Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  “Julia, I’d like to be that guy,” he says. “The right guy. For you.”

  My heart is beating its way out of my chest now.

  I want that, too.

  I want that so badly I feel like I’m going to cry again.

  But aren’t we rushing? We went from enemies to friends to lovers in what feels like a flash.

  Then again, getting pregnant will push things up a bit.

  Finding out the guy you thought was a jackass is actually an excellent human being will definitely move things forward.

  I love the way this man loves me.

  I love the way he shared his family with me, knowing how much I miss mine.

  I love the way he makes me feel. Like I belong. Like I’m sexy and admirable, just for being myself.

  Cupping his face in my hand, I kiss him. Morning breath and everything.

  “You already are that guy, Grey,” I reply.

  He looks at me. “Let me take care of you the way I want to. I want to be good to you, Julia, and the baby, too. I want to be your date to Olivia and Eli’s wedding and every wedding after that. Even if we never end up having one of our own.”

  I smile. Smile and laugh.

  He’s opening up.

  Putting himself out there.

  This is not what I planned.

  But it’s still fucking beautiful.

  “Yes. Yes. I’ll take that leap with you,” I say. “Gladly.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Greyson

  Julia: You know what I could go for right now?

  Greyson: Please say an orgasm

  Greyson: Please

  Julia: Well that’s a given. But you already gave me several of those this morning. And last night. And the night before that. I’m starting to forget what my place even looks like.

  Greyson: My bed is bigger, but my backseat works too

  Greyson: I have twenty minutes before my next meeting

  Julia: I have back to back classes until five. Otherwise I would already be outside waiting for you.

  Greyson: now I’m gonna have to summon satan to get rid of this hard on. Great.

  Julia: #sorrynotsorry

  Julia: But besides an orgasm. I could really go for one of Gracie’s pumpkin scones. Like the one we split for breakfast that morning? Random craving, I know. But I’ve suddenly got this sweet tooth now that I can’t have Chardonnay.

  Greyson: you mean the scone we ate before I went down on you for the rest of the day?

  Julia: Yup, that’s the one. Also, if memory serves, you went down on me for approximately ten minutes, and spent the rest of the day in meetings.

  Greyson: But it was a good ten minutes right?

  Julia: Ugh the best.

  Greyson: Can I take you to dinner tonight? Should wrap up by 8.

  Julia: I’d love that.

  Greyson: Don’t forget to pack your stretchy pants

  Julia: Let’s be real do I even need pants? You’re forgetting your no-clothes policy.

  Greyson: touché my dear touché

  * * *

  But I can’t wait until eight to see her.

  Instead, I get through my meeting, and then I give Elijah Jackson a call. He puts me in touch with Olivia, who tells me Julia’s 4 P.M. class is one on “Sex and Agency in Romance” with about thirty-five or so students.

  I call Gracie and order forty pumpkin scones, just in case. I add an extra-large iced coffee, because I am wiped, and I still have a lot of shit to get through before dinner tonight.

  Juggling real life and work life is no joke, y’all.

  I park in a garage close to campus. Ask about twelve people how to get to the building where Julia is teaching her class.

  I arrive breathless and a little sweaty. Gigantic box of freshly baked scones in tow, still so warm from the oven that I have to pass the box from one hand to the other.

  Julia hasn’t started class yet, thank God. But the room is already packed with students pulling laptops from bags and cracking open paperbacks with titles like The Duke of Midnight and The Kiss Quotient.

  I catch the faintest whiff of weed as I move through the space. Bite back a smile.

  College. Miss it. And don’t.

  Julia is at the front of the room. Standing behind a table as she sorts through several piles of papers.

  My pulse hiccups. I feel my lips curling into an involuntary smile.

  She’s so fucking pretty. Full on Stevie Nicks today in a black dress with flowy sleeves and tall leather boots. Blond hair falling over her shoulders in unkempt waves.

