Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  Greyson taps his glass against mine. “Cheers, Julia. I’m really glad everything went well today.”

  “Me too. Thanks again for having me. And for knocking me up, I guess. Who would’ve thought we’d make such an A-plus fetus?”

  He laughs. “Not me, that’s for damn sure.”

  His eyes stay on mine as we sip the wine.

  “Wow,” I say, smacking my lips. “That’s good.”

  “Better than an Old Fashioned?”

  I grin. “Yeah. You were right. I’m not typically a red person, but this is delicious.”

  “Are you just saying that because it’s the first alcohol you’ve had in two months?”

  My turn to laugh. God I like it when he gets flirty.

  “Probably. Either way, it’s still delicious.”

  “Because you can only have a little bit of it, I wanted to pour the best. I’m picky when it comes to blends, but this Pinot Noir one is exceptional. Made by a small winemaker in Napa Valley.”

  The lump in my throat returns. Wrong that I’m insanely touched he opened a really good bottle of wine just for me? Even though I can only have half an ounce of the stuff?

  “Of course you’re a wine snob,” I tease. Because if I don’t make a stab at some humor I’m worried I’ll start to tear up.

  “It’s the Satanist in me. Even Lucifer appreciates good grapes. Here.” He pulls out a stool at the island. “Sit. Dinner is almost ready. Can I get you some water? Topo Chico? I grabbed some the other day. You got me addicted to the stuff.”

  I sit, the soft parts of my chest swelling.

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  He sets a bottle in front of me, then gets to work at the range. Greyson is usually so tightly wound. But here, in his kitchen, he’s…relaxed, almost. Doesn’t hurry, moving from the fridge to a drawer to a bowl on the counter with measured, easy movements. Whisking oil into the bowl, he takes his time, telling me how his mom taught him to make salad dressing from scratch as he whisks and whisks.

  The muscles in his forearm popping in the most erotic way imaginable.

  Watching him is hypnotizing. And fun. Who knew Greyson Montgomery was capable of enjoying himself? His obvious ease and excitement is infectious. I could sit here and watch him forever. I never in a million years would’ve guessed he’d be so good at making me feel comfortable and at home. Least of all in the vast expanse of his bachelor pad.

  But that’s exactly how I feel. At home. The savory-starch scent of a homemade meal in the oven warming the kitchen. Good wine in hand. Cozy clothes. The delicious enigma of a man I have all evening to contemplate and ogle.

  Rain outside. Warm inside.

  Again. Not where I expected to end up. Not in a million years.

  But if I’m being honest? I’m not sure there’s anywhere else I’d rather be right now.

  Which scares me.

  And also makes me feel happier than I have in a long, long time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Julia

  Greyson lifts an enormous pot out of the oven and sets it on the range. The delicious smell of home-cooked goodness intensifies.

  I can’t help but check out his butt in those tight joggers.

  I really like him in fitted pants.

  “Let me help,” I say, standing.

  He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “I got this—sit. Do you prefer breast, thigh, or drumstick?”

  “Breast, please.”

  “Gotta ask, is it too early for boob innuendos?”

  I grin. “Never.”

  “Good. Because I have a real appreciation for the breasts. So tender.”

  “Satisfying.”

  “Big. A nice handful.”

  I hold up my cupped hand, pretending to weigh one. “Bet yours are gorgeous.”

  “Not as gorgeous as yours.”

  Wrong that I’m smiling and blushing and preening at his terrible tit joke?

  “You noticed.”

  “I’ve stroked many things of yours,” he shoots my line back at me, grinning. “But I’m sorry to say your ego ain’t gonna be one of ’em, sweetheart.”

  I bite my lip.

  My God, this guy is Christian Grey-ing me. The meal, the muscles, the dirty mouth.

  I like it when he calls me sweetheart.

  The memory hits me out of nowhere. Greyson yanking down the neck of my dress. Leaning in and taking my nipple in his mouth, sucking it to a hard, hot point through the transparent fabric of my bra.

