Southern Player

by Jessica Peterson

  I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  It’s quarter ’til six when I grab my apron and duck behind the counter. Dylan, one of my baristas, is already here, flitting around the store as she preps for opening.

  “Morning,” I say, sidling up to the massive espresso machine behind the counter. “The usual?”

  “Think I need to make it a triple shot today,” Dylan says, yawning. “I was watching that show on HGTV—you know the one with the twin brothers? Anyway, I stayed up way too late wondering what a threesome would be like with them. Awkward? Awesome? Can they swing their meat hammers as well as they swing literal ones?”

  I laugh, getting to work on her triple shot Americano and my iced oat milk latte (oat milk is all the rage right now for good reason). Ordinarily I wouldn’t tolerate such…er, frank discussion with an employee. But Dylan was one of the first people I hired. We’ve gotten close over the past five years, bonding over our shared obsessions with the craft of coffee and home renovation shows. She’s become one of my best baristas and closest friends.

  “I bet you wouldn’t be disappointed,” I say. “They seem to be pretty passionate about everything they do.”

  Dylan dumps beans into the coffee maker, the air blooming with their velvety scent. “I thought the same thing. I also thought I need to, like, get laid for real soon, because this obsession I have with those brothers is getting weird.”

  I bite back a grin. “What’s wrong with weird obsessions? For a while there, I was way too into Max the Duke. But he taught me a lot. Gave me some good ideas for my real life.”

  “Wait,” Dylan says, scrunching her brow. “I thought you were still into him.”

  I turn away, hiding my blush as I finish making her Americano. “I am. Still into Max, I mean. Maybe not quite as much, though?”

  “Gracie,” she says. I can feel her eyes on me.

  Handing her the coffee, I say, “Here you go. Be careful—that’s rocket fuel.”

  “Gracie,” she repeats, taking the mug. “If you’re not into Max, then who are you into?”

  I look up. Meet her eyes.

  A grin breaks out on her face.

  “What?” I say, my face feeling all kinds of hot. So I turn to shovel some ice into my latte.

  “You’re back,” she replies.

  I give the glass a little swirl, watching as tendrils of espresso curl into the oat milk. “What does that mean?”

  “Means you haven’t been your usual awesome self lately. I could see it in your eyes. But today…” She looks at me. “Hell, Gracie, you’re glowing. The boss I know and love is back.”

  I put a hand to my face, my stomach dipping. Is it really that obvious?

  Has one (admittedly incredible) sexual encounter with Luke really changed me all that much? I knew I felt pretty great for this early in the morning. But if I’m still sporting an obvious post coital glow how many hours after the fact…

  What does that mean?

  Be careful oh God be careful.

  “Really?” I say, as much to myself as to Dylan. “I—”

  We both look up at a knock on the door. Julia is there, waving at us. She’s usually the first in the door when we open at six, jonesing for her first hit of caffeine. Like me, she’s a total coffee fiend.

  I’m already pouring her usual large cold brew over ice when Dylan unlocks the door.

  The second Julia’s eyes are on me, she grins.

  “Holy shit, you did it! And from the look of it, it was good.”

  Dylan’s eyes go wide as they bounce from me to Julia and back again.

  “Whoa whoa whoa. Gracie, you got laid?”

  “Yeah she did,” Julia says, taking the iced coffee I hold out to her. “So I guess your brother approved of it, huh?”

  I’m blinking and blushing and smiling, all at once. Dylan comes to stand beside me, the three of us making a little circle around the register.

  “Approved of what?” Dylan asks.

  I glance at her. “I may or may not be hooking up with Eli’s good friend. His best friend, as a matter of fact. Luke.”

  “Luke Rodgers?” Dylan’s eyes are so wide now they look like they’re about to pop out of her head. “Of ‘Luke Lady Dagger’ fame? I thought that was him in here the other day.”

