I laugh. “Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”
Luke reaches behind him. Grasps the pickup’s passenger side door handle in the enormous mitt of his hand and opens the door. “I don’t got Kenny Chesney, but I do have an old Trisha Yearwood box set I can play.”
“You like Trisha?” I say, stepping around Luke to climb inside his truck. It’s just as clean and well taken care of as the outside.
It smells like Luke—detergent and Ivory soap.
My heart skips a beat.
“You got no idea how much I love me some Trisha.”
“Bet you the first round I know more words to Trisha’s songs than you,” I say. “Mama listened to her nonstop when I was little.”
Luke closes the door. The window is rolled all the way down, and he sets his hands—Goddamn, those big, finely made hands—on the sill. He ducks down, lips quirked.
“That’s a bet you’re gonna lose, Gracie girl.”
Chapter Two
Luke
It’s a little early for the after work crowd, so The Spotted Wolf is empty. Gracie and I sidle right up to the bar on the back patio. An awning provides some shade. Fans with automatic sprayers are going full throttle, filling the air with mist.
Still hot as all get out.
And yeah. Standing next to Gracie Jackson, her elbow brushing mine when she sets it on the edge of the bar, sure as hell ain’t helping. The way she arched into me when we hugged it out earlier, hungrily, eagerly—made me think she hasn’t been touched in a while. Not properly, anyway.
Not the way she should be touched.
“Whatcha drinkin’?” I ask.
She meets my eyes. Behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, hers are chocolaty. Clever. Warm. A warmth that invades my skin and makes my clothes feel two sizes too small.
She’s cut her blonde hair. It’s short now. A little Meg Ryan, a little mussed as it moves in the breeze of the fans.
A lot sexy.
Goodness is she a gorgeous girl. Tall, with curvy hips and athletic legs. Between the glasses and the wild hair and the sexy little black shorts she’s wearing, she’s straddling the line between fashionable librarian and sophisticated, slightly hipster city girl.
It’s a good look on her.
Then again, Grace could make anything look good.
“Too early for a shot of whiskey and a beer?”
A girl after my own heart.
No wonder I got a thing for Grace. Always have, since the day we met at a barbecue more than a decade ago. She’s got a spitfire mind. A dirty sense of humor.
She’s also got a fancy education—full ride to Vanderbilt, MBA from an Ivy League—and she owns the best damn coffee shop in town. But she’s about as unpretentious as they come. The beer and shot are case in point.
I mean. How could I not have a thing for this girl?
Not like I’d ever act on it. It’s a crush.
A big fucking crush.
But she has a boyfriend. Apparently she told Eli that this guy, Nick I think his name is, or maybe Nathan?, could be the one. I met him a couple times. Wasn’t a fan. Talked nonstop about his daddy’s fishing boat and all the money he was making at his investment firm.
The opposite of big dick energy.
Not nearly good enough for Gracie.
Then again, that’s not my call to make. She’s always dated those preppy types. Clearly they do something for her.
Let’s not forget she’s also my best friend’s sister. A few months back, Elijah told me to keep my distance from her. He didn’t want me messing with her head now that things were getting serious between her and Nick.
Even so. Some guys cross the best-friend’s-baby-sister line. I’m not one of them. Not unless I could do things the right way. Date her all proper and honorable like.
Which clearly isn’t possible, because she’s dating someone else. But if she were single—
I shake the thought from my head. No use torturing myself. If Mr. Khaki Pants Dickhead is the one, then it’s time for me to move on.
“Never too early. Jameson good?”
“Jameson is great.”
I nod at a sofa and pair of chairs in the shade. “Why don’t you go sit down? I got this round. Even though I clearly won the Trisha Yearwood challenge.”
“That’s a lie. You totally fumbled the ‘x’s and o’s’ part of ‘XXX’s and OOO’s’.”
“Did not.”
“Did too. But I’ll let it slide. Just this once.”
Gracie smiles, and her dimples come out to play. Fucking adorable dimples that make her look like she’s on the verge of a big old belly laugh.
My eyes flick to her mouth. Lord, that mouth of hers. It’s smart and it’s quick.
Lips full.
And, I imagine, soft.
I glance back up, and catch her catching me staring.
“Sit,” I say gruffly.
Her dimples deepen. I wanna fill ’em with my thumbs while I fill her—
Stop.
Stop stop stop.
I’m being an animal.
A filthy, sweaty, horny animal that should send Gracie running.
But she doesn’t seem to mind it. The animal. Me. Whatever.
Instead, she’s still smiling up at me like I hung the goddamn moon.
“I see being your own boss has made you bossy,” she teases.
“I always been bossy,” I say. “Now sit, before I call you out for singing Timmy instead of Tommy in ‘She’s in Love with the Boy.’”
Gracie laughs, and I resist the urge to preen. I get the feeling she hasn’t laughed in a while. Something’s bothering her. She’s always had this brightness about her—this shine, like she’s lit up from the inside.
Today that shine is dimmed. Not gone. But not as potent as it usually is.
I’ve still managed to make her laugh, though, despite whatever’s going on inside her head.
