Southern Charmer

by Jessica Peterson

  “The Jam is closing,” he says. “It’s official.”

  Something in my chest catches. He sounded so…nonchalant, almost, when he’d talked about the possibility of losing his restaurant that first morning we met.

  But now? Now he sounds defeated.

  Not at all like the Eli I know. Poor guy.

  I pull him closer.

  “I’m so sorry. That really, really blows.”

  He swallows. “Yeah. It does.”

  Squeezing me one last time, he pulls back. He’s still standing too close.

  Or maybe not close enough.

  “What can I do?” I ask, looking up at him.

  “I’m leaving town for a few days. Need time to clear my head. I got a cabin out by the water.” He searches my eyes. “Come with me.”

  My pulse leaps. I blink, ridiculously flattered—and ridiculously happy—that he’d ask me.

  “I was just about to go knock on your door. I know it’s last minute,” he continues. “But I need a break, and you need a place to write. Cabin’s perfect. It’s quiet. Pretty. Just put a case of wine in my truck. And goes without saying I’ll make you all the food your muse needs to keep writin’.”

  Goes without saying we’ll fuck.

  I mean, how could we not? It’ll be just the two of us. In a cabin. With a freaking case of wine.

  That alone makes me want to say yes.

  But more than that, it’s the hurt in his eyes that really pushes me toward going. He’s distraught, even though he’s pretending not to be. I don’t know much about the restaurant industry, but I know closing a restaurant is a big deal. Especially after the success of The Pearl. Here Eli was, thinking he was on top of the world.

  And then he’s brought down into the mud.

  I feel terrible for him. The man’s been nothing but wonderful to me since we met. I want to return the favor. I want to help him out of this hole the way he’s helping me out of mine.

  “I’d love to,” I say.

  His turn to blink. He runs a hand up the back of his head and grins, letting out a breath. “I was hoping you’d say that. How much time do you need?”

  “I’ll just throw some stuff in a bag. I can be back down here in ten minutes. Is there anything you need me to bring?”

  Eli shakes his head, his eyes going soft again when they trail down my body, then back up.

  “Just you, Olivia.”

  I am not prepared for how hot Eli looks when he’s driving.

  One enormous hand on the wheel. The other hanging out the window, holding his cigar between his first and second fingers. He’s wearing a pair of gold-rimmed aviators that make him look like an especially attractive off-duty cop.

  He guides the truck along a series of country roads with well-practiced ease. He’s master of this little universe.

  And I’m wet. So wet I can feel it soaking my underwear.

  The windows are down, but that does nothing to cool the heat that stretches between us. The air is thick with it.

  My hair is everywhere. “I’m On Fire” is playing, because Eli is thoughtful like that and put on Springsteen even before we backed out of his driveway. Outside the windows, a fiery sunset paints the marshy low country landscape in shades of orange and purple and blue. Billy pants in the backseat behind us.

  The smell of the ocean fills my head.

  Ocean and Eli.

  I venture a glance in his direction. Take in the square lines of his scruffy jaw. The sensual curve of his lips. His eyes are thoughtful behind his glasses, crow’s feet deepening when we round a bend and sunlight slices through the windshield.

  He’s not usually this quiet. This contemplative. I can feel the hurt—the confusion—radiating off him.

  “Y’know it’s not polite to stare,” he says, eyes darting to mine before returning to the road. One end of his mouth curls into a smirk.

  I swallow. “Yeah, well. It’s not polite to be so damn good looking.”

  “I could say the same to you.” Through the lenses of his glasses, I can see his eyes flick over my bare legs.

  A charge of electricity moves through my skin.

  “Now who’s staring?” I say, holding my hair back when it whips into my face.

  He puts out the cigar in a tin container on the console between us. Then he shuts the container with a small, neat clap. “Me.”

  “You’re not supposed to drive distracted.”

  His smirk deepens. “Can’t help it. You’re awful distracting.”

  “Try me,” I say, wiggling my dress up a little more.