  People in this town like to talk. Apparently nothing is off limits—not even penis size. Back before Luke bought his farm out on Wadmalaw, he spent a lot of time at bars downtown. And slowly but surely, a lot of people started talking about how well endowed he was. I don’t know who called it the Lady Dagger, but the name stuck. Someone even created a page on Facebook dedicated to it.

  Now that I’ve had the pleasure of seeing said Lady Dagger in the flesh, I can attest the name is fitting.

  “That’s the one,” I say.

  “Oh my God,” Dylan sputters. “My jealousy knows no bounds.”

  “Was it as good as I think it was?” Julia asks.

  “Judging by the way she’s blushing, I’d say it was beyond,” Dylan replies.

  I chew on my bottom lip. “Best I’ve ever had.”

  Julia gasps. “Really? Aw, yay! I’m so happy for you. My idea of separating sex from forever worked, then.”

  “So far, yeah,” I say with a nod. “Luke and I have known each other for years, so there’s already that sense of familiarity. But he also went out of his way to make me feel comfortable. Which, I think, allowed me to be really open about what I needed. What I was after. I’ve never been so honest with a guy before.”

  Dylan nods. “He made you feel safe.”

  “Exactly. I felt like I could just be myself with him. I didn’t care about being just right, so I just was. It was fantastic.”

  So fantastic it’s scaring the shit out of me.

  “Intimacy is a beautiful thing,” Julia says. “When your truths and your pelvises collide simultaneously.”

  “Glorious,” Dylan adds.

  “But can we keep doing that in a casual, no-strings-attached way?” I ask, sipping my latte. Thoughts tangling. “I feel like I’m really getting somewhere sexually—like I’m definitely enjoying it now. I don’t want feelings to get involved, because in the past, feelings have sabotaged my sex life. And this sex—”

  “Is phenomenal,” Julia says.

  I nod, my pulse picking up. “But then I wonder how can feelings not be involved when you’re truly intimate with someone? How can you not like someone who accepts you—hell, practically worships you—for who you are? Can you have intimacy without attachment? Or do they go hand in hand?”

  Julia is grinning over the rim of her cup. “All good questions. But I think you know you’re the only one who can answer them.”

  “I think it honestly depends on who you’re with,” Dylan says. “When you’re intimate with someone, you connect with them on some level, right? Sometimes that connection is purely physical. Doesn’t mean you aren’t being truthful or real. It just means y’all have this insane sexual chemistry that’s confined to the bedroom. Outside of it, though…the connection just isn’t there for whatever reason. Maybe he’s immature, or maybe your interests don’t line up. So while physical intimacy exists between y’all, emotional intimacy doesn’t.”

  “Okay,” I say, my pulse still thrumming. “I buy that. But what if he isn’t immature? And what if the two of you have, say, a similar sense of humor and a shared appreciation for life’s simple pleasures, like dick jokes and cold beer?”

  Dylan and Julia exchange a glance.

  I let out a pained sigh. “Oh, Jesus.”

  Dylan loops an arm around my middle and pulls me in for a side hug. “No need to panic. This is a good problem to have. What if you thought about it this way? You’ve got every right to have your guard up after what you went through. But whether or not you realize it, you’re already trusting Luke in a way you could never trust Nick. When you told Nick what you really wanted, what did he do?”

  “He ran,” I say.

  “And when y
ou told Luke?”

  A pulse of heat spreads throughout my body as I remember what Luke did.

  “He did not run,” I reply.

  He made me laugh instead. Made me come.

  “And how did that make you feel?” Julia says.

  I scoff, swallowing. “Awesome.” Like I was the brightest star in the goddamn sky.

  “What’s so wrong about trusting that feeling? About trusting yourself? So you’ve gotten your ass kicked. You’ve learned some hard lessons. But now you know better. I think you’ve already chosen a much better guy.”

  “But it’s…Julia, it’s really scary,” I say. “I’m scared to trust anyone, myself included. I wanted Nick to be the one so badly. Even though he didn’t make me very happy. I mean. Come on, clearly I have, like, faulty emotional radar or something.”