  She’s also glowing. Color high, eyes bright.

  She’s feeling better. And she’s happy.

  The idea that I have something to do with that makes my chest swell.

  I meant what I said when I told her she made the right call turning down my marriage proposal. Not only because the timing wasn’t right. But also because I don’t feel the need to show off our perfect, shiny relationship—symbolized by the perfect, shiny ring I would’ve bought her—the way I did with Cameron. I don’t need that kind of outside validation when it comes to Julia. Same as I don’t need to check off arbitrary boxes with her. Meet cute, date for two years, elaborate proposal, even more elaborate wedding. That’s not what she’s about.

  That’s not what we’re about.

  I just adore her. Being around her. I love when she’s with me and miss her when she’s gone.

  Our story started with a less than stellar meeting and an unexpected pregnancy. But now it’s just about us. Her and me. And isn’t that how it should be?

  I stick out like a sore thumb in my suit and tie.

  A fact nobody misses. Immediately students start to whisper as I pass.

  “Oh my God, who is that?”

  “Did Professor Lassiter hire a cover model to come talk to us? I hope he takes his shirt off. Or at least unbuttons it a little.”

  “Bet he’s got his dick in that box.”

  That last one makes me laugh. Julia looks up from her papers. She does a double take when she sees me, blue eyes going wide with delight.

  “Grey?” she says, smiling. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  I open the box.

  “You said you were craving a pumpkin scone. Thought I’d bring some over for you and your students. This qualifies as brain food, right?”

  “Everything qualifies as brain food!” someone calls out behind me.

  Julia just looks at me. Digs her teeth into her bottom lip as she smiles at me with her eyes.

  Gracious, this woman.

  She does things to me.

  Things I like but usually try to avoid when I’m standing in front of forty college students.

  I’m not sure what the appropriate greeting here is. I don’t want to embarrass Julia or make her appear unprofessional.

  So I just smile back and hold out the box.

  “Hi. Take one.”

  She gathers her hair in one hand to hold it back and leans toward the box. “Hi. This was very sweet of you.”

  “I was thinking about how good these things are,” I say, watching as she lifts a scone from the box and brings it to her mouth. “I was also thinking that I’d love to see you in action. Teaching, I mean. Talking romance. Seemed like the perfect opportunity. Is it okay if I stay?”

  “You can stay as long as you like,” another student says.

  Julia tilts her head to glance over my shoulder. “All right, Priya, don’t make me assign extra reading this week.”

  A tingle sneaks its way up my spine. I like it when Professor Lassiter lays down the law.

  Maybe she’ll do it with me tonight.

  “And of course you can stay,” Julia says, turning back to me. “You’re always welcome.”

  “Always.”

  “Priya.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll stop.”

  Julia grins. “Cool if I introduce you? Then you can pass those around and we’ll start class.”

>   She introduces me as her boyfriend, which makes me smile harder than it should. It just feels so good. Being a part of things again.

  Participating fully in life for the first time in years.

  I don’t have a ton of time to hang out. My phone vibrates like crazy in my pocket. But I manage to watch Julia teach for a solid half hour from a seat in the front row. The class and I munching on our scones while she lectures passionately—creatively—on how changing social norms have shaped romance and vice versa. She encourages her students to be active participants in the conversation, calling on people by name. I notice that, while the majority of her class is female, there are more than a handful of guys in the room.

  Everyone is very engaged.

  Julia reads excerpts. Asks questions. Pushes her students to move past clichéd answers. She’s incredibly smart and capable and charismatic.

  Competence porn is a real thing.

  This is some of the best I’ve seen. Ever.

  The class talks about sex positivity in romance. About power dynamics between heroes and heroines. Problematic tropes and the even more problematic lack of diversity in the genre.

  One excerpt in particular grabs my attention. In more ways than one. It’s from a book called My Romp With the Rogue, written by our very own Olivia.

  Charlotte listened quietly as Callum told the story.

