Southern Charmer

by Jessica Peterson

  “They won’t be thrilled about the review,” I reply, referring to the hospitality investment group that I’ve partnered with. “But I’ll just point them in the direction of The Pearl, and they’ll go back to being happy.”

  By some miracle, the bad press The Jam has received hasn’t damaged the brisk business we do over at The Pearl. As proud as I am that we’re booked up months in advance, it means most people don’t get to eat there. Part of the reason I opened up The Jam (I know, I know, it’s way too fucking cute, but I love Eddie Vedder and make no apologies for it) is so more people can experience my food.

  “Now you’re just bragging,” Naomi says with a smile.

  I shrug, lighting another burner. Time to poach the eggs. “Damn fuckin’ right I am.”

  The tags on Billy’s collar jingle as he lifts his head. He looks towards the open doors. Then he gets up.

  Billy doesn’t get up for anyone.

  I turn my head to see a woman standing in the doorway. She’s in a flowy silk dress that’s way too dressed up for Charleston any day of the week. Least of all a Monday morning. Shiny sandals. Jewelry. Enormous, fancy black shades—designer if I had to guess—that cover half her pretty face.

  The only part of her that’s not impeccably put together is her hair. It’s a dark, wild, tangled mess.

  It’s just fucked hair.

  I like it.

  I recognize her as the girl who almost ran over our neighborhood’s infamous Guinea Fowl last night. If her New York license plate didn’t give her away as an out-of-towner, her half-horrified, half-flummoxed expression would have. You’d think I was a yeti from the way she looked at me.

  “Hi,” she says, putting her hand hesitantly on the doorjamb. “I’m—um—staying next door. I heard some shouting, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  Her New York accent dips on door. Comes out sounding like dawr.

  It’s cute.

  Naomi’s eyes dart to meet mine.

  “Eli doesn’t shout,” Naomi says. “But he certainly has a way with profanity, doesn’t he?”

  I look to see the woman letting out a breath. What did she expect to find? Me threatening Naomi or something?

  My stomach dips.

  “Shit, I’m so—shit, I can’t even apologize properly, can I?” I say, fisting my hair in my hand. “I’m sorry if I scared you. The cussing—it’s a bad habit.”

  “One you’re awfully proud of,” Naomi says.

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “I mean, I haven’t had my coffee yet. I can’t be held accountable for the stuff that comes out of my mouth.”

  The woman’s shapely lips curl into a small smile. Just big enough for me to catch a flash of white, even teeth.

  “So you’re saying you always call people dickheads and make bacon before coffee,” she replies.

  I let out a bark of laughter.

  “Only on Mondays.” I walk across the kitchen, Billy at my heels, and hold out my hand. “I’m Eli. I saw you last night in the street, right?”

  The woman takes my hand and gives it a firm shake. I catch a whiff of her perfume. Smells sexy. Expensive.

  Too expensive for you to afford.

  I blink. That’s a nasty little thought. This whole business with The Jam has really got me feeling all out of sorts.

  I ignore it. It isn’t like me to worry about shit like that. I don’t need to impress women with money to feel good about myself. Never have, never will.

  “Nice to meet you, Eli. I’m Olivia. And right—that was me last night. Thanks for the rescue from the fowl. I was worried I’d gotten lost. Charleston is definitely…interesting.”

  When I drop her hand, she pushes her sunglasses onto her head. Her eyes catch on my bare chest. They’re pale blue and wide. Intelligent.

  There are purple thumbprints underneath them.

  I notice she’s kinda pale. On the thin side.

  My kitchens are full of lost souls and misfits and tortured characters. I know a runaway when I see one.

  And this pretty girl in her fancy get up is definitely a runaway.

  Blame it on the overly friendly southern boy my mama raised me to be. But I want to know what her story is. What she’s running from.

  And yeah, that just fucked hair doesn’t hurt, either. Neither does the idea of having some company for breakfast. I don’t want to be alone right now. It’s hard to keep anxiety at bay when I’m alone.

  “You still look lost,” I say.

  She clears her throat, blinking, and meets my gaze.

  “And you’re still not wearing a shirt.”

  It’s Naomi’s turn to laugh. “Amen. I’ve been after Eli for years to dress like a gentleman. Or dress at all. Still a work in progress—the man never wears a shirt at home.”

  Olivia looks a little alarmed—and a little amused—at the notion.

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I nod, crossing my arms. “I’m always coverin’ up when I’m at work. If a man can’t be free in his own goddamned home…well, that’s a sorry state of affairs right there.”

  She’s grinning now. “The fowl certainly didn’t seem to mind. Do you have names for all of them? Or just Dolores?”

  “Just Dolores,” I reply, grinning back. “She’s my favorite.”

  Olivia’s stomach rumbles. Audibly. She quickly puts her hand on her belly, like she wants to muffle the sound.

  “Smells so good in here,” she says a little sheepishly. “This whole town smells good.”

  Naomi looks at me. I look at Naomi. She knows how much I like to feed people.

  She also knows how much I like brunettes.

  I’m not a pussy hound. Never have been. But after ending a long term relationship last year, I’m down to have a good time. I pretty much chucked normalcy out the window when I decided to become a chef. Maintaining a normal relationship with the hours I keep and the environment I work in is almost impossible.

  Almost. I still believe it can work if I find the right person. A woman who’s as passionate about what she does as I am. Figure that’s the only way someone will understand why I work and cook the way I do.

  Billy is looking up at Olivia now, wagging his tail. She reaches down to give his ear a gentle tug.