  “Or maybe you were just blinded by your desire to have this perfect, all consuming love,” Julia says. “Now that you’ve taken that desire out of the equation—”

  “You can see things more clearly,” Dylan finishes. “Trust your gut, Gracie. Deep down, you know what you’re doing and what you want. Maybe what you want isn’t ‘perfect’ after all, but something more fulfilling. I mean, honestly—fuck perfect love. Give me messy, complicated, all consuming love over that any day.”

  A customer arrives then, ending the conversation. But I think about it the rest of the day.

  In my professional life, what Dylan said is true. I didn’t always trust my gut—obviously I have a bad habit of second guessing myself—but I learned pretty quickly that trusting myself was the only way I could build the career of my dreams. It was the only way I could survive the ups and downs of being an entrepreneur.

  Trusting myself paid off in that area of my life. I don’t know why I never really applied that same logic to my romantic life, though. Maybe because it’s really hard to figure out what you want—what you genuinely want—when, as a thirty-something single woman, you’re constantly being bombarded by messages of what you should want. What your life should look like.

  It’s hard not to feel like you’re falling short when weddings and honeymoons and Christmas card-worthy pictures of happy dogs and smiling, scrumptious babies populate your Instagram feed.

  Yes yes to all of that, I would think. I’ve always felt such pressure to get there. To arrive at my final, beautifully photogenic destination according to a carefully prescribed timetable.

  Now that I think about it, maybe that’s why I wanted things to work out so badly with Nick. In my mind, he was the perfect, Instagram-worthy guy who’d propose in an Instagram-worthy way with an Instagram-worthy ring. He dressed well, looked good, and liked nice things. I could just imagine our beautiful wedding and all the beautiful babies we’d make together.

  Nick had always seemed like a pretty damn great destination.

  But now that I’ve had a taste of something different—now that I’ve tried on real—I’m not so sure that’s where I want to end up anymore. It actually sounds kind of shallow.

  I was shallow for framing my future happiness in those terms.

  There’s nothing wrong with getting married and starting a family. I definitely still want those things. But now I’m realizing that maybe what I’m after is a different version of that happily ever after. One that’s about authenticity and genuine fulfillment.

  Intensity and truth. Taking my time to explore who I am and what I want rather than rushing to meet those arbitrary deadlines Luke talked about.

  Jesus, I want to be ready for that kind of future. That version of forever.

  I want to be able to consider it with Luke.

  I just don’t know how. How do I learn to trust myself again? Trust him?

  I don’t know.

  I do know that my gut is telling me that staying still—not moving forward—is the wrong move. Curling up into a ball and refusing to put myself out there is the wrong fucking move.

  I put myself out there last night. It was a gamble, but it totally paid off.

  It hits me that by writing my sexual bucket list down—by owning my fantasies—maybe I’m trading one list for another. Replacing the list of things I thought I should be accomplishing for a list of things I actually want to do.

  Trading who I always thought I would be for who I really am.

  I’m still scared.

  Still uncertain.

  But I am listening. To my gut. To my friends. To Luke.

  All three are telling me he’s a good guy.

  A good bet.

  But is that bet worth making if I risk losing myself again along the way? I’ve just started this little experiment, but I already like who I’m becoming. I like how I feel inside my own skin. I don’t want to lose that.

  I don’t want to take one step forward only to take two steps back.

  Do I really believe I don’t have to change who I am to be wanted? To be loved, even?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gracie

  Lady Jane looked around the crowded ballroom, a spark of panic igniting in her chest. Was that His Royal Highness the Duke of York? And—dear God—Wellington and his wife, that was them, wasn’t it?

  Their clothing was beautifully ornate. Perfectly fitted and crusted with jewels. Behind painted fans, no doubt these scions of British society were plotting marriages and wars and the course of history for the next hundred years.

  Jane looked down at her pale muslin gown. It was her best dress, the one she thought flattered her curves and complexion. But now, standing in the middle of this glittering room, the sight of it gutted her.