  Arousal spikes through my center.

  I never let him kiss my mouth. Felt too intimate for the kind of sex we had. But he sure as hell kissed me everywhere else. The heat of his mouth against my skin—

  Makes me shiver, even now.

  “You okay?” Greyson’s brow is furrowed as he sets a plate in front of me. “Is it too cold in here?”

  The food smells so good.

  He looks so damn good.

  I am suddenly so, so turned on. By his sweats and his sweetness.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  On fire, but fine.

  He sits on the stool beside me, and we dig in.

  Immediately flavor explodes in my mouth. The buttery-ness of the rice against the smoky-sweet flavor of the sausage is insane. Chicken is perfectly done, salty and juicy. Veggies are melt-in-your mouth amazing. Even the salad, simple baby greens lightly dressed in Greyson’s white balsamic vinaigrette, is restaurant quality.

  It’s delicious and satisfying in a way I can’t quite describe.

  “You’re doing it again,” he says.

  “Doing what?”

  His gaze slips to my mouth. “Making noises while you eat.”

  “I can’t help it. This is fucking insane, Greyson. Like, the best thing I’ve eaten since I found out I was pregnant.”

  He scoffs, shoveling a huge forkful of rice into his mouth. “I wouldn’t go that far. But thank you.”

  Thunder rumbles overhead.

  “Seriously.” I nudge him with my elbow. “You’re clearly good at this—cooking.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Does it make me sound like a jerk if I am? I always took you for the kind of guy who lived off raw kale and the souls of innocent children.”

  He shoots me a look, sipping his wine. “I mean, yeah, I devour plenty of that stuff, too. But I do like to cook. It’s actually what spurred my decision to get into the hospitality industry.”

  I pull back. “Really?”

  I’d always assumed Greyson did what he did for the money. The prestige. The excuse to wear thousand dollar suits.

  But it’s apparent that I’m quickly becoming the poster child for that adage—the one about assuming making an ass out of you and me.

  “Really. I started my career in investment banking. Knew it wasn’t for me, so I went back to business school. Ended up working at a venture capital firm in Silicon Valley after I graduated, which was cool. But it was focused on tech, an industry I wasn’t crazy about. And I always knew I wanted to end up back here in Charleston at some point. Be close to my family and everything. I also knew I loved food. Eating it, mostly, but making it, too. Talking about it, sharing it, doing interesting stuff with it. Those things I am crazy about. So I saved my pennies, worked on building a small stable of investors, and eventually took the leap with Ford to found the firm.”

  My heart skips a beat.

  So Greyson loves food and family.

  Two things I never would’ve guessed. Although the pieces are starting to click together now. Him working with his brother. The pictures of his niece in the hall. His grandmother’s recipe.

  Maybe that explains his dedication—often extreme and very often annoying—to his work.

  Maybe it’s about family rather than fortune.

  And that kind of changes everything, doesn’t it? Who he is.

  How I feel about him.

  I’m attracted to this man. Have been since we met. But now I’m really
, really intrigued by him, too.

  I want to know more. Maybe because we’re starting a family together—well, our version of it, anyway—and I am drawn to this idea that he’s a family man at heart.

  Because I’m not sure I’m that kind of person?

  Because I don’t have a family of my own anymore?

  “You’re full of surprises.” I use the edge of my fork to cut my chicken. I feel like he could do the same to my heart right now. They’re both fall-off-the-bone tender. “Tell me more. About you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with an easy one. Favorite color.”

  He looks at me. Eyes searching mine for a beat.

  “Blue. You?”

  “Purple. Favorite travel destination.”

  “Anywhere with good food. Current favorite is Nashville. Honorable mention for New Orleans and Asheville. Guess I have a thing for the ’villes these days. But I have a feeling your favorite spot is more far-flung than my picks.”

  “It is.” I nod. “I love London for the literary history, but Paris will always have my heart. What’s your favorite book?”

  “Probably the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Or The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss.”

