Southern Charmer: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Charleston Heat Book 1)

by Jessica Peterson

  I’m learning that Charleston is a very easy place to fall for.

  I keep wandering, approaching The Pearl. For a second, I consider popping inside for a drink. Eli will be there.

  The thought makes my stomach dip and my heart skip a beat.

  But as much as I’d like to see Eli-the-kitchen-god at work again, I’m enjoying my own company. I kind of want to experience the city by myself.

  I walk past The Pearl, and belly up to the bar at another restaurant nearby. I order a salad and, on the bartender’s recommendation, quail, which I’ve never had before. It’s all insane. I finish the meal with an oyster shooter—vodka, house made Bloody Mary mix, and a raw oyster—and head back out into the night.

  The moon is out on my walk home. It’s late for a Wednesday—past ten—and while the city is quiet, there’s still this energy in the warm autumn air. This sense of history and movement. I’m stuffed. The branches on a nearby Magnolia tree block out the moon. A man makes his way down the opposite side of the street, walking two chubby dachshunds on leather leashes.

  A gas lamp flickers beside a glossy door.

  The smell of the ocean permeates everything, blowing in on an easy breeze.

  I could live here.

  The thought’s ridiculous, I know. I’ve been in Charleston for all of a few days. This is the honeymoon period. Of course I’m going to fall in love with it when it’s so new, and so exciting, and so different.

  It’s also not real life.

  But today was kind of the perfect day. Biscuits and Eli in the morning. Writing in the afternoon. Good food and good wine at night. I can breathe here. Be myself.

  I feel a pulse of guilt, same as I did last night at dinner. Here I am, starry-eyed, enjoying myself, while Teddy’s at home waiting for me. Yes, he agreed to a break. But for the past three years, all the traveling I’ve done has been with him. All the good meals I’ve eaten have been with him.

  I almost feel like I’m doing something wrong by enjoying myself without Ted.

  Then again, I wouldn’t be upset if Ted enjoyed himself without me. I hope he’s enjoying himself right now.

  Does that mean something?

  Have I missed being on my own? During my single days before Ted, I remember being desperate to have someone to experience things with. I felt so lonely. When he and I started dating, I dove in head first. Never coming up for air until now.

  I want to miss Ted. But I don’t. Just like I want to be his perfect other half. But maybe I’m not.

  Being away, writing my sex, eating alone—I kind of love it.

  Maybe the fact that Ted and I were okay with taking a break—with each of us potentially sleeping with other people—means we don’t love each other enough to get married.

  Shit.

  Shit shit shit.

  I have this creeping sense that I was wrong to think being in Charleston would make me realize how happy I am back home.

  Instead, being down here is making me realize how unhappy I’ve been.

  It sounds so stupid. How could I not know if I’m unhappy or not? But then I think about how inextricably linked other peoples’ happiness and my own are inside my head. I get a huge sense of pleasure from pleasing people. I love the praise I get for being a good daughter, a good employee. A good girlfriend. I feel so satisfied when I meet or exceed peoples’ expectations.

  But once the rush of satisfaction fades, am I happy?

  And why do those expectations matter so much to me in the first place?

  I wonder if the reason why I feel so suffocated is because I constantly—to the point where it’s second nature—put everyone else’s needs and expectations above my own. Ted’s especially.

  My life—my own goddamn life—doesn’t even belong to me. If it did, it would feel like this more often. I’d be able to be myself. Truthfully. Fearlessly. I’d do what I wanted without second guessing myself. Without apologizing.

  Maybe, without even knowing it, I came to Charleston to take back my life. Not just as an experiment. Not just as a “reset”. But as a real, permanent choice. If that’s the case…

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the burn of tears.

  I don’t want to think about what that means. It’s terrifying. I don’t think I’m strong enough to pull off a stunt like that anyway.

  Taking a deep breath, I keep walking. One foot in front of the other. That’s all I have to do right now.

  I just have to keep going.