  His brother William was a troubled man. Abused as a child, he in turn abused others as he grew into adulthood. He drank heavily. Callum did his best to help William. When those efforts were rebuffed, he settled for staying away from him. But when William turned his hand on their housekeeper—the woman who all but raised them—Callum could stand by no longer.

  There was a fight. Mrs. Yardley lay bleeding at the foot of her bed. William drew a pistol, and Callum returned the favor.

  He survived. His brother did not.

  And that was the story of the murder.

  Tears streamed down her face by the time Callum was done talking.

  She realized then she didn’t have to defeat the monster, or protect herself from him. She’d merely had to unmask him. See him for the deeply pained, deeply lonely man beneath.

  Charlotte reached for him, but he was already climbing out of bed, ducking into his nightshirt.

  “Don’t go,” she said.

  He looked at her steadily. Eyes no longer hard but soft.

  Soft with pain.

  “I must. For now you know the truth about your husband. And the truth is an ugly thing.”

  No, Charlotte wanted to say. Truth is both ugly and beautiful. Terrible and courageous.

  The truth was everything, and it meant more to her than she could say that he’d shared it with her.

  But Callum had already stalked out of her chamber.

  She had a sinking feeling he would not return.

  I walk out of Julia’s class with a whole new appreciation for romance. And for Julia.

  Woman is a rockstar.

  Scares me a little to think how close I came to keeping her at arm’s length. If I hadn’t gotten her pregnant, would I have risked getting to know her beyond our backseat hookups? Or would I have crushed on her from afar like the scorned scumbag I used to be?

  I thought I was doing the world a favor by staying out of the way. Playing it safe.

  But now I know better.

  Thank God I chose better.

  * * *

  The weeks fly by in a whirl of good bad sex and good good sex, too. In meetings and Excel models and many, many episodes of Game of Thrones and The Sopranos. Breakfasts made while listening to Bowie and Queen. Sunday suppers at my parents’ house.

  Julia practically lives at my place. I love having her around. How could I not? I go to sleep with the taste of her on my mouth. Wake up with her warm and soft beside me. Juggling my two obsessions—my job and Julia—has left me exhausted to the point of borderline narcolepsy. I’m feeling a new kind of pressure at work now. It’s not just my family on the line anymore—Bryce and Ford.

  It’s the family I’m going to have with Julia, too.

  I wasn’t kidding when I told Julia I want her and our baby to have the best of everything. It’s what I’m good at—providing. It’s what I take pride in. I may not be great at this intimacy thing yet. It’s still new, and still scary sometimes. But I am good at making the people I love feel safe and secure.

  Julia made it clear she doesn’t want or need my money. And that’s fine. But I still need to pull my weight. Still need to feel like I’m contributing something.

  And it’s not like I can phone it in at work. I own the company, for Christ’s sake. I call the shots. Our success or failure rests entirely on my shoulders.

  The nicotine patches I’ve been wearing have curbed most of my appetite for cigarettes. But I still sneak one every so often when I’m especially zonked or the stress gets to me.

  For the most part, though, things are good.

  Really good. Charlie Brown looked perfect at our twelve week ultrasound. She was more baby than blob this time, and even had her little legs crossed and moved around for us.

  Julia laughed. I cried.

  She’s feeling better, too, which is a big relief for us both.

  “Fourteen weeks today,” Julia says one night at dinner. “I’m officially in my second trimester.”

  We’re at Julia’s favorite fried seafood place. It’s a teeny tiny spot on a corner in Elliotborough, a cute neighborhood in the Upper King Street area. The restaurant has been owned by the same family for two generations now. The space and menu are straightforward—no frills—but they serve up some of the best fried seafood platters on the peninsula.

  Julia’s sitting across from me in a vinyl booth. Going to town on her locally caught fried shrimp basket, complete with sides of lima beans and Carolina gold rice and a deviled crab, just because.