  The truck swerves. Eli rights it with a grunt.

  “Do you want me to drive us into a tree?”

  “If it takes your mind off things, then yeah. Maybe I do.”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” he says, reaching over to playfully pat me on the leg.

  My breath catches. Eli pulls back. Clears his throat.

  “Sorry.” He scratches his beard underneath his chin.

  My heart is pounding. I fucking loved the feel of his hand on me.

  He’s being a gentleman. But I want the animal.

  I reach over and grab his hand. Put it on my thigh.

  “Don’t be,” I reply quietly.

  He leans into me a little, turning his head to meet my eyes.

  One hand on the wheel. One hand on me.

  “I want to reiterate that I’m not expecting anything,” he says, his voice different. Gruffer. “I meant it when I said I’m takin’ you out here to write. Don’t feel like you have to…do anything other than that. With me, I mean. Last night was great. Really, really great. But I’m happy to take things slow.”

  I bite my lip. Then I take his hand and slide it a little bit higher on my leg. My sex pulses at his nearness. His pinkie is a mere three inches, probably less, from where I want him most.

  “I want you to know that I’d very much like doing things other than that,” I reply. “But only if you want to.”

  Eli gives my leg a soft squeeze. “You kiddin’? I want to. The other night—hell, Olivia, I haven’t had that much fun in a long time. I admit that today I’ve thought a lot about picking up right where we left off.”

  I blink. I’m still not over the fact that this man wants me.

  I’m not over the fact that I’m being so bold in expressing my want for him. There is a freedom in being upfront about what I want. In cutting through the bullshit and just doing what I want.

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  He glances at me before focusing his gaze on the road. “Me too.”

  His pinkie brushes against the crotch of my underwear.

  I smile. Even as I feel a tug of apprehension in my chest. This is all too wonderful. Too exciting. I’m worried I’m going to burn my whole life down for this guy.

  I know I’m not going back to Ted. But what am I going to do about my job? My living situation?

  I’m worried.

  But not worried enough to have Eli turn around. Deep down, this feels right.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Eli

  I can’t help smiling when Olivia steps into the cabin and goes still.

  “Wow,” she breathes, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. “Eli, this is incredible.”

  Dropping her bags by the door, she walks over to the back windows. Puts her hands on the small of her back as she takes in the view.

  Mother Nature must know I’m trying to impress a girl, because good Lord is she putting on a show tonight. The marsh expands to the horizon, alternating zig zags of dark water and tall grass. We’ve caught the sun just before it sinks into the water for good. The sky is enormous, wide open and fiery. The light catches on the water, making it burn gold and silver.

  It catches on the gauzy material of Olivia’s dress, too, allowing me to see the outline of her shapely legs and hips. I recall, in startling, visceral detail, what those legs felt like wrapped around me the other night.

  The half chub I’ve been sporting fo
r the entire two hour drive goes full salute.

  I can’t fucking wait to get this girl in bed. Get her hot and soft and ready so I can take care of her the way I want to.

  If that doesn’t clear my head—if that doesn’t make me forget the disappointment that sits like a goddamn elephant on my chest—nothing will.

  “I think so too,” I say, coming to stand behind her. I want to kiss her neck, her bare shoulder. But I won’t be able to stop there. And I want to properly seduce Olivia before I take her clothes off. Wine, dinner, dessert. Then sex. “I bought this property back when I got my first real payday. Been dreamin’ about waking up to that view all my life. I’ve renovated the cabin over the years by bits and pieces.”

  Olivia’s gaze moves over the cabin’s interior. It’s small—one bedroom, one bath, a kitchen, living room, lots of bookshelves, and then the deck out back—but exactly how I want it.

  She smiles at me over her shoulder. “It’s you. I love it.”

  I fall into her pretty blue eyes for a beat too long.

  “Get comfortable,” I say, blinking. “I’ll pour some wine and get dinner started.”

  “Actually.” Olivia crosses to the kitchen, where I set the cooler on the counter. She opens it and peers inside. “I was hoping I could make you a meal for once.”

