Makes me think that even if she did, maybe we just don’t have enough in common to make a relationship work.
Deep down, I know Gracie and I connect on more than just a physical level. Didn’t we talk forever on the phone last night after the sex was over? Haven’t we trusted each other with truths and confessions and honest conversations?
Still. I’m ashamed to admit that tonight’s got me feeling less than secure. Same as I felt that day watching Gracie speak flawless French with her pastry chef. Twenty-four hours ago, I was so certain about everything. Certain Gracie and I were moving in the right direction. Certain we had something special and real. Certain I was making the right call with my triple-attack plan of adore, worship, conquer.
But now I feel unsteady. The ground constantly shifting beneath my feet.
Gracie said it herself—we are from different worlds.
Maybe too different.
I am ready for fifteen shots and twenty five beers by the time we make it to the bar. But somehow I doubt Lilly serves Jameson or Bud Light at her parties.
Gracie, meanwhile, is buzzing with energy at my elbow, chatting up the bartender.
“I’ll have a white wine, please,” she asks.
“We’ve got a Sancerre, a white Burgundy, and a Napa Valley chardonnay.”
“Ooooh,” Gracie says with a smile, “I’ll go with the Burgundy.”
The guy grins. “Good choice. Very clean minerality in that one.”
“Yeah, I usually prefer unoaked chardonnays, especially during the summer. They’re nice and crisp. I recently discovered Arneis, too, which is very refreshing—something a little different.”
I stare at Gracie. My beer-and-Jamo-shot girl knows wine?
Of course she does.
Of course. Because she can rip shots one night and sip fine wines the next without blinking.
Gracie Jackson in a nutshell.
He sets the glass on the bar. “You’ll like this one, then.”
Gracie picks up the glass by the stem and gives the wine a swirl, sniffing it. Looking like a goddam som—somel—whatever the fuck those wine expert people are called.
She takes a sip and grins. “Perfect. Thank you.”
“And you, sir? What will you be having?”
I cut a glance at the bottles of Heineken and a local IPA lined up beside the wine. For a second I think about just ordering what Gracie did. Pretending to like it. But I’ve never been a wine guy. I’ve tried it, many times. Just not for me.
So I order the IPA instead and take a long ass sip.
It’s delicious. Ice cold and hoppy, just how I like it.
I look down to see Gracie grinning up at me. She reaches out and squeezes my bicep.
“You’re being a trooper. I know it’s not easy coming to something like this when you don’t know anyone. But you’re doing great. Are you feeling okay?”
I sip my beer, resting my elbow on the bar. “You really think I’m doing great?”
“I do, yeah.” Her brows come together. “I just wanted to introduce you to some of my friends. The people I interact with the most. They really like you so far.”
I manage a smile. “I’m glad you invited me, and I’m glad I get to meet your friends, too. I just…I don’t know how much I have to contribute to the conversation, to be honest.”
“That’s all right,” she says, sipping her wine. She lowers her voice. “I get how intense some people can be. We’re in a house full of type-A overachievers. There’s a lot going on in here.”
I level my gaze with hers. Grin. “Are you saying not all overachievers are as cool as you are?”
“Everyone’s cooler than I am,” she says, laughing.
See. This is why I adore this girl so damn much. She’s ambitious, but she has zero ego. She takes herself seriously, but she can make fun of herself, too.
I feel slightly less unsteady. This is familiar territory. A nice reminder just when I needed it that maybe Gracie and I really aren’t so different after all.
I cannot wait to get her alone. I know on some level that’s a cop out. Wasn’t I just stressing about how sex is the only thing Gracie and I have in common?
Whatever. I may not know my way around this party. But the bedroom? I’m the master of that universe, no question. And right now, I need to feel like I’m good at something. I need Gracie to show me her truth.
A particular truth she hasn’t shown any of these highfalutin’ hedge fund managers.
She gives my arm another squeeze. “Listen, we’ll get out of here. I’m anxious to…you know. Get home. Just let me go say hi to a few more people.”
My pulse jumps at the idea of finally getting to the good part of the evening.
Still. I don’t want to rush her.
“We can stay as long as you like,” I say. “I can tell you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”
Gracie waves me away. “Look, I’m just going to sneak over there for five minutes and say hi to one of my mentors. Then we can leave. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say.
I watch as she moves through the throng, sidling up to another woman. The two of them hug it out, the woman laughing when Gracie says something. A dirty joke, maybe. A comment about her shit show of a day.
I can’t hear what they’re saying from here. But they are talking animatedly. Old friends catching up. I feel bad just standing here—maybe I should go introduce myself.
Then again, if the other conversations I’ve had tonight are any indication, I’ll probably just end up standing there like a big, tongue-tied idiot.
So I grab some shrimp from the nearby buffet table and just stare at Gracie from across the room like the creeper I am instead.
She’s standing beneath a big old chandelier, the light catching on her earrings and the white of her teeth. She looks so damn good in that dress. The way it’s cut, the fabric, the fact that this stylish, successful woman is wearing it—all that tells me it probably cost more than what my truck’s worth.