  Back at the carriage house, I print out chapter two from My Enemy the Earl and head over to Eli’s. I secretly hope he’ll be home. I could use some company. I need to get out of my head a little. But the lights in his house are out. When I knock, all I get is a scratching sound on the other side of the door. Billy. I should offer to walk him for Eli. I imagine Chef Jackson keeps long hours over at The Pearl, which means Billy is here by himself all day.

  I drop the pages in his mailbox and head home.

  I call Julia, who picks up on the first ring. She’s eating something, smacking her lips as she talks.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Late dinner. What’s up?”

  I let out a breath. Then I blurt it all out.

  “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re hiding who you really are to fit in? Do you ever want more? Not more stuff, but a life that’s more you, you know? I feel like a jerk saying this, because I already have so much, and I feel like a glutton for wanting someone—no, wait, something, I meant to say something—else. But this desire for more won’t go away. I want it to go away, Julia, because I think it’s keeping me from being happy with what I have. God, I really am a glutton, aren’t I?”

  Julia stops chewing. I hear her swallow.

  “Olivia,” she says, lowering her voice. “Have you been smoking weed? It’s cool if you have, but we both know how paranoid you get—”

  “No drugs.” I look down at my (very) full glass of wine. “Just wine from a box.”

  “Oh, God, that’s even worse. Dump that shit in the sink. Now. Before I have to call poison control. Jesus Christ, Olivia, you’re going to give me a heart attack. I’ll be there in ten with a few bottles from daddy’s cellar. You’re welcome.”

  Ten minutes later, Julia and I are sitting in bed together, a bottle of expensive wine in my lap, a twelve inch sub from Jimmy John’s in Julia’s.

  “Had a busy day,” she says. “Haven’t had time to eat. So I’m having two subs for dinner. Please don’t judge me.”

  “No judgment here.” I watch her stuff half the sub into her mouth. “How’s your dad?”

  “Okay,” she says around a mouthful of turkey bacon club. “But c’mon, Olivia, no changing the subject. I’m here to talk about you. Why don’t you think you deserve to be happy?”

  My throat tightens. Taking a slug right from the bottle—much better than the boxed stuff—I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes you did.” The butcher paper on her lap crinkles when she drops the remains of her sub onto it. She wipes her hands on a napkin and looks at me. “You said you felt like a glutton for wanting to be yourself. Which is a huge part of being happy. Tell me why you think that’s such an enormous ask of the universe.”

  “Because,” I say, my voice thickening. “I already have it all.”

  Julia furrows her brow. “According to who?”

  “Everyone. Society. Teddy. My life is perfect. On the outside, at least.”

  “So the inside doesn’t count?”

  I take a deep breath. Let it out. Julia was never one to beat around the bush. Still, I didn’t expect her honesty to hurt so much. I didn’t expect her to find my sore spots so easily.

  “Look, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here,” she says, putting a hand on my leg and giving it a squeeze. “It’s important to suss out your reasons. I think it will help.”

  “Okay. I’ll try.” I swallow. “I guess I thought the inside would follow the outside, if that makes sen
se. Like if I got all these things everyone was telling me I should want, I’d actually start to want them myself, you know? There had to be a reason why everyone wanted the same things. The big fancy job, the big fancy house.”

  “Big fancy diamond,” Julia adds. “You still haven’t shown it to me, by the way.”

  I nod at the dresser on the other side of the room. “It’s in there. I don’t want to look at it right now.”

  “Fair enough. So now you have all this stuff—”

  “And I’m proud of it. I worked hard for it. But now that I’m staring down the barrel of committing to it all for the rest of my life, I feel…”

  Julia looks at me. “You feel what, Olivia?”

  I grasp for the right word to capture that feeling of suffocation. Of doubt.

  “Stifled,” I say at last. “I feel stifled. But then I think, hey, maybe that’s just part of the deal. Everyone feels like that sometimes. Life is hard. Yeah, maybe I felt pressured to live this way. But I’m the one who actually chose to. There’s this voice in my head that tells me to shut up whenever I feel unhappy, because it’s my fault. Maybe the problem isn’t society. It’s me. Why can’t I be happy? Hell, I have everything.”

