Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  Julia stands, too. Leads me to the door, wrapping her arms around her chest. She winces.

  “You okay?” I ask, stopping with my hand on the knob.

  “I’m fine. My boobs are just really sore. And my nipples are, like, these spirals of icy death when I get cold.”

  “Oh. Wow. That sounds…intense.” It hits me that I haven’t asked how she’s feeling. Fuck me, I’m a douchecanoe. “How are you feeling? Aside from the White Walker nipples.”

  Julia’s grin is back, and it is doing things to me.

  “You watch Game of Thrones?”

  “Yes. How are you feeling?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “All right. Just this low-grade garbage-y feeling that is a not-so-nice reminder that something is off. No real nausea, although that isn’t supposed to peak until week eight or nine. We think I’m only six weeks along, so we’ll see. Otherwise, I feel a little bloated. And tired. Really, really tired.”

  “Anything I can do? Anything you need?”

  Another tight smile. “At this point, I think it’s just about muscling through.”

  “If you need anything—”

  “I told you. I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can. But if you want help, I’m here.”

  The look in her eyes softens. “All right.”

  “Okay.”

  I’m not okay. I’m fucked.

  But as one beat passes, then another, our eyes locked, the silence between us swelling with feeling, I forget why I’m setting myself up to fail.

  Julia blinks, breaking the spell. I clear my throat and turn the knob. Can’t do a hug or even a handshake. I don’t trust myself right now.

  “Don’t forget to let me know when the appointment is,” I say, opening the door.

  She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’ll text you.”

  “Goodnight, Julia.”

  “’Night.”

  Closing the door behind me, I let out a breath. My cigarettes are burning a hole in my back pocket. I’ll go to Ford’s. While I don’t exactly feel like talking, I definitely don’t feel like being alone.

  I need some company. Advice. An exorcism if this half chub doesn’t go away already.

  Because I’m a masochist, I glance over my shoulder one last time. My eyes catch on the narrow window beside the door. Julia is still standing in the foyer. Her throat works as she swallows, pulling her hat off her head.

  Her blonde waves are wilder than ever.

  My heart clenches. She’s struggling.

  I’m whipping around and reaching for the doorknob before I even know what I’m doing. But then Julia is straightening her shoulders, her chest rising on a deep inhale.

  I still want to go to her.

  Don’t.

  I lean my forehead against the door. Mimicking her deep breath as I try to still the herd of galloping horses inside my chest.

  An hour ago, I lived my life in black and white. I had a solid grasp of right and wrong. I had control over my world. The people in it.

  Now, though, I can’t tell up from down.

  Balling my hands into fists, I force myself to turn around and leave.

  Chapter Seven

  Greyson

  I let myself into my brother’s house, leaning down to pick up a doll—the scary looking one that pees after she “drinks” her bottle, Bryce’s unfortunate favorite—left by the front door. Ford is in the kitchen in sweats and a t-shirt, banging away on a laptop.

  “I told you I’d work through the Moore Foods model,” I say, tossing the doll into the overflowing toy bin beside the table. “Put it away. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  Ford glances up at me and grins. “Three year olds go to bed at seven. I try to make it to eleven. Besides, I’m better at models than you are.”

  “Baby go down okay?”

  “She’s still got that little head cold, so she was cranky. But once she was out, she was dead to the world.”

  “The antibiotics are working, then.”

  Ford leans back, crossing his arms. “You know you’re going to destroy any shot Bryce has at a healthy, independent adulthood with your helicopter uncle-ing, right?”

  “Look, I may not be around all that much, but it’s my way of showing I give a fuck—keeping up with how y’all are doing.”

  Ford’s wife Rebecca died from cancer not long after Bryce was born. I immediately stepped up in a way that I could—we agreed that I’d take the helm at Montgomery Partners while Ford worked part-time. I wanted him to be able to grieve and take care of his then-infant daughter without worrying about deadlines or project management or fundraising.