The steadiness of moments before retreats.
Gracie really does look so good, and so happy, and so at home in this fancy-pants crowd. A crowd I am a world away from in my stupid custom shirt and blazer that are a size too big and few years too old. Stuffing my face with shrimp cocktail no one else is touching.
I don’t run in this circle. Don’t want to. Not because I’m an insecure asshole and I’m threatened by them. But because they’re just not my people.
They are, however, Gracie’s. Quite clearly.
An ache gathers in the center of my chest. Spreading outward until it devours my heart, my lungs. My stomach.
I know better than to run through all the ways Gracie and I are different in my head again.
But I do it anyways.
Gracie is educated. Cultured. Accomplished. Ambitious. She likes the city, being in the thick of things, rubbing elbows with people she admires.
I like spending my days with seeds. Putting my hands in the dirt. Being alone out in the quiet at the farm, listening to the distant rush of the water above the sound of the trees.
I know I’m getting way ahead of myself here. But if Gracie and I are together the way I want to be—the forever kind of together—we’re gonna have to work to make our circles overlap more.
But would she really want to come live out on Wadmalaw? Probably would mean skipping out on stuff like this upon occasion. Would she be okay with that?
Is it even right to even ask her to? Because she obviously loves these events. And I’m not all that sure she’d love being out in the sticks with me.
Just like I’m not all that sure I’d love being downtown with her.
First the whole speaking French thing with her pastry chef. Now this whole…situation.
I want her. Bad. That has not changed.
But the chance of us having a happy ending? I think that has changed. Or it’s just gotten more complicated.
I reasoned that if I could draw out Gracie’s authenticity, her h
onesty, we’d be golden. And even though I’m doing it, and even though I think her bravery is a beautiful fucking thing, it doesn’t negate any of these barriers between us.
Barriers that could, God, require very real, very dedicated work on both our parts to overcome.
I love that Gracie is well connected. I love that she has this incredible network of people who genuinely adore and respect her.
I want those things for her. I could never in good conscience deprive her of them. But if that means eventually having to let her go—
Then I’ll have to let her go. And she’ll take my heart with her.
Because even though we’re different—even though we don’t even exist on the same fucking planet—I’m still falling for her. Fast and reckless.
A recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.
Chapter Seventeen
Gracie
Luke is quiet as we head out of the party. I can feel the emotion radiating off him. My chest absorbing wave after wave of angst, making my heart clench.
Was bringing him a mistake? My intentions were good. But I could tell he felt out of place. Which is totally understandable. That was quite a rarefied crowd in there.
Still. No one was rude—not that I could tell. And it is my crowd. Well, one of them, anyway. I have my fingers in a lot of pies here in town.
Those people mean something to me. If I’m real about potentially giving a relationship with Luke a shot, I would’ve had to introduce him to everyone at some point. It’s important my friends get to know my significant other. That they like him, and he likes them.
But I’m not so sure Luke liked many people at the party. Which is a bummer.
It also makes me feel like a schmuck. Because he’s a good guy. A nice guy. He gets along with everyone.
Except, maybe, people who are pretentious—inadvertently or otherwise.
No one is at fault here. Except maybe me. I should’ve told him exactly what kind of cocktail party it was. But I was so…excited, I guess, when I asked him last night that I completely spaced on mentioning it.
I turn my head a little. My heart clenches again at Luke’s handsomeness. His hair is neatly combed and parted, clearly tamed into submission by some kind of product. Scruff trimmed short enough that I can see the gleam of his jawbone when the light of a nearby lamp catches on it. And his lips—they’re full, even when pulled into a thoughtful frown.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so dressed up before. He’s going for the whole athelete-doing-a-casual-yet-classy-post-game-press-conference look, and it is working for him.
Lord, is it working.
His subtly patterned blazer makes his arms look like cannons. He’s unbuttoned the top few buttons of his perfectly pressed light pink shirt, allowing that ridiculous chest hair of his to peek out. I happen to prefer those Bruce Springsteen jeans of his—the ones he wore that day I ran into him outside The Pearl—but the ones he’s wearing now look pretty damn good, too. I like how they mold to the tree trunks of his thighs.
And that ass—
My God, that assssssss. I could make a meal of that thing.
Luke catches me checking him out. I wait for him to crack a joke. Something about butt stuff, maybe, or pantalettes.
Instead, he slides his hands into his pockets. Offers me a tight smile.
It guts me.
“Hey.” I slip my fingers around his arm, slowing him down. “Hey, Luke. Talk to me. I can tell you’re upset.”
He looks away. Still walking but slower now. I curl my hand around his arm, and he pulls it against his side. Keeping me close.
The night is warm and soft around us. Luke is warmer. Harder.
I want all of him. A quiet, wild kind of want that fills me to the point of drowning.
“I meant it when I said I was glad you invited me.” His eyes flick to meet mine. “I liked being the guy on your arm in there. I guess I was just taken off guard by how…ah, successful your friends are, I guess? That’s a whole different world, Gracie. One I definitely don’t belong in.”
