Hey y’all!” Gracie appears at my side, looping her arm through mine. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or annoyed by the intrusion. I want to be relieved. Ford has reeled me in before with this whole I-love-that-you’re-so-different-act, and we all know how that ended up. “Sorry to pull y’all away, but Ford, your mom and dad just arrived, and they have a whole trunkful of presents we need help carrying inside.”

  Ford nods, holding out his arm. “Happy to help. After y’all.”

  My face grows hot at the feel of his gaze on my back as we head out to the parking lot.

  Ford’s parents, Eliza and Monty, smile at us from the open trunk of their SUV. My chest lights up at the warm familiarity of their faces.

  “My goodness, is that you, Eva Lacy?” Eliza asks.

  Grinning, I step into her open arms. “It’s great to see you, Eliza. Congrats on the impending arrival of your new grandbaby.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. We couldn’t be more excited.” She gives me a tight hug before stepping back, hands on my upper arms. She gives them a squeeze, eyes on mine. “We’ve missed you. Grey told us that you and Julia were friends—Monty and I were secretly hoping you’d be here today.”

  “Not so secretly hoping, in my case,” Monty adds, arms full with brightly colored gift bags. He presses a kiss to my cheek. “Please tell me you’re back in Charleston for good.”

  “Dad,” Ford groans, even as a smile twitches at the edges of his mouth. “Seriously, y’all have no chill.”

  “I don’t rightly know what chill is, and I don’t care.” Monty’s still beaming at me. “I’ll find you inside, Eva. I can’t wait to hear about all the incredible things I’m sure you’ve been up to since we saw you last.”

  My stomach lurches—a few incredible things to report here, but they’re currently being overshadowed by a horrible bout of writer’s block—but I give Monty a smile anyway.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Y’all don’t forget to include me in that conversation,” Eliza says. “Don’t you dare keep Eva all to yourself.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

  Monty leans in and kisses his wife. He smiles. She smiles.

  My heart lifts at the adoration—the respect—they so clearly have for each other. Pretty much night and day from my own parents’ relationship.

  A voice inside my head says See? Not all marriages end up resentful and unhappy, and parenthood is not a trap for everyone.

  But then I think about my mom. Stuck. Buried beneath the weight of her obligations to my dad. To us.

  Another voice tells me having a family of my own is not worth the risk. My parents never set out to end up the way they did. And yet it happened anyway.

  Still, I loved Ford’s family. Loved them. And they loved me right back.

  They’re not perfect. No family is. But I always admired how happy Monty and Eliza seemed to be together. Their relationship was—is—functional, respectful, loving. No doubt it’s the product of years of hard work. Whatever the case, theirs is clearly turning out be a happy ending.

  I always told Ford how envious I was that he didn’t have to worry about his parents. That he didn’t have to take care of them because they took care of each other.

  I can only imagine how freeing that must be.

  Monty moves past us in a crinkle of tissue paper. I’m reaching inside the trunk for a large package wrapped in silver paper when my eyes catch on the car seat in front of it. I can just glimpse the top of a small head of brown hair, capped with a single hot pink bow.

  I watch Ford open the passenger side door, pulse beginning to pound.

  “There you are!” He unbuckles the little girl from the carseat and lifts her into his arms with a groan. “I missed you. Were you a good girl for Grandma and Grandpa?”

  I can’t help it. I lean to the left so I can see around the car. Ford is standing beside the door, the little girl slung easily on his hip.

  She’s got sharp brown eyes and a dimple in her chin.

  She’s beautiful.

  “I was the best,” she replies, looping her arms around his neck.

  “Of course you were.” He plants a noisy kiss on her cheek.

  “Daddy, ew!” She recoils, laughing, and beside me Eliza laughs too.

  He kisses her again, giving her tummy a tickle. She dissolves into a fit of giggles.

  My pulse throbs. Ford catches me staring, and he smiles.

  “Bryce,” he says to the little girl, “I’d like you to meet my friend, Miss Eva. Eva, this is my daughter, Bryce.”

  My heart is somewhere in my throat now.

  Still. A reply pops out of my mouth, bright and clear.

  “Hi, Bryce. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  She looks at me for a full beat, expression suddenly serious. Part of me wants to laugh. Another part wants to find a bathroom where I can throw cold water on my face. It’s burning up.