  I smile, pleasure curling around my heart. She wants to take care of me.

  It’s sweet.

  “I’m the cook,” I say. “I don’t mind doing it.”

  She lets the top of the cooler fall and looks at me. “I know. But you’re always doing the work while I’m relaxing. Let me do it for a change. You’ve had a shit day. So put your feet up and relax. I’ll take care of everything.”

  I laugh. “You know I’m not one to put my feet up. But if you wanna cook, then by all means—kitchen’s yours. Can I be your sous chef?”

  “What’s that?” she says with a grin.

  I shrug. “Your helper. How about I chop, and you cook?”

  “Deal. Now please tell me you have a pantry.”

  “Of course I do,” I say. I open the narrow door across from the refrigerator, revealing a pantry that’s well stocked even by my standards.

  Olivia comes over and grabs a box of spaghetti noodles and some cans of crushed tomatoes. “Perfect. I’ll make a quick version of my mom’s Sunday sauce.”

  Standing underneath my outstretched arm, she looks up at me. I’m overwhelmed by the desire to kiss her.

  “All right, chef. Just tell me what to do,” I say.

  I open the windows. Open a bottle of good Barolo. Put on some Pearl Jam.

  And then we get to work.

  I dice garlic and onions while Olivia browns the meat in a big stockpot on the stove. Like the rest of the cabin, the kitchen is tiny, and we bump into each other with welcome regularity.

  With Olivia in my kitchen and the smell of dinner in the air and Eddie Vedder singing in the background, the elephant rolls off my chest. I zone out as I chop, rocking my knife. Soothing motions I could perform in my sleep. Charleston and all my problems there slowly fade, until they start to feel like nothing more than a bad dream. Something my subconscious made up.

  Olivia takes care of pretty much the whole meal. She does ask for help, once, when the sauce comes out under seasoned. I’m way too fucking flattered by her trust in me to fix it, and it feels good to help her out in this small way. In that moment, I felt the opposite of the way I’ve been feeling for the past six months. I felt like I knew what I was doing. I felt like I was needed.

  I felt at home in my skin, and in the kitchen, too.

  A nice little reminder that I don’t always suck.

  We eat outside at the picnic table on my deck. Olivia talks to me about places she’s visited and loved in Charleston. I give her all the gossip on restaurants and bars. Deadbeat owners. Who’s fucking. Who’s cheating. Who makes the best shrimp and grits in town.

  I get the feeling she’s intentionally keeping the conversation light. Which I appreciate, more than she knows. The last thing I feel like talking about is my own restaurant.

  My own fuck ups.

  I also just like talking to her. She could be talking about the mating habits of the crickets that surround us, and I think I’d still be enthralled. The words she uses, the stories she tells. She’s got this way of commanding the conversation—this confidence that actually reminds me of my teachers at culinary school.

  Makes me wonder who—what—she was in her previous life. Before she became a writer.

  I am a patient man. But the more time I spend with Olivia, the hungrier I become for her story. I want to know everything there is to know about her. I want to know what she’s running from.

  I want to know if she makes love as passionately as she writes.

  The stars are pulsing against a pitch black sky by the time we bring our empty plates and wine glasses inside. Olivia puts hers in the sink, already piled high with dirty dishes. She turns on the water and starts scrubbing.

  I sidle up behind her. Put my arms on the lip of the sink on either side of her waist, caging her.

  Leaning my front into her back, I press a kiss to the nape of her neck. Her hands go still. A rush of blood stiffens my cock. I been waiting all damn night to do this.

  “Leave it,” I murmur against her skin, nipping at it with my teeth. “I wanna take you to bed.”

  She draws a shaky breath. After a beat, she turns off the faucet. Then she lets me work my way down the slope of her neck to her shoulder. Her skin is covered in goosebumps. I lean into her a little more, canting my hips so my hard on glides between her ass cheeks.

  Her hand finds mine on the sink and squeezes.