  It’s an arrangement that we’ve kept to this day. Ford’s been bugging me a bit for more responsibility. But I’m not sure he’s ready yet, and I’m happy to cover for him in the meantime. Even if it does mean working eighty or ninety hour weeks.

  Work is what I do. It’s what I’m good at.

  It’s how I can give back to the family that’s given so much to me.

  Working this much means I don’t see Bryce as often as I’d like to. But I try to have dinner with her and Ford at least once a week, and I see them at Sunday supper at my parents’.

  I’m crazy about that little girl. She’s opinionated, stubborn, and a master of looks that kill. Just like me.

  I couldn’t be prouder.

  “As long as I’m still her favorite, I don’t care.” I hold up my Marlboros and nod at the back patio. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Everything okay?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

  “Not by a long shot.”

  He gets to his feet with a groan. “I’ll get the whiskey.”

  I’m already on my second cigarette when Ford steps out onto the patio, careful to close the door softly behind him. He’s got two tumblers of brown liquor in the fingers of one hand and a baby monitor in the other.

  He sets a tumbler on the railing by my elbow, glancing at my cigarette.

  “You’re going to quit, right?” He takes a sip from his glass. “The cigarettes. Punishing yourself.”

  I grunt in reply.

  “We were happy to let you have your vices at first, but it’s been three years, Grey. Don’t you think it’s time to give up the ghost?”

  I draw hungrily on my cigarette and let out a steady stream of smoke. “Nope.”

  Sighing, Ford leans his elbows on the railing. The city is quiet around us. The autumn bite in the air feels good on my skin.

  “Did you see Cameron today?” he asks softly.

  My gut contracts. Always does at the mention of my ex-wife’s name.

  I reach for my whiskey and take a healthy pull. Fire spreads down my throat and through my chest, loosening the tightness there.

  “I didn’t. But I did find out I got Julia Lassiter pregnant.”

  Ford drops his whiskey on the railing with a thump. His stare burns a hole in the side of my head. I take another drag, feeling dizzy. Did I eat tonight? I try to remember, but everything before I’m pregnant is a blur.

  “The designer on the Rodgers’ Farms project?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Our employee.”

  “Technically she’s Luke Rodgers’ employee. But yeah. Same one.”

  “The woman you’re constantly complaining about?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one you’re always growling at.”

  “I growl at a lot of people.”

  “Not as much as you growl at her.” A stunned pause. “Wow. Wow, it actually makes a sick kind of sense. She’s the only person, man or woman, I’ve ever seen go toe to toe with you so often, and so…passionately. Y’all were fucking the whole time, weren’t you? There’s that saying—the one Mom always uses—that love and hate are two sides of the same coin.” He scoffs. “Jesus, how did I not see it sooner?”

  Another pull of bourbon. “Baby’s due in June. She’s keeping it.”

  My throat suddenly feels tight.

&n
bsp; I still can’t believe I’m going to be a daddy.

  Me. The control freak. The broody asshole.

  The marked man.

  Ford puts a hand on my arm. He’s too smart to say shit like it’s going to be okay, because he knows better.

  Still. The small gesture makes me feel slightly less like dying.

  I’m the big brother. I look out for Ford, not the other way around. It’s really nice, though, having him here.

  “You know I’m going to be a helicopter uncle now too. Just to bust your balls.”

  I scoff. Tamp out my cigarette in the heavy glass ashtray I brought over the day I left Cameron. Ford gives my arm a squeeze before dropping his hand.

  “So are you and Julia, like, together, or…I mean, how are y’all going to work this out?”

  I lean my forearms against the railing and dig my thumbs into my eye sockets.

  “I don’t know,” I say quietly. “Ford, I don’t know what to do.”

  Ford lets out a breath. “Been a spell since I heard those words from you, Grey.”

  “No shit. This is new territory for me. Care to offer any fatherly wisdom?”