  Rain is pelting against the windows now. The storm made it dark outside earlier than usual; I can see our reflection in the panes.

  I raise a brow. “You’re a fantasy guy.”

  “I am. Don’t have a ton of time to read for pleasure anymore, but when I do, yeah. It’s Potter or George R.R. Martin. Some horror, too. Big Stephen King fan.” He sets down his fork and puts a hand on his belly. “Whew.”

  Nodding at his plate, I ask, “Are you gonna finish that?”

  He grins. Nudges the plate toward me, his fingers brushing mine.

  “All yours, Julia.” He watches, lips curled into that handsome as hell grin, as I clear his plate. “What about you? What’s your favorite romance?”

  “Way too hard to pick.”

  “If you had to. Gun to your head.”

  I chew thoughtfully for a moment. “I love super feel-y romance. Books that give you that delicious ache in your chest, you know? For a historical—I’d say Private Arrangements by Sherry Thomas. So, so great. As far as contemporary, I’d say my current favorite is Landslide by Kathryn Nolan. Or The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang. Then there’s Kennedy Ryan’s stuff. It’s pretty damn incredible—I teach her books a lot in my classes. Tessa Bailey’s cop romances slay me in the best way. Oh! To go back to historicals, I adore Elizabeth Hoyt—she writes slinky, feely sex like no one else—and you know, our very own Olivia is working her way up the ranks, too. My Enemy the Earl will be a perennial favorite of mine. I love how that book explored themes of self-determination and choosing authenticity over expectation. Powerful stuff.”

  Greyson is still looking at me. But now his grin is in his eyes, too. Gives his expression this wistfulness. This…

  Adoration.

  My stomach dips.

  “What?” I say, turning back to my food.

  “Nothing.” From the corner of my eye I see him shake his head. “No, wait, it’s not nothing. Julia, you light up the whole fucking room when you talk about shit you love. I’ve—I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  I swallow a bite of chicken. Swallow again.

  “The same way you lit up when I gave you free reign to talk tits?”

  He erupts with laughter. A big, deep belly laugh that tickles me to the point that I start to laugh, too.

  “I’m only human, sweetheart.”

  I put my hand on his chest. For half a heartbeat I consider grabbing his shirt and pulling him to me and kissing him.

  I give him a playful shove instead.

  Before I can pull back, he grabs my wrist. My body leaps at the contact, pulsing with awareness that gathers between my legs.

  “I mean it,” he says. “You know who you are, Julia. And you’re not afraid to be who you are. To take chances, even after you’ve been through hell. I admire that.”

  I look at him. Heart thumping.

  Lightning flashes through the windows. More thunder, louder this time.

  “This afternoon on the way to the doctor’s office—you said something about how many bullshit-y people there are in your world. Ever consider the idea that those aren’t your people?”

  “I think I’d considered it. But I hadn’t taken the idea seriously.” He draws his thumb gently over the inside of my wrist. Once, twice. Making the throb inside my skin grow tenfold. “Not until now, anyway.”

  There’s a universe inside that reply. A novel’s worth of scenes, stories, answers.

  I want him to tell me that story. More, even, than I want him to touch me like this all over. Softly, intently, knowledgeably.

  “Tell me what you mean by that,” I say.

  But before I can ask him to, he’s dropping my hand and gathering up our empty plates. Both of which are, coincidentally, in front of me.

  I blame Charlie Brown. Even though he/she is only the size of a raspberry right now, when my appetite is back, it’s back in a big way.

  “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the couch?” He nods at the sleek sectional on the other side of the room. “Have you picked a movie you want to watch? I can get pretty much anything On Demand or through Amazon.”

  I push back my stool and stand. Lordy, I’m full. In the best way.

  “I told you, Greyson, I do the dishes.”

  “I got it. Go sit.”

  “You sit. This meal must’ve taken you hours to prepare. My turn to do the work.”

  “You’re not gonna let this one go, are you?”

  I pull the sleeves of my hoodie up to my elbows. “Nope.”

