Southern Heartbreaker: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  “No chance you can push it back? The deadline?”

  Sipping her drink, she shakes her head. “Not if I want to keep this business afloat. We’ve already asked my publisher for an extension. And the longer I go between release dates, the more nervous I get about losing the readership I’ve spent years building. This book—I mean, I know what it is, I know what I want it to look like. It’s just a matter of getting the damn thing done already.”

  “Well. By this time next week, it will be.” I tap my glass against hers. “Wednesday’s the deadline, right?”

  “Yup. I cannot wait to be done.”

  Underneath the bar, I gently prod a wedge between her thighs with my knee. Arousal twists low in my belly when Eva takes half a step forward, melting her groin and torso into mine. Her dark eyes go even darker.

  I lick my lips. “You trying to kill me?”

  “Nah. Just trying to distract us from the crushing responsibilities of our adult lives. How was your day? Crazy as usual?”

  “Even crazier, if you can believe it.” I set my drink down on the bar. “But it’s better, now that I get to hang with you. How was practice?”

  As the new head coach for Bryce’s soccer team, Eva hosts practices once a week on Wednesday afternoons. I’d love to be able to go myself, but with this week’s jam packed schedule at the office, I had Hannah take Bryce today instead.

  Eva grins, the kind that touches her eyes, and my heart does a neat little somersault inside my chest.

  “Practice was great. Not productive, but a lot of fun. Trying to get four-year-olds to focus is like corralling a bunch of cats. But damn are they cute. We were actually missing quite a few kids today. Apparently flu season has started early this year or something? Anyway. Bryce has taken it upon herself to be my assistant coach—”

  “Lord above,” I say, shaking my head.

  “She’s really good at being bossy.”

  “E, you have no idea. The other day at breakfast she whipped out her ‘laptop’ and ‘cell phone’ and proceeded to conduct some serious business. Here.” I dig my phone out of my pocket. “Let me be the obnoxious parent who won’t stop showing you pictures of his kid again.”

  “I always want to see pictures of your kid.”

  I’m grinning now, too, scrolling to the picture I want to show her. “Thanks for indulging me. Check out my little CEO in the making,” I say with a chuckle, holding out my phone. In the picture, Bryce has her purple laptop and pretend cell phone out at the table. Brow furrowed, lips pinched, like she’s deep in thought during a conference call.

  Eva bursts out laughing. “My God, that face. It’s too precious for words.”

  “Yeah,” I say, chest swelling with pride. “She’s kind of the best.”

  “She is. Just like her daddy.”

  Eva and I kiss and grope and generally canoodle like drunk nineteen year olds while we wait for our table to be ready. When we’re finally seated, I’m relieved that Eva puts in her order pretty much right away. We’re both hungry and tired, and as much as I want to linger over the food and the whiskey, I’m beat. I feel like I’ve been awake for fucking days.

  On our way out of the restaurant, Eva asks if I want to come over. I drive us to her apartment (she walked). We fuck on the couch right there in the living room, too horny—or maybe too tired—to make it to the bedroom or take off the other half of our clothes.

  Holding Eva in the crook of my arm afterward, I tug my thumb and forefinger across my eyes.

  I yawn. She’s quiet, eyes closed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nudges her nose against my chest. “For what? I came. You came. I’d say that was pretty damn good.”

  “No, the sex was great.” I try to stifle another yawn. “I’m sorry I’m so…lame, I guess. I’m wiped. I keep waiting for things to slow down. You know, to have a day where my to-do list isn’t totally overwhelming. But no rest for the wicked I guess.”

  “I feel that.” She flattens her palm against my stomach, and a small but potent pulse shoots through my skin, gathering in the head of my dick. I take a tendril of her hair between my fingers. Give it a tug. “It will get better. Grey’s coming back soon, right?”

  “In a few weeks, yeah. But then he’ll only be part time for a while…well. Whatever. I don’t want to think about work right now.”

  Eva lets out a breath. “Me neither. Can we just lay here? Forever?”

  “Maybe sleep for a year?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’d fucking love it.”

  Eva opens her eyes at that. They’re wet and tired but clear. Dark. Beautiful. Smart.

  Full of sparks, the rings around them notwithstanding.

  They’re full of what I’m feeling.

  You know, maybe this is what love is. At least in real life, shared between real people. Lying on the couch on a Wednesday night at ten p.m. Too tired to give sex more than an eight out of ten in terms of effort. Hell, too tired to do more than snuggle. But taking the time to do it nonetheless.

  Taking the time to just be with each other. No expectations. No hugely fancy date nights or diamonds.

  Just us. And we’re happy that way.

  I feel happy this way.

  Something inside me—around me—lifts. Making the sharp-edged exhaustion filling every square inch of my being feel slightly less heavy.

  I give her hair another tug. Then I extend my thumb and draw it gently over her lips.

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “Something serious.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You sure you want to know?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” I take a deep breath, heart thumping in my chest. “Eva Lacy, I want to dance to LL Cool J with you for the rest of my life.”

  Those lips curl into a smile against the pad of my thumb. “You know how much I love LL Cool J.”

