Southern Charmer: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  I sit in one of the weathered Adirondack chairs that face the marsh. Eli comes up behind me, setting a glass of cold white wine on the flat of my armrest before collapsing into the chair beside mine.

  “Thank you,” I say, reaching for the wine.

  “Welcome.”

  The word is muffled. I look to see him lighting a cigar. Palm curled around the end as he holds a stainless steel lighter to it. His cheeks hollow out as he sucks, encouraging the embers.

  He’s barefoot. Wearing nothing but jeans. The skin on his bare shoulders glistens in the light from inside.

  The bittersweet, earthy smell of the tobacco hits my nostrils.

  Heat hits me squarely between the legs. I just had this man. And now I want him again.

  Curling my legs into my chest, I take a long sip of wine. It’s Chardonnay. Buttery and delicious.

  A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.

  I’m not really sure how to start. So I just dive right in to the heart of it.

  “I’m not a writer,” I say.

  Eli leans back in his chair, looking at me from the corner of his eye. “Yes you are. You’ve written, what, half a book now? You sit down at your computer and you write. Therefore, you’re a writer. And a damn good one at that.”

  A wave of emotion rises up in me. I don’t know what it is. But I do know it makes me feel tingly. Happy.

  “I mean it’s not what I do for a living,” I reply. “I’m a professor of nineteenth century literature.”

  “At the College of Charleston?” he asks, cocking a brow.

  “I wish. I’d love to teach creative writing there. But no.” I take a deep breath. “I teach at a university in New York.”

  Eli’s mouth goes still around his cigar. At last he plucks it from his lips.

  My heart begins to free fall as I watch the realization wash over his face.

  “So you’re not just from there,” he says flatly. “You live there.”

  I nod, taking another sip of wine. “I’m on leave right now. My TA has taken over my class load. But her baby is due at the end of October. So I have to be back by then or—”

  “Or what?” His eyes glisten in the darkness.

  I roll my lips between my teeth. Look down. Look back up. “Or I lose the tenure I’ve worked my entire career to get. I lose my salary. Insurance. My future as an academic.”

  He puts the cigar back in his mouth. Takes a long, slow puff, eyes on the ground.

  “What about your writing?”

  “What about it?” I shrug, the words sour on my tongue. “Right now, it’s just a hobby. Something silly I’ve always wanted to do.”

  He spears me with a look. “It’s not silly, Olivia. It’s who you are.”

  My throat gets tight.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Means I’ve read your work. And I can tell by the passionate way you write and the care and dedication you put into it that it means somethin’ to you.” He taps some ash onto the ground. “I can tell it makes you happy.”

  I swallow, hard. “How can you tell that?”

  “The day we met—when you first got here—you had all this pent up energy. This pent up passion. I saw it in your eyes. You were holding it in. Hiding it. But now I see you releasing that passion onto the page. I see you lightin’ up when you talk about romance. Writing. Gunnar and Cate. I don’t know what your life was like before you came to Charleston. But you write an awful lot about feeling trapped. About being held back by other peoples’ expectations. But it seems like you’re free from all that bullshit down here.”

  Oh, Jesus, it’s like I’ve swallowed the moon, and now it’s stuck in my throat.

  “Those are Cate’s problems,” I say, my voice wobbling. “They’re fictional.”

  “The way you write them—they feel awful real to me, sweetheart.” His voice softens. “So what exactly are you runnin’ from, Yankee girl?”

  The careful way he asks—the sincere concern in his voice—it’s too much. I keep swallowing, hoping to clear the logjam in my throat. I’m having trouble breathing.

  “A lot of things,” I manage. “But the impetus for coming down here was getting away from my ex.”

  Elijah’s fingers tighten around his cigar. “He hurt you?”

  “No, no, it’s not like that.” I shake my head, looking down to pick at my yoga pants. I take a breath. Look up and meet Eli’s eyes. “He actually proposed. I wanted to say yes. But I couldn’t.”