  Julia’s eyes soften. “Do you really talk to yourself that way?”

  Tears flood my eyes. I blink, hard, making them tumble down my cheeks.

  “I’ve always been hard on myself.”

  “This is different.” She shakes her head. “Being hard on yourself can be a good thing. Like when you’re trying to write the best damn dirty romance novel you possibly can. But it can also be toxic. Like when you tell yourself over and over again that you’re fundamentally flawed when really it’s the world that’s fucked up. I’m not sure you even realize you’re doing it, Olivia, but you’ve really internalized this message that happiness and authenticity aren’t meant for you.”

  I wipe my eye on my shoulder. “Why would they be? I’m far from perfect. What could my ‘authentic self’ offer the world anyway? I’m on the run from my boyfriend, writing sex all day, wandering around town drunk.”

  “Happiness is meant for you because you’re human.” Julia wraps her fingers around my wrist and looks me in the eye. “No one is perfect. But everyone deserves to be happy. Including you. And if your life in New York isn’t making you happy, then you should think very, very seriously about changing it. Who cares if you have the perfect house and the perfect guy? Maybe your mom and your friends are impressed by that crap. But you’re better than that. You’re smarter than that. I think deep down you know that’s not who you are. So be who you are. If not now, when?”

  Tears are spilling out of my eyes left and right, slipping down my neck onto the coverlet. I take another swig of wine.

  “I can’t just leave my life in New York.”

  Julia is still looking at me. “Why the fuck not?”

  “I’ll break Ted’s heart,” I reply hotly. “I’ll break everyone’s heart.”

  “You’re going to break your own heart if you go back to him.”

  I know she’s right. But part of me would rather break my own heart than disappoint the people I love.

  I wrap my hand around Julia’s.

  “I don’t know if I’m brave enough,” I whisper.

  “You don’t have to do it alone,” she replies. “We can figure it out together. But you have to be the one to actually make the call.”

  I nod. Swallow again.

  “Just think about it,” Julia says. “You still have time. Hey, it could be worse. You could be me—addicted to turkey clubs and masturbating nonstop because you can’t find a real penis you’re even remotely interested in.”

  That makes me laugh. I put my head on Julia’s shoulder.

  “We’ll figure it out together,” I repeat.

  She grins tightly. “I know we will. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  And even though coming to Charleston could very well be the impetus for blowing up my life, I mean it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Olivia

  I wake up with a heavy head and a heart that aches. Part of me is still on a high from the near perfect day I had yesterday. And part of me is hitting a low now that I’m realizing I need to make some hard choices if I want to fix what’s wrong with my life.

  I’m almost afraid to check my doorstep for Eli’s edits. His awesomeness is not making my thought process any easier. If I hadn’t met him, maybe I wouldn’t be so twisted up inside. Maybe I’d never know what I was missing out on.

  If I hadn’t met him, it’d be easy to go back to New York and pick up right where I left off. But now that choice is much more difficult.

  I don’t know whether to be angry or grateful.

  I grip the doorknob, heart pounding. Please, I silently plead. Although I have no clue what I’m pleading for. Please let the doorstep be empty? Please let Eli be there so I can yank him inside and tear off his clothes and rub up against him for the rest of the day?

  Taking a deep breath, I open the door. I find the edited chapter on the mat, a Post-It stuck to the corner.

  On top of the pages, wrapped neatly in tin foil, is this perfect mini veggie quiche.

  Clearly my cooking worked some magic on your muse, a sticky note says. Loved this chapter even more than the first. Keep eating. Keep writing. Give me a ring at 843-234-8769 if you have any questions—E

  Butterflies take flight in my stomach. I suddenly feel achy not just in my chest, but all over.

  A good, delicious kind of ache.

