“Anytime.”
I watch him make his way to the house on my right. All the while blinking back a strong sense of where the fuck am I? A half-naked guy with a hot accent just saved me from some fowl in the street. He seemed unmiffed about it. Like this kind of thing happens all the time on Longitude Lane.
Maybe it does. Maybe wild birds and wilder men are common in Charleston.
If so, this is going to be an interesting four weeks.
Chapter Two
Olivia
BILF climbs the steps to his house. It’s small and old but, from what I can see of it, spectacular. Glossy black doors. Gas lamps. Ivy climbing up one wall.
Before he opens the door, he glances in my direction again. His gaze—it’s got this intensity. This unabashed pointedness he’s totally aware of.
Makes me feel like I’ve committed a crime.
My stomach dips.
I look away and hit the gas.
Longitude Lane is less a lane and more like a long alley that’s barely wide enough to fit a car. My tires trundle over uneven brick pavers.
My GPS tell me I’ve reached my destination after I’ve sailed past the house next to BILF’s.
Julia did not mention she had a super-hot neighbor.
Throwing the car in reverse, I check the number on the stuccoed pillar beside a small gated drive.
Yup, this is 7 ½ Longitude Lane.
I type the code Julia sent me. The gate opens and I drive inside, parking my car on the brick driveway.
I look up at the narrow building in front of me. It’s small, two stories, with garage doors on the bottom floor and windows on the second. A curving wrought iron staircase leads to the front door on the second level.
The house is painted white with bright blue shutters. The window boxes on the second floor burst with greenery and white and purple flowers.
It just might be the cutest damn thing I have ever seen.
The inside is even cuter. In true Julia style, it’s decorated to the nines. Lots of expensive antiques mixed with more modern furniture. The gleaming kitchen is small but exquisite, complete with a French range and marble countertops. There’s a bedroom, a huge walk in closet, a tiny bathroom, and a screened in porch off the back.
The heaviness in my chest lifts.
But then it returns with a vengeance when, while I’m unpacking in the bedroom, the ring box falls out of my bag. I sit down on the bed and open it.
The enormous diamond winks at me from its classic platinum setting. My heart palpitates. It’s so beautiful. And so big. Exactly the kind of diamond Ted would pick. Nothing but the best for him.
“Nothing but the best for us,” he likes to say.
I close the box with a sharp clack. I go over to the tall boy dresser and open the top drawer. I set the ring inside. The sight of the box makes my stomach hurt. So I cover it with a handful of my underwear and shut the drawer.
I’ll feel better about everything at the end of the month.
Until then, I’m going to try to forget about the ring. Focus on myself and my writing instead. The more time I spend doing that, the more refreshed I’ll be for my return to New York.
I wake up the next morning and forget where I am.
Instinctively I turn my head to look for Teddy on the other side of the bed. But it’s empty.
Since we’ve been together, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve woken up alone. I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.
So I head to the kitchen to make some coffee. Always a solid first step.
The Nespresso machine I found in a cabinet whirrs to a stop. I lift my mug of foamy coffee from the maker and set it on the counter, adding a splash of the almond milk I picked up last night at the convenience store a few blocks away.
My head throbs. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing. I finally fell asleep around three or four. Even though I stayed in bed until nine—late for me—I feel groggy. Beat up.
Taking a sip of coffee, I grimace. It tastes as bitter as it smells.
I’m overwhelmed by a sudden wave of homesickness. Teddy makes us coffee every morning. A special Columbian blend that he discovered in law school.
In that moment, I miss him. So damn much.
Resisting the urge to pick up my phone and call Ted—we agreed not to contact each other so I could have as much space as possible—I add more almond milk to my coffee and grab a protein bar. I usually stick to light breakfasts. I’ve got a closet full of beautiful clothes back home that I won’t be able to fit in otherwise.
My laptop leers at me from its perch on the counter. Probably should check my email. Make sure Christine is handling my class load okay.