  It was plain. Unremarkable.

  Just like her.

  Still, people stared shamelessly as she slowly made her way through the crush. No doubt wondering what an ugly duckling was doing in the company of so many swans.

  Sweat broke out along her scalp and under her arms. She did not belong here.

  What the devil was she thinking, accepting Max’s invitation to his family’s ball? Yes, she and he were neighbors. And yes, they happened to share a bed upon occasion. Shared opinions about books and education and the empowerment of all people, regardless of their sex or social station.

  But that did not mean she belonged in his world.

  She caught sight of him then. Her heart took a tumble at how handsome Max looked in his velvet coat and satin breeches. An easy smile on his lips. Hair combed rakishly forward. Pale eyes glittering. A circle had gathered around him, men and women alike hanging on his every word.

  He was every inch the duke. A man with a bright future, full of power and Parliament and perfectly patrician women.

  Whereas she had her books and her students. Her opinions.

  And not much else.

  Jane felt an ache in her chest. An ache that intensified when Max cut his gaze in her direction, as if he knew she’d been staring. Their eyes met.

  She knew two things in that moment. The first of which was that she was hopelessly, completely in love with him.

  The second was that she’d ache like this forever. Because she could never have Max.

  Men like him were simply not meant for women like her.

  Using my foot, I turn off the water. I wipe my hands on a towel and reach up for my phone by the sink. Hit pause on the audiobook.

  Everything today is making me think of Luke, and it’s getting overwhelming. From the guy with the blue eyes who ordered four cold brews to go this afternoon, to the Kenny Chesney song that played (twice!) on the 90s Country Classics playlist I put on at Holy City Roasters, to this section of My Deal With the Duke.

  Well. Really it was the section before it that made me think of Luke—the one where Max and Jane get frisky on his big ass dining room table. Considering close to thirty people lived in his manor house, they could’ve easily been caught. So while he thrust into her, he’d held his hand over her mouth, smothering her cries of pleasure. Breeches around his ankles. Her leg propped on his shoulder.

  I glance at the tub fauc
et. The throb between my legs doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. That faucet gets me off every time.

  So does Luke.

  I glance at my phone, tugging my bottom lip between my teeth. I still feel…uncertain about everything. My emotions are a mess I can’t quite make sense of.

  Which is okay.

  But is it okay if I reach out to Luke so soon after we hooked up? It’s only been twenty-four hours since I drove out to his place. I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. I don’t want to tangle him up in my indecision.

  Then again, I’d be calling to have sex with him, so…

  If I’m up front about that, would I be in the wrong? He did seem intrigued by the idea of phone sex. Why not give it a go now?

  I make a deal with myself. If he answers, then I’ll broach the subject. If he doesn’t, I’ll straddle the faucet and make shit happen that way. I’ll reach out to Luke later this weekend, when I’ve had time to cool down and think about things some more.

  My heart is popping around inside my chest as I hit his number and bring the phone to my ear. Not daring to breathe as the ringtone blares once, twice—

  “Somebody’s soaked through her pantalettes and is back for more,” Luke says.

  I smile. The balls on this guy.

  Acute need twists low in my belly. Heaviness gathering, begging to be let loose.

  “I would have soaked through them if I were wearing any.”

  A pause.

  “You’re naked,” he says.

  “Yes. I’m in my bathtub. Listening to My Deal With the Duke. And I got hungry.”

  “Romance makes you hungry, huh? Tell me more.”

  “It’s a genre that stimulates the mind as well as the body,” I tease.

  “Deadly combination. Are you really in the bath?”

  “I am.” I lift my leg, making the water splash so he can hear it.

  He groans. “Jesus Christ, Grace.”

  “What?” I ask innocently.

  “Can you at least give me a chance to say hello before you get me all hard and shit?”

  The image flashes through my mind: Luke lying down in his bed. One arm tucked underneath his head. The other reaching inside those fucking jeans and grabbing his dick.