  Come on, my rational mind tells me. As if I needed another reason not to ogle Ford, he’s got a kid. And I do not want kids. I have nothing against parenthood or kids in general. They’re just things I don’t want for myself.

  The universe is throwing out sign after sign that I should hightail it back to the barn and keep my distance the rest of the day.

  “Bryce.” Ford gives her a gentle nudge. “Say hello.”

  “Hi,” she says.

  Ford looks up at me and grins. This amused, proud, fatherly thing that looks so damn good on him. An ache gathers along the sides of my ribcage.

  “Sorry,” he says. “She takes a minute to warm up. We’re working on our manners, aren’t we, bun?”

  He calls his daughter bun.

  He’s a dad.

  A very hot, and apparently very single, dad.

  Immediately I think of Jude Law’s hot single dad in The Holiday. I get the appeal. Really, I do. There’s a reason it’s one of my all-time favorite rom-coms.

  Single dads just aren’t my cup of tea. Why, then, this weird ache?

  We chat for a few more minutes, Bryce’s eyes on my face the whole time. Probably because it’s red as a beet. I’m flustered. Awkward.

  Stop! So what? You’re fine.

  I keep telling myself those things. Even as I can’t help but wonder what Ford’s story is. Is he divorced? A widower?

  One thing I don’t wonder about is what kind of dad he is. There’s this easy confidence in the way he holds Bryce, the way he talks to her and makes her laugh, that screams excellent.

  No surprise there. Ford was excellent at everything.

  Excellent at breaking my heart and shattering my world.

  I head back into the barn and manage to avoid Ford the rest of the day. It’s for the best.

  Even if the ache in my chest stays there, throbbing.

  Chapter Four

  Ford

  It’s only six, but the bar at Henley’s Tavern is already filled with a buzzy, good-looking Friday night crowd. I’ve got a sweating Old Fashioned in my hand and a potential investor at my elbow.

  I scan the people around me for what feels like the hundredth time, looking for a head of dark, wavy hair and a pair of even darker brown eyes.

  And for the hundredth time, I try to convince myself that taking a meeting at Eva’s favorite “fancy pants hometown hang out spot” (her blog is full of cleverly worded recommendations like that one) doesn’t make me a stalker.

  Since running into her at Grey and Julia’s shower, I may or may not read her blog every morning. And she may or may not have mentioned in today’s post that she was heading out with friends tonight on East Bay Street, where Henley’s is located.

  God, I am a stalker. And a loser.

  I just can’t stop thinking abou
t her. I was so drawn to her creativity, her daring, when we first met as college sophomores.

  I was drawn to it again at the shower.

  I’ve played it safe over the past decade, following a relatively stable, relatively corporate route. But hearing how Eva never wavered from making her writerly and culinary dreams come true made a long dormant part of me sit up and take notice.

  When was the last time I talked to someone who radiated passion like that? Freedom?

  Didn’t hurt that she looked more gorgeous than ever. The way that sexy dress showed off her tits—

  I shove the image from my mind. Focus instead on the task at hand.

  Work. I’m here for work.

  Chatting ROI and project pipelines is nothing new. My brother Greyson and I founded Montgomery Partners, our venture capital firm here in Charleston, seven years ago. I’m well versed in wooing investors over cocktails and smooth bar beats.

  One thing that is new? The fact that my mind keeps wandering to decidedly un-businesslike topics. Like Eva.

  And whether or not my four-year-old daughter Bryce is eating the pot roast and sweet potatoes I left in the fridge. Hannah, my full-time nanny, is probably at the kitchen table with Bryce right now. I smile at the image of my daughter’s potato-smeared face, even as my heart falls at the thought of missing dinner for the second time this week.

  By the time I’m done with drinks here, Bryce will be in bed.

  Usually I don’t work this much. My wife, Rebecca, passed away not long after Bryce was born. Greyson took the reins at the company so I could be with her as much as possible over the past few years.

  But now it’s Greyson’s turn to focus on family—he has a baby coming in a couple weeks. I’m stepping up my involvement at Montgomery Partners so he can take his paternity leave and regain some semblance of balance in his life.

  I’m determined to prove I’m still worthy of my seat at the helm of the company after my years-long hiatus. Which means being out with investors, partners, contractors, and city council members as often as not.