I want to miss work. And I do, but not as much as I feel like I should. I grew up loving Jane Austen, which eventually led to my interest in nineteenth century British literature. I still love Jane. I really love my students. They’re top notch, smart, and ambitious. Being in a classroom with them is a real pleasure.
But as much as I love teaching, the politics of our department have been difficult to deal with. It’s definitely a cutthroat culture, egged on by a “publish or perish” mentality. A lot of the time, it feels like having a gun to my head—especially considering how hard I’ve pushed myself to climb the ranks within the department.
Even so, it’s not like I’ll ever leave. Shrinking budgets means it’s ridiculously difficult to get tenure at universities these days. Tenure—which I got last year—is every academic’s dream. It comes with prestige and security. Benefits. Basically, it opens the door to a very bright future in academia. I’d be out of my mind to give that up.
Doesn’t hurt that Ted’s so proud of all that I’ve accomplished. So are my parents. My friends.
Besides. What else would I do? Write steamy books all day?
Even that can’t be as glamorous or fulfilling as it sounds.
I’m about to find out.
I tuck the computer underneath my arm and head out to the screened in porch off the bedroom. Julia calls it a “sleeping porch”. One of those fancy bed swings, complete with stylish rope supports and a small mountain of Indian block print pillows, hangs on one side of the porch. The other side is occupied by an antique settee and side table.
I notice the bead board ceiling is painted pale blue. The same shade as the sky outside.
The morning is already warm and muggy. I set down my laptop and coffee on the table and reach inside the door for the light switch. Takes me a couple tries, but eventually I find the switch for the ceiling fan. The fan spins to silent life, making the air just bearable. Another degree or two and I’ll be melting.
I sit down and open the laptop. Password, Wi-Fi, close out the approximately two hundred documents I have open. I’m usually pretty organized. But thanks to the packed teaching schedule I’ve had over the past few semesters, I’m still playing catch up.
I check in with Christine via email. Sounds like she’s got everything handled. I tell her to contact me for anything she needs, and then I log out of my email and open the Word document I’ve been working on in secret for a couple months. The first line makes me smile.
(Probably Stupid) Idea for Regency Romance that is a cross between Romeo and Juliet and Game of Thrones. Same amount of hot blondes and boobs, more commentary on family roles and of course more penis.
I scoff, curling my legs underneath me. I wrote this one night a few weeks ago, late, when I was avoiding a departmental email thread about publishing schedules.
When I decided to write my dissertation on Jane Austen, I reread all her books. Then I started reading the mountain of literature inspired by her signature blend of wit, social commentary, and romance. Georgette Heyer led me to Elizabeth Hoyt. Elizabeth Hoyt led me to Sherry Thomas, and Sherry Thomas led me to Tessa Dare. Jo Beverly. Joanna Bourne. Julia Ann Long…
I could go on for days.
Clearly I fell head over heels in love with historical romance. To
this day, I love nothing more than curling up on a couch, or by a pool, or on a plane with the latest juicy release from one of my favorite authors.
A release I always buy on my Kindle so no one can see what I’m reading. Romance novels are totally my guilty pleasure. Sometimes I’ll feel guilty for…well, feeling guilty. But it’s an obsession I can’t really share with many people. Least of all my colleagues at the university. I distinctly remember one of my thesis advisors calling romance novels “trashy bodice-rippers that are bad for your head.”
He didn’t need to say they’d be bad for my career. That was just understood. A fact.
I take a sip of coffee. The caffeine is starting to hit me. My heart beats thickly in my chest. I read my outline again. It’s actually kind of good. I’d want to read this book.
I think about the hero.
He comes to me, suddenly, fully formed and glorious. He’s shirtless. Corded forearms, wild hair, piercing hazel eyes that are more green than brown. He’s got a dark past and a soft spot for babies.
My fingers begin to move over the keyboard. They shake a little with excitement.
Fuck it.
I came here to write this thing, and I’m going to do it if it kills me. How hard could writing a romance novel be anyway? I wrote a three-hundred-page academic treatise on Jane Austen, for God’s sake. Writing a love story will be a cake walk after that.