  “Fourteen weeks.” I wipe my hands on my napkin, then get back to work on my fish. “That went fast.”

  “No it didn’t,” Julia replies cheerfully, dipping a shrimp into a small plastic container of tartar sauce. “I’ve been pregnant for a fucking year. How did you not know?”

  “Must feel that way when you’re sober, huh?”

  “Whole new appreciation for those in recovery, I’ll say that much.” She swallows. Eats another shrimp and reaches for her tea, looking up at me. “Have you thought about our registry at all?”

  “Shit.” I blink. Feel a wave of exhaustion move through me. “I completely forgot. Between the Moore Foods storefront opening and that champagne bar we’re trying to get the permits for—just. Shit. I have no excuse. I’m really sorry, Jules.”

  “Did you do any research? You know, have you looked into what we’re going to need when this tiny human comes? How we’re going to survive The Battle of The Newborn Baby?”

  “No,” I reply, sheepish. I take a long pull from my own tea. “But nice Game of Thrones reference. Have you? Given it any thought, I mean?”

  “Well, yeah. I’ve read a couple great books on pregnancy and motherhood. I’ve reached out to some friends who have kids and picked their brains. I mean, I get that we have a lot of time, but still…I’m a little disappointed, Grey. I’m not the only one becoming a parent for the first time here. I’m also not the only one working. I’m busy, but I still make time for what’s important.”

  I tug a hand through my hair. Let out a sigh. “I know, I know. Work’s just been insane lately.”

  “When is it ever not insane for you?”

  “It’s for us, you know,” I reply. “I work hard for us.”

  Julia tilts her head and gives me a look.

  “I’ll read some books, I promise. I’ll try harder. I’m sorry, Julia. It’s been a while since I did this.” I motion between us. “Also, give me some credit. I’ve helped out a lot with Ford and Bryce over the years. I have some firsthand knowledge of what it means to be around. Be present, as much as I’m able to, anyway.”

  She nods. �
�That’s fair. But promise me you’ll learn? That you’ll make the effort with me and our baby?”

  I nod. “Absolutely.”

  “Good. The girls are meeting me in February—the weekend of the twentieth—at Hello Baby to pick some stuff out. You’ll be there, right?”

  “I’ll be there,” I say, even as a hand grips my heart and squeezes. That weekend is the grand opening of a champagne bar we’ve been working on with a local sommelier. Whatever. I’ll figure it out. “I promise I’ll learn. I learned to make love to you pretty damn quickly, didn’t I?”

  Julia lifts her brows, one quick, saucy bounce, and grins. “I have to say you’ve gotten really great at that.”

  “Finish your food.” I nod at her plate. “I’d like to take lessons from the Professor in how I can make it even better for her. She’s an excellent teacher.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Julia

  Eli and Olivia aren’t having bridal parties—no bridesmaids or groomsmen—but she requested that Gracie and I get our hair and makeup done with her the day of the wedding.

  Saturday morning dawns cold and clear. Beautifully so, the sun scrubbing the sky clean of any clouds. Grey and I decided to treat ourselves to a room for the weekend at the hotel downtown where Olivia and her family are staying. We grab coffee and breakfast biscuits at the cafe off the lobby for breakfast, and then I head upstairs to meet the bride.

  I tear up the second I enter the suite. Gracie is already in the makeup chair, eyes glued to the ceiling as an artist carefully applies mascara to her bottom lashes.

  The scents of coffee and hairspray fill the room.

  Fill my heart to bursting. I love my girlfriends. My village. So much.

  Olivia’s wedding dress hangs in front of a window, the morning light streaming through the gauzy material.

  She’s sitting on the sofa, finishing off a bowl of what looks like cheesy grits with eggs and scallions.

  I grin. Elijah has turned our New York girl into a proper southerner. Olivia has come so, so far since she arrived in Charleston a couple years ago, confused and burnt out and broken.