I blink, startled. “You mean the guy who played major league baseball for three seasons and is now milling his own goddamn grits on a farm he completely rebuilt doesn’t belong with other successful people? Jesus, Luke, you were the most accomplished guy there. By far.”
This makes him smile. A real smile. The kind that touches his eyes and makes my stomach flip.
Be careful.
Oh, God, but aren’t we past that now?
How the fuck did that happen?
And why am I not more alarmed by it?
“Well, when you put it like that…” he teases. “But really. Being around your friends—made me realize how different we are. You said yourself we come from different worlds.”
“Doesn’t mean we’re intrinsically different,” I say. “Deep down, I mean. How do you think we’re different?”
He lifts one massive shoulder. “You’re bein’ asked to run for president of the Columbia business school alumni association. I’m plantin’ corn. I know that’s an oversimplification, but you see what I’m getting at.”
I run a hand through my hair. Funny how the tables have turned. How, when I first asked Luke to hook up with me, he was the one trying to win me over with optimism. Now I’m the one asking him to look on the bright side.
Makes me think about what Dylan said the other morning. You’re back.
I decide to try her tactic. Turn Luke’s assumption on its head. Look at it from a different angle.
I know that whatever comes out of my mouth, I’m saying it as much to Luke as I am to myself.
“I do see,” I say. “I do acknowledge that our résumés look different. We’ve taken different paths, and we’re passionate about…well, kind of random things.”
“Yes,” he replies. “Pretty much what I’m thinking.”
Be brave.
“But we’re both—think about it, Luke. Even though our passions are different, we’re still abnormally, ridiculously into what we’re doing. We both have big dreams, and we’re going after them with everything we’ve got. We’ve learned to trust ourselves and take chances. I guess my point is—the stuff that goes on our résumés may not look compatible. But the stuff we’re made of? The shit we value? I think that’s the same. And aren’t those the things that really matter?”
He stops, shoes making a flinty sound as they catch on the sidewalk. Turns to me. Even in four inch heels, I’m almost a head shorter than him.
I can’t read the expression on his face. He looks equal parts pained and aroused. Eyes stormy.
Butterflies are everywhere inside my torso, their wings brushing up against my sides.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. Voice barely above a growl. “But the most beautiful thing about you, Gracie, is that mind of yours.”
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. I don’t know what else to say. So I go with a simple: “Thank you.”
“I hadn’t considered that idea. And yes, I agree that those are the things that matter. We been talkin’ a lot about truth, and I do think our truths and our minds get along real nice. We can be ourselves with each other—that’s important. And special. But I still think—in the long run—” He furrows his brow.
“What?”
Luke lets out a breath, gaze roving over my face. That pain in his eyes. It’s killing me.
“Nothing,” he says, giving his head a shake. “You’re right. I’m gettin’ way too in my head here. We’re more alike than we are different.”
I turn my head to look at him from the corner of my eye. “You sure? You don’t sound entirely convinced.”
He looks at me for a beat. Then another. The storm in his eyes rages. I can feel the fierceness of the waves. Hear their angry roar.
Luke blinks, and in the space of a few heartbeats the storm passes. Leaving calm, glittering blue in its wake.
The transition seems sudden. Almost a little forced.
But then he’s reaching up,
brushing the hair out of my face and cupping my cheek. The feel of his fingertips on my neck makes my skin come alive.
All hesitation—all the questions I have—disappear.
Fuck the maestro. This guy is a magician.
“Baby girl,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “Why you gotta make me feel this way when you’re with me?”
I roll my tongue between my lips. “Feel what way?”
“Like everything’s gonna be okay.”
My heart is working double. Gut screaming at me. Say what you feel. Tell him tell him tell him he needs you now don’t wait.
And telling him isn’t committing to anything. It’s not any kind of promise.
It’s just the truth.
Searching his eyes, I say, “What if it is?”
The idea hangs between us. It’s as novel to me as it is to him.
Am I ready? Is he ready?
Are you ever ready?
This is moving in the direction of what I’ve always wanted—the one great love. But in my search for it, I’d never once considered that as wonderful as it would be to hand your heart over to your soul mate, it would also be terrifying. That person now has the power to crush you. Devastate you.
Make a fool of you.
But looking in Luke’s eyes, I see softness. Kindness. Certainty.
He knows what he wants. He takes care of what he loves.
I’d like to think he’d take good care of me. My heart, too.
“What if it does work out, Luke? Your farm. My new place.” I roll my lips between my teeth. “Us.”
My breath catches when he reaches up. Takes my face in his hand. It makes my skin come alive—the feel of his fingertips on my neck.
“What if,” he murmurs. Drawing his thumb across my lips.
“You,” I say.
“What?”
“You’re always asking me what I want. I want you,” I say softly. “Come home with me.”
Luke’s brows scrunch together.
Another pause. Does he really have to think about this? He’s never hesitated before.
“I’m followin’ you,” he says at last.
Chapter Eighteen
Southern Player Page 15