I’m proud of a lot of things. Making it in the major leagues. Starting over after my injury ended my baseball career. Building the farm I’ve always dreamed of from the ground up.
Making Gracie laugh, though, when she’s clearly hurting?
I’m prouder of that than I should be, all things considered.
Jake, the bartender, slides our drinks across the bar. I reach for them with my right hand, feeling a now-familiar stiffness in my shoulder. It’s been a year and a half since I had rotator cuff surgery. While the pain is mostly gone, I still got some lingering stiffness and soreness to deal with. Nothing I can’t handle.
Total bummer, that surgery. It was obviously a blow—I was never the same, and my ball career came to an end not long after. But I always had a plan for what I’d do when I retired.
I wanted to be a farmer.
Happened a little sooner than I wanted. But now that Rodgers’ Farms is up and running, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I love farming just as much as I loved playing baseball. Maybe more, because I get to do it forever and ever. And I can do it living close by to family and friends.
Clasping bottlenecks and glasses between my fingers, I turn toward Gracie. She’s making her way to the sofa, back turned to me.
My word does she make that tank top and those shorts look good. She’s got a great ass and hips for days. Long, tan legs. The muscles in her calves harden as she walks, shapely ankles disappearing into the low-top sneakers she’s wearing.
Bless.
She sits on the end of the sofa, her shorts riding up to reveal even more of her shapely thighs. I sidle up beside the chair to her left, setting everything on the low table between us, and then I sit. My knee tapping hers.
She doesn’t move it. Instead she reaches for her shot and holds it up.
“Cheers. This is an unexpected treat. Thank you, Luke.”
I grab my glass and tap it to hers, the whiskey sloshing onto my fingers.
“Thank Trisha. And my tractor.”
“Be honest. How much has that tractor gotten you laid?”
“Not as much as you’d think. Apparently tractor porn only appeals to a very small segment of the female population.”
Gracie grins. “You’re full of shit.”
I grin, too. “Yeah.”
“Shameless.”
“Always.”
We take the shots. I have to bite back a wince as the astringent burn washes over my tongue and down my throat. Gracie screws an eye shut and immediately reaches for her beer, dimples popping as she puckers her lips.
She’s so damn cute I can’t fucking stand it.
“All right?” I ask, bringing my hand to my mouth to lick the whiskey from between my thumb and forefinger.
Gracie watches me do it. Gaze locked on my mouth. Transfixed.
I grin harder. Run my tongue along the length of my thumb, because I can.
Because I like to tease her.
Her gaze follows that, too.
“Yeah.” She blinks. “Yeah. I needed that.”
I grab my beer and lean back into the chair. I take a sip, washing down the whiskey, and then I wait. I’m here to listen if she wants to talk.
Grace sits back, too, and brings her beer to her lips.
I would pay good money to be that beer right now.
“So, question for you,” she says.
“Shoot.”
“You had to start over after you hurt your shoulder—you had to pivot when things didn’t go according to plan.” Looking down, she digs at the label on her beer with her thumbnail. “How did you learn to let that plan go? Like, how did you know what to do next when the future you thought you’d have didn’t work out?”
Taking a breath, I think about my answer for a minute. Think about why she’s asking the question. What isn’t going to plan in her life? Last I checked, girl had everything she wanted. Successful business. Gorgeous downtown condo. Boyfriend.
What am I missing?
“I had to grieve the loss of my baseball career, sure. I’ll always love the game. But all the shit that came with it—the press, the attention, the lifestyle—it wasn’t very me. Farming, though? That is me. So I knew that was what I wanted to pursue after I retired. I feel at home out on my property. At home in my own skin.”
Gracie looks up. Brow scrunched. “Sounds nice.”
“It is.” I tip back my bottle. “What isn’t going to plan for you?”
“I’ve just always had this list in my head, you know?” She sips her beer. “Things I thought would’ve happened by now. I’ve made some of those things happen, like open a coffee shop and grow a community. I’m really, really proud of that stuff. But other line items—well. No matter how hard I try, they aren’t panning out. I can’t help but feel like something is wrong with me. Like I’m missing some essential…something that would make my perfect future click into place.”
I look at her. She’s not telling me everything—there’s more to this story than she’s letting on. But I’m not about to push her. She’s being vulnerable in a way she usually isn’t with me just by telling me this much.
I want her to keep showing me this vulnerable side of hers. The authentic side.
I like it. Too much.
“I really admire you, Gracie. And I happen to think you’re just right, just as you are.”
She grins. It doesn’t touch her eyes. “You’re sweet.”
“Ever consider that maybe the problem isn’t you, but your list?” I say. “Maybe that list you got in your head just isn’t you, Gracie. Maybe you’re putting too much pressure on yourself to meet these kinda arbitrary deadlines or somethin’.”
She blinks. Like she hasn’t considered that angle.
“Maybe,” she says.
“And honestly, what’s so great about perfect when you can have real instead? I mean, are you findin’ that the stuff on your list is fulfilling you at all?”
Sitting up, I reach behind me to tug on the bill of my baseball hat. Her eyes rove over my lifted arm as she brings her beer to her mouth.