  “Then you gotta know how much I love you.”

  Now her eyes are smiling, too. My heart swells. Explodes. So much goodness.

  Her lips pucker to kiss my thumb, a move that’s somehow sweet and painfully erotic, and she cups my face in her hand.

  “I wanna dance with you for the rest of my life, too.”

  “To Snoop Dogg?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Queen?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And Dave Matthews?”

  “I’d rather make out to his music, but yeah, if you wanna dance to it, too, then sure.”

  “I’d rather make out to Dave, too.”

  I roll on top of her, bracketing her head with my elbows. I slide my thumb over and kiss her. Drinking her in, her tongue in my mouth, my heart in hers. I pull and she gives.

  She’s always giving.

  We make out like that for a while. Until her body starts to go slack. It’s gotta be late. I’m definitely going to regret staying up so late tomorrow.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her neck. “I’ll carry you to bed.”

  I tuck her in. As I’m turning out the light beside the bed, Eva’s eyes flutter open. Meet mine.

  “I love you too, Ford.”

  My heart takes a tumble. “Love you, baby.”

  And you know what? It doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does when my alarm wakes me up at the ass crack of dawn the next morning for my workout.

  I’m in love. Eva and I and Bryce—I think we’re going to be okay.

  Hell, I think things are going to be great.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Eva

  You know you’re a real adult when you have to set an alarm on Saturdays.

  Mine goes off at six. I hit snooze twice, resisting a third attempt. I’d just be delaying the inevitable. I’ve got so much work to get done between now and Wednesday if I’m going to make this deadline. If I get up now, I can get in a couple thousand words before I have to leave for Bryce’s soccer
game at nine.

  Which reminds me—damn it—I meant to make a list of all the things we worked on at practice this week so we can put them into action today. And that whiteboard with the soccer field on it that I meant to order online—completely spaced on that one. Maybe I have time for a quick Target run before the game? What time does Target open on Saturdays anyway? Oh! And maybe I can grab a pumpkin spice latte while I’m there. Grab Ford a black coffee and Bryce something fun. I heard they have these unicorn milkshake things. If it doesn’t have coffee in it, it may be worth a try? I know how much Bryce likes unicorns.

  I drag myself out of bed, curling a hand around the nape of my neck. It aches. So do my back and head. This damn headache. I’ve had it for days now.

  Then again, I’ve been having an inordinate amount of very athletic sex with an inordinately athletic gentleman. I smile at the memory of the quickie we managed to squeeze in yesterday after pizza night. Quick and dirty in the front seat of Ford’s Range Rover. I climbed on his lap. Then he bent me over the center console and went to town.

  Worth it.

  I take two ibuprofen and make myself some scrambled eggs and toast. Two cups of very strong coffee. None of it agrees with my stomach, and my brain feels more than a little foggy. But I still manage to get fifteen hundred words in before I throw on some shorts and sneakers and dash out the door at a quarter past eight.

  Ford, being the awesome guy he is, is already at the field. We laugh as we approach each other through the wet grass, both of us holding styrofoam carriers of coffee.

  “Great minds,” I say.

  “No kidding. Thought you might need an extra boost of caffeine today. I sure as hell do.”

  “Miss Eva! Miss Eva!” Bryce wraps herself around my legs. Her version of a hug. “We’re gonna win today, aren’t we? I have my new cleats. Look! Aren’t they beautiful? I got red ones, just like you. Even though I don’t really like red very much.”

  I rub my hand across her little back, tilting my head to grab a quick kiss from Ford. His scruff chafes against my chin and cheek. He smells freshly showered, body wash and clean skin. Electricity spreads through my skin at the simple contact, kicking my pulse up a notch. The attraction I feel for this man is next level. I feel the pull of his body on mine, tension already building between us after one kiss.

  I can’t help but smile.

  Despite the extra coffee, I can’t seem to focus very well during the game. I catch Bryce rubbing her little forehead on the sideline, like she’s got a headache she can’t kick, either.

  One of our players, a little boy named Joe, throws up halfway through the game.

  Five minutes later, Bryce does, too.

  A sense of foreboding creeps up my spine as our players drop like flies. While it’s certainly not cool outside—down here, summer lasts well into September—it’s not hot enough to warrant this kind of reaction.

  My stomach isn’t feeling great, either. As a matter of fact, I’m actually starting to feel worse.

  Much worse.

  “I just hope to God it’s not the flu,” Joe’s mom says, lifting him onto her hip. She cups a hand over his forehead. Feels his cheeks. She frowns.

  “Does he feel warm?” I ask.

  She looks at me. “He does. Not a good sign.”

  I feel my own forehead. My stomach clenches when I find it’s hot to the touch.

  Oh, Lord. Oh, God, please, please no. I cannot afford to be sick right now. Least of all with the flu. I had it back in college—Ford will remember—and I was laid out for weeks.

  Panic grips my windpipe, making the ache in my throat—when did that start?—intensify. I have every minute of the next five days scheduled: writing, recipe testing, photography. I have to make this deadline.