  I look up. Look around. I don’t want to see Eli. Seeing him will just make me want him more. And I’m not sure I’m ready to have him. I just have this feeling—this strong sense in my gut that being with Eli will change everything. And I don’t know if I’m brave enough to embrace that change.

  What if it causes a domino effect? What if I not only leave Ted, but I end up leaving my job, too? My parents? I’d be burning my entire life to the ground.

  I look down at the edited pages in my hand. Something about his careful block script makes my stomach do a somersault.

  Eli may be dangerous. But I do have to thank him for this. He’s a busy guy. It’s incredibly generous of him to take the time to edit my romance and make breakfast for me.

  I go inside and dial his number.

  He picks up on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “H-hi. Eli? It’s me. Olivia.”

  “Yankee girl!” he says, the excitement in his tone radiating through my breastbone. “You get the quiche?”

  I grin.

  “I did. Thank you. Very much. You really don’t have to keep making me breakfast.”

  “I want to make you breakfast. Gotta fuel you up so you can get through chapter three today.”

  “You’re relentless,” I say, biting my lip. “You know that?”

  “I know.” A pause. “How’re you feelin’ today?”

  Confused. Terrified.

  Joyful.

  “I’m all right,” I manage. “You?”

  “Tired. You been keepin’ me up late, Olivia, with these chapters of yours.”

  “Seriously, you don’t have—”

  “I want to. You gotta let me help you. I’m enjoying it. Truly. It’s nice to use another part of my brain once in a while.”

  Oh, God, if there was ever a time when I thought my heart would literally burst, it’s right now.

  “Then let me help you,” I say. “I know you work crazy hours. Can I maybe walk Billy for you? Hang out with him a bit during the day?”

  “Lucky Billy. He’d love that. I keep a key in the pot by my back door—it’s the one with the tomato plant in it. Feel free to come over anytime you’d like.”

  Toe-mata.

  His accent is especially velvety this morning.

  “So chapter three? I can expect it tonight, then?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I manage. “Tonight. I’ll have it in your mailb
ox.”

  “Get to it, girl.”

  I do.

  Over the next week, I settle into a nice little routine. For the first time in all my thirty-two years on this earth, I don’t have to set an alarm. I get up early, practically leaping out of bed to discover what goodies Eli left me on the front step. One day it’s scrambled eggs and sausage. Another, it’s a grits bowl topped with bacon and chives. Oatmeal with candied pecans and brown sugar. A B.E.L.T.—bacon, egg, lettuce, and tomato—on thick slices of sourdough slathered in mayo.

  The designer wardrobe I brought with me gets tight to the point of pain. I buy a pair of ripped up boyfriend jeans—inspired by Eli—and some flowy dresses, and I wear those instead.

  Eli always leaves an impeccably edited chapter alongside the food. He edits in blue felt tip pen, his letters all neat, small caps. He tells me what he likes—Cate’s reaction is great here. He tells me what he doesn’t—dialogue comes off stilted. Let them flirt!

  He makes a comment on chapter six—something about making Gunnar a beta hero outside the bedroom, but an alpha hero in it—that gives me pause. Those terms are romance terms. Stuff I only know about because I read a lot of it.

  Makes me wonder what Eli is reading. No way he’s reading any romance other than mine.

  Right? The thought is too lovely to even consider.

  I go through Eli’s edits while I eat. Then I have coffee, do some research on publishing online. The weather is getting nicer with each passing day, the temperature and humidity dropping just enough to leave us these slightly crisp, gorgeously sunny days. So when I’m done eating, I grab Billy, and together we take long walks along the battery. Minus his gigantic poops, he’s a great walking buddy.

  Some days I squeeze in a yoga class.

  Then I grab a shower and head over to Holy City Roasters for the afternoon. Grace and I chat for a while about her coffee and my book. My chapters are averaging about ten pages—two thousand words, give or take—and, sitting down at my usual table by the window, I don’t leave until I finish a whole new chapter for Eli to edit that night. Sometimes it takes me all of an hour and a half to bang it out. Other times, I’m still typing away at closing time.