“Professionally? Yes. Those items on the list have been very fulfilling. But personally? Sexually?” She scoffs, bringing her beer to her mouth. “Nope. Maybe you could give me some pointers on that, too. I know you like to have your fun.”
My body—my blood—everything jumps. Jumps again when she teasingly wags her brows at me.
Baby, I wanna give you more than pointers.
So. Much. More.
This guy she’s with—is he not giving her what she wants? What she needs? The thought makes me ragey and horny and hot.
Sweat breaks out along my scalp.
I could give her what she wants and then some.
I could give her forever, too. If we lived in some alternate reality where she was single, I’d make her come a million times and then I’d make her mine.
For good.
I’ve worked hard over the past few years to rebuild my life after baseball. I have had my fun. Enjoyed my freedom. But I’d like to find forever with someone. I’ve started looking for women who want the same.
But Gracie isn’t single. She’s dating a guy who she says could be the one. Whether or not I agree with that assessment—how could she want to marry a guy who doesn’t do it for her in bed?—I promised Elijah I wouldn’t mess with her head.
Whether or not this guy is one of the unfulfilling line items on her list, I won’t mess this up for her. That’s not my call to make.
So I’ll play along. Play the manwhore she thinks I am. I’m not getting between her and this “perfect” life she wants.
Presumptuous? Maybe. But it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.
I made a promise to my best friend. The only brother I’ve ever had.
It’s a promise I intend to keep. For Gracie’s sake and for my own, too.
“You know me,” I say half-heartedly, glancing at the bar. I wish I’d gotten a few more shots of whiskey. “I don’t do serious. But I do fun pretty damn well. What do you wanna know?”
I glance back at Gracie to see her dark eyes flash with heat.
Lord have mercy.
“I’m reading this romance novel—Olivia’s new book, My Deal With the Duke—and the heroine is determined to explore her sexuality. Of course the hero is all too happy to help her with said exploring. But it got me thinking that maybe I should do some exploring myself, because clearly the rest of my list isn’t happening.”
Sweat drips down my temples. Rolls down my sides underneath my shirt, making me want to squirm.
And my dick—
Goddamn, my dick is perking right the fuck up at the naked curiosity in Gracie’s eyes. Even as my heart clenches at the idea she’ll be indulging that curiosity with someone else.
I clear my throat. “I’m all for exploring.”
“The sex the hero and heroine have is just so…intense, I guess. Achy and existential. Hell, everything about them is intense. Their connection. The way they feel about each other.” Gracie cradles her beer between her hands. “It hasn’t been intense for me in a long time, Luke.”
My scalp feels like it’s on fire. I adjust my hat again. Put some space between us.
Talking about this shit with Gracie—it feels wrong. Right. Arousing.
All three.
I keep wondering why the fuck she’s staying with this guy. I don’t get it. But I also don’t want to ask. It isn’t my place.
I’ll just stick with my manwhore routine instead. Maybe drive my truck off the Ravenel Bridge when we’re done because it’s so damn painful to talk about sex with this girl I want so damn bad but can’t have.
“Intensity is the key to a good fuck.” I meet her eyes. They’re wide. Wild. “What’s the point if you can’t lose yourself in it? If it doesn’t leave you wrecked and rearranged? So yeah. That part of you—the intense part—it’s essential, Grace.”
Her lips part on a slow, long inhale. “And what’s the key to intensity?”
I think on that for a minute.
“Truth,” I say. “Bein’
able to tell your partner the truth about who you are and what you want. Without reservation. Without bein’ afraid.”
Her gaze electrifies. A light bulb turning on.
“So you have to feel safe,” she says. “To be yourself. No smothering or hiding.”
“Exactly,” I say.
God, I wanna show you how it’s done.
I wanna show you, sweet girl.
And then I’d wreck you. Same as you’re wrecking me right now.
But I can’t.
I fucking can’t. And that kills me.
I look at her. “Your boyfriend is a lucky man, Gracie. To get to do this explorin’ with you—”
“You didn’t hear?” Gracie pulls back, clearly surprised.
“Hear what?”
She sets her bottle on the table. “Nick broke up with me a couple months ago.”
Chapter Three
Gracie
I can’t stop thinking about Luke later that night in bed.
The way his hands felt on me. The things he said.
I admire you.
You’re just right, just as you are.
Being able to tell your partner your truth—that is what makes an encounter intense.
What is it, exactly, about intensity that I like so much? What the hell do I even mean by ‘intense?’
I’m not sure. But I have a feeling Luke could deliver it in spades.
My heart throbs. Awareness gathering just inside my skin, between my legs. In my lips. I could be imagining it. But did something change between Luke and I tonight? I’ve hung out with Luke before, plenty of times. We’ve always flirted.
But not once have we ever talked so explicitly about sex.
Not once has he ever looked at me with such pointed, poignant want in those blue eyes of his—especially when I told him Nick and I broke up.
I have to keep reminding myself that I could be imagining the whole thing. I’ve been feeling especially lost these days.
I’ve also been reading especially sexy books. Maybe my desperate body convinced my equally desperate mind to cling to any glimmer of interest, no matter how small, and now I’m blowing it totally out of proportion.
Southern Player: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 2