  I can’t read the expression in Eli’s eyes. “Why not?”

  “It didn’t feel right. The life I’d be saying yes to is a good life. A beautiful one. But I wasn’t sure it was me. I felt so stifled by it. After being down here, I understand why. I can’t be who I am in that life. You know, the steamy book writer who bikes around town and splits her time between being terrible at yoga and reading romance.”

  That earns a small smile from Eli.

  “You’re not terrible at yoga,” he says.

  “I’m actually the worst. But you’re sweet to pretend otherwise.”

  I take a sip of my wine. Eli puffs on his cigar.

  “My life back home—everyone was always telling me how perfect it was. I have it all,” I continue. “But now I’m realizing that none of it makes me very happy. There’s no room for passion or creativity in perfection. It’s bloodless.”

  He shoots me a look. All these damn looks of his. Dark and steamy and cutting in all the right ways.

  All the hard ways.

  “That why you wanted to bleed?” he says. “To feel somethin’?”

  Yes.

  I struggle to admit it out loud. So I tell him with my eyes instead.

  He pulls on his cigar. Smoke rises from his lips, making him squint.

  “I know it’s fucked up. But I liked it, Eli.” I shake my head. “Jesus. What is wrong with me?”

  His brow puckers as his fingers go still. “Nothing is wrong with you. You’re human. You wanted to feel alive. I just don’t want to have to hurt you to get you there.”

  “Maybe I deserve to hurt,” I say, looking away. “Considering all the people I’m disappointing.”

  I hear Eli swallow.

  Looking up, I say, “I admit that when I first came down here, I thought for sure that I’d be going back to him. But now I can’t. Not after being with you.”

  Eli’s eyes glisten. He stubs out his cigar in the glass ashtray on the arm of his chair.

  “That mean we’re together?” he says slowly, glancing up at me. “That mean you’re gonna stay in Charleston?”

  “Yes.” It’s my turn to swallow. “And maybe. I can’t make any guarantees, Eli. Not yet. But I do want to be with you. And I would love nothing more than to stay in Charleston, because I love it down here. I just don’t know what I’m going to do about my job. It’s obviously in New York. Yeah, there are some things I don’t like about it. But I do love my students. And I’ve got a really bright future in my department.”

  Eli stretches out his legs in front of him. “What about teachin’ those creative writing classes you mentioned at The College of Charleston? Do that and write on the side?”

  “They aren’t hiring. And even if they were, I doubt I’d get a position there that offers tenure,” I say, shaking my head. “Most likely I’d be an adjunct professor. Which means I’ll be working for very little money. I won’t get any benefits. And there will be no guarantees of future employment. I do have some money in savings, but I imagine I’d burn through that pretty quickly living on an adjunct’s pay. As far as my books go…I mean. I haven’t even finished one yet. Much less thought about how I’m going to publish and market it.”

  Eli steeples his fingers, bringing them to his lips. He’s quiet for a minute.

  “Tell me something,” he says at last.

  “Yeah?”

  “When we were in bed—tell me about things I made you feel.”

  Licking my lips, I tak
e a breath through my nose. Consider my words carefully before I say them.

  “You made me feel like I could. I felt so…sure with you in bed. So confident. Unafraid to be myself. To push boundaries and take chances, because we were there to catch each other if something went wrong. I could have my cake and eat it too, if that makes sense.”

  “So I’m the cake in this scenario?” he asks with a smile.

  My gaze flicks over his bare torso. “Eli, you are all the cakes in the world combined. You’re so delicious it’s kind of ridiculous.”

  He laughs.

  “See, I think you’re lookin’ at it all wrong,” he says. “I think you’re selling yourself short, thinking you can’t create a fulfilling life for yourself down here that works.”

  “Eli,” I say. “Come on. Do you know how hard it is to make a living as a writer?”

  “’Course it’s hard.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

  “I can’t lose my tenure.”

  Eli tilts his head. “You’ll give up your dream for tenure?”