  It’s quiet in the kitchen. The only sounds coming through the open window. Crickets. The distant rush of the ocean.

  “I’m so—” Her eyes flutter shut when I nip at her earlobe. Her breath catches. “Jesus, Elijah, I am so turned on it hurts.”

  A grin tugs at my lips. She’s already falling apart.

  She is already coming apart in my hands, and I’ve barely even touched her.

  She’s gonna fucking lose her mind when I make her come. Because that is something I can give her. I may not have the biggest bank account. I may have failed.

  But I know what I’m doing when it comes to this.

  I pull her hand off the sink and hold it in mine, turning her around so she’s facing me.

  “Then come to bed. I’ll take good care of you, baby.” I search her eyes. The trust and the desire I see in them flattens me.

  I really do have it bad for this girl.

  Real bad.

  The sinews of her throat move sensuously as she swallows.

  “I know you will,” she whispers. Then she pushes off the sink and, turning around again so she’s still facing me, pulls me slowly into the bedroom.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Eli

  My heart is pounding when I kick the bedroom door closed behind us. Billy’s got a bad habit of showing up just when I don’t want him to.

  I want to have Olivia all to myself tonight.

  A breeze blows in through the windows. The air is crisp. A little cool.

  Her eyes never leaving mine, Olivia drops my hand. Steps out of her flip flops. Tugs at the tie near her hip that holds her dress together.

  My mouth goes dry when it opens, revealing a slice of her milky white belly. Makes the candy apple red bra she’s wearing really pop.

  She’s got on different panties today. A nude thong.

  Olivia rolls back her shoulders. The dress slides down her body, pooling in a pretty gauze heap at her feet.

  I can’t move. I stand in front of her like a slack jawed idiot, devouring her body with my gaze. She’s shaking, small tremors in her leg muscles and arms. But she keeps her eyes locked on mine. Blue eyes lit up with fire.

  Trust.

  She’s not touching me. But I feel like she’s reaching inside me anyway, carefully rearranging all th
e soft parts in my chest cavity. I feel the ghosts of her fingers brushing against my lungs. Her thumb giving my heart a tender swipe.

  “It’s not polite to stare,” she teases, a little breathless.

  I take a step forward. Put a hand on her hip, dipping the long edge of my index finger into the lacy strap of her thong.

  “I just—” I swallow. “I need a minute.”

  I rake my gaze up the length of her body. Her slender, girlish legs. The curve of her hips, accentuated by the naughty cut of her panties. I can see the dark shadow of her pubic hair through it.

  Strong lines of her belly.

  Her breasts.

  I can’t help taking one of them in my hand. Cupping its soft weight, I look up to see Olivia’s mouth fall open when I pluck at her nipple with my thumb and forefinger. It pebbles to a hard point.

  So responsive to me.

  I press the flat of my palm against it. Olivia’s hands find my shoulders. Her fingers dig into my skin. Like she’s holding on for dear life.

  Running my finger underneath her thong, I say, “You gonna let me?”

  Earlier today in my truck, she already told me she wanted to pick up where we left off last night. But I’m not asking her to let me fuck her.

  I’m asking her to let me in.

  I’m asking her to share everything with me. Her secrets. Her sighs.

  Her story.

  I want her to let me see it all.

  Her eyes go hazy when I tug the strap down. Her panties catch between her thighs. Another soft tug. They fall with a whisper to her feet. I lean down, hovering my mouth over hers.

  “Let me.”

  My fingers are between her legs now. Her eyes search mine. Lips open and pink and a little wet.

  I duck my head. Capture those lips in a quick whisper of a kiss.

  “Let me,” I say, slipping my first two fingers inside her sweet little cunt.

  I groan. She’s wet. And hot. And so damn swollen-soft I could die.

  A surge of need in my groin, sudden and enormous, makes me dizzy.

  I glide my fingers through her slit, front to back. I dip the tip of my middle finger inside her. Hot and soft here, too. Tight.