  “Fine. How about we clean up together then?”

  “Last time I’m letting you help.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Greyson

  The lights flicker just as we sit down.

  “Good Lord.” Julia glances over her shoulder at the windows above the sink. “Getting nasty out there, isn’t it?”

  I turn on the TV. “Let’s hope the electricity stays on long enough to finish a movie. Whatcha thinking?”

  She looks at me, blue eyes alive with mischief.

  Julia’s felt like shit. She’s had an exhausting week, same as me. But she’s still burning with energy. This liveliness that throws my own cold, dead heart into depressing relief.

  My house is buzzing with her warmth. Same as my blood.

  Probably explains why I almost kissed her. By some miracle I was able to curb that impulse at the last minute. But it’d been close.

  Too close.

  “Can’t decide if I want sweet or salty.”

  “Sweet or salty?”

  “Yeah. Sweet, like Father of the Bride. Or salty, like episodes of The Sopranos. I was going to suggest Twilight, but then I assumed your inner werewolf fangirl has seen that one a hundred times, so…”

  I smile. I love how she holds no punches. There’s no beating around the bush with this girl. No bullshitting. She’s straightforward about who she is and what she wants, and I fucking like that. A lot.

  “Team Jacob for life. Your pick.”

  “Go figure, I’m team Edward. No wonder we never got along. How about The Sopranos?”

  “I could go for some Tony and Carm,” I reply, pulling up the OnDemand portal.

  “Isn’t Carmela kind of the best?”

  A boom of thunder rattles the windowpanes. Sounds close. The storm must be right over us.

  Immediately my mind goes places it shouldn’t. What if it lasts all night? What if it’s too dangerous for Julia to walk home?

  What if she stays and we touch and we flirt and we end up naked?

  “Kind of? She is the best. There are so many great characters on this show, but I have to say that she’s my hands down—”

  I nearly jump when the electricity blinks out with an audible zap.


  “Uh oh,” Julia says.

  The sudden arrival of near-complete darkness is discombobulating. I blink once, twice, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sea of blackness we’re swimming in.

  Wrong that my first thought is oh shit I hope this doesn’t mean Julia’s going to leave?

  I’m not done yet. Not done feeding her—I have two pints of Jeni’s ice cream in the freezer. Sweet cream biscuits and peach jam and Savannah buttermint.

  I’m not done talking and laughing and just being with her.

  I’m voracious for this woman in every way imaginable.

  In ways I have no right to be.

  I should take this as an opportunity to politely but firmly suggest our evening is over. I haven’t had too much wine to drive; I could easily take her home and call it a night.

  But I can’t. I haven’t had this much fun—felt this good—in years.

  My eyes start to adjust, shapes and silhouettes coming into view. I find Julia’s eyes. They glimmer in the dark. A sparkler that’s just been lit, emitting its first flashes of light.

  “Do you have any candles?” she says, rising. “A flashlight maybe? I think my phone is somewhere on the counter…”

  I dig my phone out of my pocket and turn on the flashlight. “I got it. I’ll go find some candles and grab my iPad—I think I have a few episodes of Game of Thrones on it if you’d like to watch that?”

  She blinks. Furrows her brow.

  Then she smiles. “Okay. Yeah. Sounds great.”

  “Cool. I’ll be right back.”

  Ten minutes later, Julia is lighting the motley assortment of candles I found underneath my sink while I scoop the ice cream into bowls. iPad tucked beneath my arm, I hand her a bowl and settle on the couch beside her.

  Our knees brush as she crosses her legs pretzel style. My cock leaps.

  I nearly bite off my tongue trying to keep it in check.

  Cannot sport wood. Not now. Don’t want to scare her. Give her the wrong idea.

  But Lord, how good does the wrong idea sound right now?

  I shove the thought from my head and attempt to ignore the throaty noises Julia makes as she eats her ice cream while I cue up Game of Thrones on my iPad.

  I try to prop it up as best as I can on the coffee table in front of us.