  My throat tightens.

  “What if I fail?”

  Eli scoffs. “Look at me! I’ve failed. Hell, I just failed spectacularly. In front of the whole damn world, too. All my peers. The press. The city. But I’m still standin’. And I still get to wake up every day and spend my time doing something I love.”

  “Yeah, well. I don’t have your talent.”

  “You don’t need talent. You need confidence. And a hell of a lot of perseverance.”

  I shake my head, a tear spilling down my cheek. I wipe it away.

  “I’m too scared.”

  “Join the club. We’re all scared, sweetheart. But feelin’ scared because you’re chasing down your dream is better than feelin’ nothing at all. You just let me hurt you so you could feel something. Think about that, baby.”

  I think about it. Wonder if the simple fact that I am thinking about it seriously means the scales are rebalancing inside my head. Am I more afraid to leave? Or more afraid to stay?

  Can I really leave Eli? I’m sure we could try dating long distance. But he works crazy hours. And Ithaca is a long way from any major airports. It’d be really hard to make it work.

  “When exactly do you have to go back to New York?” he asks.

  “The end of the month.”

  His eyes glimmer. “Two weeks.”

  “Yep.”

  “All right,” he says, nodding. “Two weeks.”

  * * *

  Eli

  I have two weeks to convince Olivia to stay.

  Two weeks to convince her to give her dreams a shot.

  Convince her to give me a shot.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eli

  The next day is gorgeous. The marsh glitters beneath a spotless autumn sky. It’s a little chilly, so I light a fire in the outdoor fireplace, wrap Olivia in a blanket, and leave her to write.

  I grab my latest read—a romance about a marriage of convenience, quickly becoming one of my favorite tropes—and settle onto the couch inside.

  Billy hangs with me for all of five seconds before he saunters onto the deck. Through the open door, I hear Olivia greet him, and his tags jingle happily as he lays down at her feet.

  I smile. Look at the three of us, getting all cozy and shit together.

  The sun is out. The fire’s just starting to smell good. I keep smiling when I think about what I’ll make us for lunch. I’ve got some fish and a pineapple-and-cilantro slaw, made from scratch of course, to throw together for fish tacos. Add an ice cold Corona, and I know my Yankee girl is gonna be a happy camper.

  So am I. A sense of contentedness washes over me.

  For a second it’s overshadowed by nagging thoughts about The Jam. It won’t be fun to deal with the fallout when we get back into town. People are going to lose their jobs. I’ve already lost a fuck ton of money.

  News is probably hitting the papers right about now. I wince when I imagine what the headlines must be.

  I haven’t checked my phone—my bank account balances—and I don’t want to.

  I focus my attention back on Olivia. Nothing I can do about The Jam now. Which means I can enjoy my baby’s company.

  Because she is my baby. We agreed last night that we’re together. Although we still have a lot to figure out. Namely, what we’re going to do about Olivia’s job. The thought of her leaving in two weeks fills me with an ache I don’t want to name.

  I already have a few ideas about convincing her to take a chance on herself. Because if she believes in her writing—in her ability to persevere—then I think she’ll agree to stay in Charleston. I don’t want her to go back to a job and a life she hates. I want her to be happy.

  I want her to be happy with me.

  I’d also really like her to move in with me. Sounds crazy, I know. But I like having her around. I love waking up next to her. This morning I about died when I woke to find her next to me, naked and dreamy and hungry.

  I just feel good right now. I’m not thinking about The Jam. Not thinking about anything, really, except the girl sitting on my deck.

  I imagine making escapes to the cabin a regular thing for us. So far, Olivia seems to love it here. We could sneak down once or twice a month. She’d write. I’d cook. When we weren’t doing those things, we’d be in bed.

  Good Lord I want to get back in bed with her.

  I devour my book in big chunks. Every once in a while I look up to check on Olivia. She’s moved chairs to be closer to the fire, and now she’s facing me. I watch her type, her face a mask of concentration.