An hour later, I highlight the entirety of what I’ve managed to write—323 meager words—and pound on the delete key, erasing it all.
It sucks.
I suck.
I was right. The grass totally isn’t greener.
I can’t nail my hero’s voice. He’s coming off as too douchey. I want him to be confident. Commanding. He is heir to a Dukedom, after all. But how do I do that without making him a total prick?
I’m so frustrated that my throat has started to close in. It’s also getting really hot out here. I’m sweating.
I look up at the sound of an approaching car, grateful for the distraction. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a black Jeep Wrangler pull up to Mr. BILF’s house below. A tall, gorgeous dark skinned woman gets out, dressed casually in slouchy jeans and a t-shirt.
She doesn’t even knock on his door. She just climbs the steps, opens the door and moves inside.
“It’s me,” she calls, closing the door behind her.
BILF’s girlfriend?
I don’t know why I feel a stab of disappointment. I came to Charleston to get a break from men. Not to find one.
Besides. Even if I was in a finding mood, I doubt I’d have a chance in hell with that guy. I bet he dates models. Artists. Models who are artists. I’ve always attracted more straight-laced, corporate types anyway.
But my heart still skips a beat when a pair of french doors on the first floor of BILF’s house open. I’m hit by the smell of bacon.
My stomach rumbles. I glance at my half-eaten protein bar.
A beat later, I overhear a string of expletives that almost make me jump.
“You can tell those dickheads to go fuck themselves.” I recognize the rumble of BILF’s voice. His words are angry, but his tone is not. He speaks slowly, evenly, just like he did yesterday in the street. “Who cares about critics anyway? I’m proud of the food we make over there. So it’s simple. That’s the fuckin’ point. I make food the way my mama did, and her mama before her. I am who I am, Naomi, and I’m not gonna change for anyone. Least of all a goddamned stranger.”
Naomi. Of course she’d have a gorgeous name like that.
I hear the murmur of her voice. I can’t tell what she’s saying.
Another smell. Something frying in that bacon fat.
Maybe it’s the budding novelist in me. But I can’t help but feel something juicy is going down at my hot neighbor’s house.
Juicy and delicious. I’m starving. My usual protein bar isn’t cutting it today. Maybe BILF has some bacon to spare?
It’s the potential for writerly inspiration—and breakfast meat—that makes me close my laptop and stand up.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I head next door.
Chapter Three
Eli
I give the onions in my ancient cast iron pan one last flip. They sizzle and pop over the high heat, browned with bits of the bacon I’d fried up earlier.
Gracious, that smells good.
I was raised in the temple of simple southern cooking. My faith in a nutshell: all good things start with bacon fat, butter, or bourbon. Bonus points for all three. Means I have to spend extra time at the yoga studio. Also means I get slaughtered by critics on occasion.
Both worth it. Although I’ve never had critics actually bring a restaurant to the brink of bankruptcy before.
I shove the thought from my head. Too depressing.
I dump sweet corn, fresh from the cob and gorgeously juicy, into the pan, along with a handful of lima beans from my garden out back. Wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, I toss it over my shoulder.
“Expecting company?” Naomi asks from her usual perch on a stool at the island. “You’re making enough succotash to feed a small army.”
I nudge the pan forward, then quickly dip it back. The onions and corn and beans rise together in a tidy wave, then fall back into the cast iron with a satisfying sizzle. I add a generous pinch of Kosher salt. Give it another flip.
I don’t usually cook like this for myself. But I’ve had a lot on my mind, and cooking helps to clear out all the bullshit. Helps clear out the heavy sense of anxiety that’s weighed me down lately.
“Nah,” I reply. “Just you.”
“As tempting as that lovely invitation is,” she says sarcastically “Sergio and I have a date. We’re grabbing lunch over on Shem Creek.”
It’s Monday. My restaurants are closed. Means my staff members, like Naomi and Sergio, get the day off.