  “Well, for starters, what are you afraid of? Aside from the obvious holy-shit-I’m-going-to-be-responsible-for-a-human-being thing. Which, don’t get me wrong, is a big deal. But I know it’s not responsibility that makes Greyson Montgomery piss his pants.”

  I sigh, feeling a familiar pinch in my neck and shoulders. For so long I’ve been scary good at pushing aside the guilt and the hurt leftover from my divorce so I can take care of Ford. Bryce. Our business.

  Pure, gun-to-my-head survival mode.

  It’s served me well. But now—

  Now I’m not so sure what my next move should be.

  “I’m scared of failing again,” I say. “Of fucking up. Royally. The way I did with Cameron.”

  Fucking up any relationship I might have with Julia. Fucking up this fatherhood thing.

  “Grey. You fell out of love with someone. It happens.”

  “I didn’t just fall out of love. I destroyed someone’s life. Cameron was ready to have kids, for Christ’s sake. We had everything.”

  “And you were miserable. You knew you didn’t love her enough, you knew she deserved someone who was crazy about her. So you did what you thought was right. And it was the right call—leaving. Even if it didn’t feel like it at the time. She was a nice girl. But she wasn’t good for you.”

  I press my thumbs more firmly against my closed eyes, making bursts of color break out against the backs of my eyelids.

  “I’m a quitter, Ford. A liar. I made a promise, and I broke it. People like that don’t get another shot.”

  I hear the ice in his whiskey clink against the glass. “So you think what? Karma is going to swoop in and cut you down if you allow yourself a little happiness? If you give yourself another shot at love?”

  “I never said anything about love,” I growl. “I’m in lust with Julia. That’s it. And yeah. Yeah, what if that’s true? What if I get my heart ripped out because I ripped out Cameron’s? Or worse, what if the weight of my fuck up lands on the person I want? What if she gets hurt, or the baby does? I swear, Ford, I’m going to wreck myself or wreck her or wreck all three of us. I am the fucking drunk driver of relationships.”

  Ford lets out a bark of laughter. “Strong metaphor there, Shakespeare. Your mind works in very weird ways.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Ever consider that you’ve already had your heart ripped out? Slowly, over the course of your marriage? You fell out of love with Cameron. Which hurts. But she’s not blameless. Same as you’re not some trigger happy Tybalt, bound to destroy everything you touch.”

  “Tybalt? What? Who are you?”

  “The guy who paid attention in English class, dickface,” Ford replies crisply. “Arguably, Romeo and Juliet has no one true bad guy. But if there was, Tybalt would be a strong contender. The point I’m trying to make is maybe you’ve paid your dues. Maybe you’ve suffered enough. Hell, you signed the papers years ago, Grey. You’ve been punishing yourself for longer than that. That’s a lot of heaviness to carry around. Ever think it’s not fate that’s holding you hostage, but you? What if you’re the one holding the proverbial gun to your head? Not karma. Not destiny. You. You’ve punished yourself enough. Put the gun down, Grey.”

  Tugging my thumbs over my eyelids, I straighten, blinking away the blur.

  Don’t I wish I could put the gun down. Even if I could—even if I could forgive myself and let my past go and let people in—would Julia let me in? Do I even want her to?

  We’re so different.

  And it’s been so long since I’ve had any kind of real relationship, platonic or otherwise, with a woman outside of work. Would we be better co-parents as acquaintances rather than friends or fuck buddies? What if friends turns into something more? Our chemistry is hit-of-heroin level insane. Bad for you—so fucking bad—but so fucking good.

  It’s just the more that gets me.

  I don’t want to risk more for all the reasons I just told Ford.

  But what would I be missing out on if I didn’t take that risk? What would I deprive my kid and her mother of by holding back? Would Julia consider more with me? She said point blank she’s a romantic at heart.

  This is not a romantic start to a relationship, that’s for damn sure.

  I finish my whiskey in a single gulp.

  “Think about it, all right? Forgiving yourself,” Ford says, shooting me a meaningful glance.

  I grunt in reply. “The baby news stays between us for now.”