  As the hours pass, and her fingers fly over the keyboard, her expression begins to soften.

  And then she begins to glow.

  She smiles. Bites her lip. Snaps her fingers, her eyes lighting up—I imagine she just hit on something good. Maybe Cate and Gunnar finally fell into bed with each other.

  Maybe Olivia falling into bed with me last night inspired that particular lightbulb to go off. The thought soothes my bruised ego.

  Writing in the sun, hair fluttering in the breeze, Olivia is nothing short of radiant. What the hell is she doing working a job at some hoity toity university in New York when she’s clearly so happy here?

  I kinda love the idea that I’m helping her get to that place of happiness. I’ve always enjoyed mentoring younger chefs in my kitchens. Maybe I’m mentoring Olivia in a way. Showing her the ropes of finding fulfillment. Honoring passion. Taking chances.

  I hate the idea of her not taking a chance on her writing. She’s too good to give it up.

  I want her too bad to let her go back to New York. It’d be one thing if she loved her job up there. I’d never take her away from that. But it doesn’t sound like she does. Clearly she’s happier down south.

  Olivia catches me looking at her. She smiles, this cute, pretty thing that flips my heart upside-down and brings my cock to attention.

  “Hungry?” I call through the door.

  She grins. “Ravenous.”

  “For me? Or for lunch?”

  “Both.”

  “I think I can help you with that,” I say, getting up. “Which do you want first?”

  Olivia purses her lips as she pretends to think about it. “Let’s do lunch first. Then I’ll do you.”

  “I like the sound of this plan. I’ll get the grill goin’.”

  * * *

  Olivia moans and groans her way through the grouper tacos.

  “Eli, this is ridiculous,” she says, eyes rolling to the back of her head as she pops the last bite into her mouth. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, baby.” I look at her. The question pops out of my mouth before I can think better of it. “Is Olivia Gates your real name?”

  Olivia chews. Swallows.

  “It’s not,” she replies, taking a sip of beer. “It’s my pen name. Gates is my grandmother’s maiden name. Apparently she was a big reader, like me.”

  �
�Tell me your real name.”

  She grins. “Are you always so bossy after lunch?”

  “Yes. Tell me.”

  Still smiling, she says, “My real name is Olivia Josephine Wilson.”

  I roll the words around my mouth.

  “Pretty,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you, Olivia Wilson.”

  She extends her hand. “Nice to meet you, too, Elijah Jackson.”

  I take her hand and give it a little tug. Laughing, she leans forward and lets me kiss her.

  I’m hard as a fucking rock. I remember how hot and tight she was last night. The way her pussy fisted around my fingers.

  I also remember that I hurt her.

  “How’re you feelin’?” I ask, my voice husky.

  Falling back into her chair, she puts a hand on her belly. “Full.”

  I nod at her groin. “And there?”

  A spark of heat lights in her eyes.

  “I’m a little sore. Nothing too bad.”

  “Still bleeding?”

  “No.” Her eyes rake over my bare chest. I never, ever wear a shirt when I’m at the cabin. She gets up, dropping her napkin on her plate. “I think I’m healed enough. Let’s go to bed.”

  Olivia’s already tugged off her jeans and shirt by the time we get to the bedroom. She reaches behind her and unclasps her bra.

  She isn’t wearing underwear.

  Climbing into bed naked, she looks so good I can’t stand it. Her tits bounce when she falls against the pillows. Her eyes are on me.

  I shuck off my jeans and boxers. Olivia watches my every move, her gaze darkening with hunger when she takes in my swollen cock.

  I take it in my hand and give myself a slow, strong stroke. Sensation winds tight low in my stomach.

  “Like that, baby?” I murmur.

  She licks her lips.

  “Come here,” she says, crooking her finger as she gets on her knees.

  I stand at the edge of the bed, and then she’s curling her hand around mine on my dick, her thumb playing with the head as I lean down for a kiss.