“But I thought we were in crisis mode,” I say, not looking up from the pan. “You know, critics-eating-up-my-new-restaurant-we’re-all-doomed-save-our-souls shit. Do y’all really have time for a date when the world is fuckin’ ending?”
Naomi calmly plucks an ice cube from her tea—toothache sweet, just how we both like it—and hurls it at me. I hold up my arm a second too late. The cube hits me square in the temple.
I wince. Naomi, being Naomi, cackles. She’s worked in my kitchen at The Pearl for close to five years now, pretty much since I opened the place. We cooked side by side until I promoted her to head chef of my new restaurant, The Jam, which I opened earlier this year. Even though she runs her own kitchen now, we still squabble like kids.
“Girl’s gotta get laid, even if the world is ending.”
“I already told you,” I say, gently kicking the ice cube across the floor to Billy, my ten-year-old lab-and-God-knows-what-mix. Billy sniffs at it, not impressed. He sighs. I feel you, buddy. “Ignore what the critics are saying, and just keep doin’ what you’re doin’. There’s a reason I made you head chef. You know what’s important, and you stick to it. As long as we’re making food we love, and as long as customers love that food and leave happy—hell, Naomi, you know those are the only things that matter.”
I glance at the glossy cover of the food magazine resting beside Naomi’s elbow. They printed yet another scathing review of The Jam. One line was particularly brutal: “Perhaps Elijah Jackson is only capable of making one restaurant work. Adding a second to the roster is not always a smart gamble for a chef like him.”
Chef like him. Meaning running two restaurants is clearly too ambitious for a simple country boy with unpretentious tastes like me.
Seriously, fuck that reviewer for life.
I’ve never compromised the faith I have in my cooking. Not once. Awful reviews notwithstanding, I don’t plan on starting now.
Then again, I’ve never planned on closing a restaurant, either. Especially not after the phenomenal success of The Pearl. Something about The Jam just hasn’t clicked with people. I don’t get it. Y
es, today’s market is much different from when I opened The Pearl. But people have always loved my food. It’s honest. It’s made with heart.
I feel anxiety, tinged with panic, edging closer again. I don’t want to let it get too close. I’m worried it’ll swallow me whole if it does. And then what? The Jam isn’t bankrupt yet. We still have a chance to bring it back from the brink. Which means I can’t afford a breakdown right now. I need to set an example. Stay positive and upbeat so my cooks and my dishwashers and my wait staff do, too. The idea that all those people are at risk of losing their jobs because of me—
Don’t go there.
I quickly turn back to the stove. Grits are bubbling in a pot beside the succotash. Grabbing the towel off my shoulder, I lift the lid with it and stir in a little more half and half and a lot more butter to get the grits nice and creamy. Just how Mama makes them.
The heavy thoughts retreat.
“I know.” Naomi puts her hands around her sweating glass. “But I want to make sure we’re on the same page here, E. People aren’t coming to The Jam anymore. Maybe our food is too simple. Especially when you consider all the really cool, different things chefs are doing down here.”
Naomi makes a good point. I admire Charleston’s chefs for their creativity. There’s John Melrose, whose hipster-y restaurant serves Asian comfort food classics with a south-by-central-America twist. Abigail Edmonds is serving up a fresh, New England spin on southern seafood at her place. And at his restaurant, Hank Havens is digging up recipes from a hundred years ago and adapting them for a modern, elegant menu.
“They’re definitely pushing the envelope,” I say. “But so are we in keeping things simple. That in and of itself is radical.”
Naomi nods. “I believe that. Honestly. I don’t have to answer to the money, though. That’s your job.”
One of my least favorite parts about being executive chef. It’s also a painful reminder of the nice chunk of change I personally invested in The Jam. If it goes under, I’ll never see a penny of that money returned. Earlier this morning I was looking at my account balances, trying not to freak out over the idea that they wouldn’t be replenished like I planned they would. They’re much lower than they were this time last year.
Southern Charmer Page 2