  “Of course. But you know Mom is going to shit a brick when she finds out. She’s going to be so excited. And so…surprised.”

  Scoffing, I look out over Ford’s backyard, strewn with Little Tikes everything. I don’t have a yard at all. Where’s my kid going to play?

  I make a mental note to call my realtor, Vanessa. Ask her to put out some feelers for a new place with enough space for a swing set and maybe a soccer net.

  I can’t provide my kid with married parents. But I am able to provide in other ways. I’ve got money. Lots of it. Julia asked me to be invested in this baby’s upbringing. What better way to do that than raising him or her in a real home with a real backyard and space to grow?

  “Because I haven’t given Mom and Dad enough surprises,” I say.

  “Shut up.” Ford nudges me. “This is a good surprise. Mom’s going to want to meet her, you know. Julia. Like, yesterday.”

  “I know.” I grab my cigarettes and slide them into my back pocket. I’m going to regret that last one tomorrow morning at the gym.

  “I imagine this was a shock for Julia, too. You should send her something.”

  I raise a brow.

  “Flowers. Fruit. Something to let her know you’re thinking of her. Rebecca had a really shitty time of it during her first trimester. It’s hard for you, but it’s harder for Julia. Don’t forget that.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding. “Okay. Good call. Thanks for listening. And for the bourbon.”

  “No problem.” Ford glances at the baby monitor. “Bryce’s gonna be bummed to know Uncle Grey was here and she didn’t get to play with you.”

  “Tell her I’ll be by on Friday. Y’all still down for dinner?”

  “You don’t have to bring dinner.”

  “I’ll try to make it by six, although I won’t be able to stay long because I’ve got an eight o’clock meeting.”

  “Who schedules an eight o’clock meeting on a Friday night?”

  “I do. Only slot I had left for the weekend. Someone’s got to pay the bills.”

  Ford sighs. “You know, I can—”

  “I got it. Y’all just text me what y’all want to eat.”

  “Thank you. And Grey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re going to be a great dad.”

  The breath catches in my throat. I swallow.

  “Thanks,”
I say.

  Even though I don’t believe it. Not for one fucking second.

  Chapter Eight

  Julia

  Julia: You sent me a lemon tree.

  Greyson: I did

  Greyson: Do you not like it? I thought you could use the lemons. Put them in your topo chico because you can’t drink and that sucks

  Julia: It does suck. But the lemons make it suck a little less. Thank you.

  Greyson: how are you feeling?

  Julia: All right. No white walker nipples to report lately, so that’s a plus.

  Greyson: The night watch salutes you.

  Greyson: doctor’s appt Tuesday after next, right?

  Greyson: have it on my schedule 2 PM

  Julia: Yes. I’ll send you the address.

  Greyson: thanks for letting me tag along

  Julia: Thank you for the tree. Very un-dickish of you. Almost sweet. I’m not quite sure what to think of it, to be honest.

  Greyson: that makes two of us

  Julia: BTW. Your texts are SO unlike you in person. You’re such a perfectionist. So intentional about everything. But you fire off texts without a filter. Or a quick spell check.

  Greyson: no time for spell check in texts

  Greyson: I just send them as I go. more efficient that way as I get hundreds of them a day on top of calls

  Greyson: you’re also kind of different in texts. You fly by the seat of your pants in life. But your texts are v polished

  Julia: It’s the lit professor in me. Can’t help it. Proper punctuation is kind of a kink of mine.

  Greyson: interesting kink

  Julia: Not as interesting as yours.

  * * *

  File this under things no one tells you about being pregnant: it’s hard.

  At least that’s been my (admittedly limited) experience so far.

  Even though it was a surprise, I’m grateful that I was able to get pregnant. I know not everyone is that lucky. But man, I am not enjoying the experience. At all. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s downright awful.

  So much more awful than I thought it’d be. I’m only seven-ish weeks in, but I can already tell this motherhood thing is not for the faint of heart.