  Have to. My publisher, my agent, my readers—my God, they are all depending on me to get this done. But if I have the flu—

  “Hey.” Ford comes right up to me as soon as the game ends. I insisted he take Bryce home after she got sick, but he insisted they stay until the game was over. Now she’s slung over his shoulder, pitifully quiet. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

  Immediately he reaches out and puts a hand on my forehead. My panic softens, if only for a few heartbeats.

  He doesn’t say anything, but he purses his lips.

  “I’m going to take Bryce to Urgent Care,” he says at last. “I’ll tell them you live with us—see if I can snag an extra prescription of Tamiflu for you and I. It can be preventative if it’s taken early enough. In the meantime, I need you to go straight home and go to bed. Understood?”

  “Ford—”

  “Nu-huh. You won’t get sick. Not on my watch. Once I’m done with Bryce, I’ll have my parents come watch her so I can bring over the meds and some Gatorade to your place. Take it easy until then. If you need to work, bring your laptop into bed with you.”

  His eyes search mine. Full of concern.

  “Thanks,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

  His mouth sets in a grim line. “I’ll be fine. Go home, E. Please. I know how much you need to get done with this deadline—I need to nip whatever this bug is in the bud.”

  “It’s not your fault if I get sick. You know that, right?”

  “No, it’s not my fault. But if you caught something because you’ve been hanging out with my daughter and all her germy little friends, then it is my responsibility to take care of you. I’m so sorry, E.”

  I put my hand on his chest. My panic is back full force, head throbbing, but I don’t want to upset him any more than he already is. Poor guy’s got a sick baby. Whatever is going on with me—I’ll figure it out. Fight through it.

  “No need to apologize. Call me when you’re done at Urgent Care. Let me know how Bryce is doing, all right?”

  He looks at me. “All right. I really am sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I say.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eva

  I try—Lord, do I try—to push through the fever and the aches and the chills over the next twenty-four hours. But when you can’t keep anything down, not even water, it’s impossible to stand upright, much less finish a cookbook.

  Ford was able to get me the Tamiflu, but it was too late. I’m diagnosed with the flu the next day. My temperature is so high the doctor warns I could experience fainting spells.

  It’s exactly what you don’t want to hear when you have a deadline looming.

  I panic. I try to talk myself off the ledge. But the fever is making my brain short circuit. Ford and my mom take turns looking after me—by some miracle, neither of them gets sick—which I’m grateful for, because I am a hot mess.

  I keep track of the countdown as the days pass. Four more days. I can finish the book in four days.

  Three days. I’m feeling a little better, so if I pull an all-nighter on Tuesday, I can have the book to my editor by midnight Wednesday.

  I can pull it out of my ass in two days. Just need to work around the clock.

  But by Tuesday morning, it’s becoming apparent I’m too sick to make my deadline. I soak my snotty pillow with tears as panic absorbs whatever little rationality the fever hasn’t already sucked from my brain.

  I’m angry with myself for cutting it so close.

  I’m panicked my readers will hate me for disappointing them. I’ve stoked their excitement to a fever pitch. What if they abandon me? Lose their enthusiasm for this project?

  What about my sponsors? If website traffic goes down, they may not want to renew their agreements. I was also hoping to pick up some new sponsors as we head toward publication. The extra money would go a long ways in helping me pay my bills. Never mind royalties from the book itself.

  I’m terrified my publisher—and my agent, for that matter—will think I’m some unprofessional novice who doesn’t take her business seriously. Not only am I missing another deadline. I’m delivering the news less than forty-eight hours before the date. I mean, who does that? I know better.

&n
bsp; I just didn’t know I’d catch the flu and be totally laid out like this.

  As the hours pass, my anger morphs. Mean little thoughts start to swirl and swoop inside the hot magma that fills my congested head. Irrational, rage-y thoughts like, this wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t volunteer to coach a soccer team of germy four-year-olds. Or this wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t constantly spreading myself so thin.

  By lunchtime, I call uncle. I get on the phone with my agent and proceed to have a totally unprofessional breakdown as I tell him I’m not going to make the deadline.

  While he’s sympathetic, he is not happy.

  “Unfortunately, pushing back your deadline even a month or two puts us smack dab in the middle of the holidays,” he says. “I’ll be honest. Things in the publishing world really slow down around then. With this new delay, I’d be willing to bet your editor won’t be able to get to your project until the new year, which means we might be pushing your pub date back by several months.”

  My stomach is in knots. I promised my readers I’d have this book out by next summer. They’ve been clamoring for it ever since. The thought of disappointing them makes me want to die.

  “I shouldn’t have cut it so close,” I say. “That was a rookie move, and I’m sorry. So freaking sorry. What can I do to make this better?”

  “I’ll reach out to your editor and see what I can do. I make no promises, but I’ll do my best. In the meantime, you take care of yourself.”

  “They’re never going to want to work with me after this. And my readers, my sponsors—ugh, what are they going to think?”

  “I wish I could answer that for you. Just be honest with them. They’ve waited this long, so I’d like to think they won’t mind waiting a bit more. I will say that publishing is notorious for being a very slow industry. Sometimes a few months ends up being the equivalent, of, like, an inch or two in the grand scheme of things.”