  “Why don’t you stay for breakfast, Olivia? I’m used to cooking for a crowd, and I made way too fuckin’ much, as usual,” I say, gesturing to the handful of pots and pans on the stove.

  Olivia’s eyes stray to the succotash. Then they move to Naomi.

  “I don’t want to interrupt—”

  “Sweetie, you’re not interrupting a damn thing.” Naomi slides off the stool. “As delicious as Eli thinks he looks without a shirt on—”

  “Hey,” I tease, holding out my arms. “I do look delicious. Don’t I, Olivia?”

  Olivia laughs, even as a blush spreads across her cheeks when her eyes sweep over my torso. She looks back down at Billy and rubs his neck.

  “—I’m taken. Even if I wasn’t, I’d never, ever date this guy. Meaning no offense.”

  Ducking my lips, I nod. “None taken.”

  “I’ll let y’all get to it.” Naomi slides her phone into her back pocket. She looks at me. “See you tomorrow, chef. Olivia, it was nice meeting you.”

  “You too,” Olivia calls after Naomi as she heads out the door.

  Then it’s just me and Olivia in the kitchen. She straightens, smoothing her dress over her thighs. She looks anywhere but at my chest.

  I bite back a smile.

  “Take a seat. Breakfast is almost ready.” I wink at her when she finally meets my eyes. “Girl, I’m gonna blow your mind.”

  Chapter Four

  Eli

  Olivia scoffs as she settles onto Naomi’s stool. Billy follows her. Lays down with a thump at her feet.

  Apparently I’m not the only guy in the room who noticed how good Olivia smells.

  How pretty she is.

  “Are all southern guys so cocky?” she asks.

>   “Some of us, yeah.” I face the stove and stir a splash of vinegar into a pot of simmering water. Then I turn down the burner. “But I’m one of the few who can back it up. Ever had grits?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aw yeah. You’re really in for it then.”

  Olivia laughs. A small, contained sound. “I take it you don’t get many Yankee grits virgins in your kitchen.”

  “You’d be surprised.” I toss her a grin over my shoulder. “So you are a Yankee.”

  “What? Did my accent give me away?”

  Now Olivia is grinning, too. She blinks. Like the expression is unfamiliar.

  “Among other things.” I grab two bowls from the counter and start to plate breakfast. Big ole scoop of creamy grits goes in first. I top that with the succotash, then crumble some bacon over it. The smell—smoky bacon, buttery beans and corn, starchy grits—is divine. I set the bowls back on the counter. Turning to the stove, I carefully crack an egg into the simmering water. “Where you from?”

  “New York.”

  “Where in New York?”

  A pause. Just long enough to let me know she’s thinking about her answer.

  “Upstate,” she says at last.

  I watch the white of the egg form a neat little ball. A couple more heartbeats and it’ll be ready. I’ve poached a million eggs in my lifetime. Not afraid to say I know how to make ’em just right.

  “Are all Yankee girls so coy?”

  “Some of us, yeah.”

  I smile at that.

  Egg is ready. I scoop it out of the pot with a slotted spoon and settle it right in the middle of the first bowl. Now my stomach is grumbling. I’m excited to share a home cooked meal with someone. Been too damn long.

  Grabbing a fork, a knife, and a napkin, I reach across the island and set it all, along with the bowl, in front of Olivia. Those big baby blues of hers get even bigger when they fall on the food.

  “Wow,” she says. “Eli, this looks incredible. Even though I have no idea what any of it is.”

  My chest swells a little at the compliment. I live for this shit.

  Feeding people good food.

  Blowing pretty girls’ minds by filling their bellies.

  The Jam, bankruptcy, bad reviews—they feel about a million miles away right now.

  “It’s a breakfast grits bowl. You cut open the egg,” I say, gesturing to her bowl with one hand while I wipe the other on the towel at my shoulder. “Let the yolk run all over everything. Brings it all together—Mama’s grits and the succotash and the bacon.”

  Olivia’s eyes flick to meet mine. They’re blazing with…

  Hunger?

  My heart skips a beat.

  Damn if I don’t want to know more about the strange mix of vibes she’s giving off. Her handshake was confident. Her laugh contained.

  But then there’s this wild, uncertain longing in her eyes.

  On the outside, she’s calm and confident and beautifully put together. Minus the just fucked hair, of course.

  On the inside, though, I get the feeling she’s burning.

  “Wow,” she says again, her gaze flicking over my chest before returning to the food. “Thank you. So much. Usually I just have coffee and, like, half a protein bar for breakfast. This is a treat.”

  I cross my arms. “Sitting down to breakfast is one of life’s best little pleasures. Eat.”

  Olivia does as I tell her. She carefully slices the egg open. Smiles when she gathers a little of everything on her fork—yolk and bacon and butter beans and grits—and puts it in her mouth.

  A mouth I suddenly can’t stop looking at.

  Blinking, I watch her eyes roll to the back of her head before she closes them. She lets out a little moan of appreciation as she chews.

  “So?” I say, clearing my throat.

  Olivia opens her eyes and meets mine. “So I don’t think there are words to accurately describe just how incredibly, insanely delicious this is.”

  She’s got this interesting way of speaking. It’s somehow smart as hell, refined almost, without being stuck up.

  I grin. “Told you I’d blow your mind.”

  “What are grits, anyway?” she asks, digging out a big scoop with her fork. “And how do you make them so damn good?”

  I watch her take one last bite before I turn back to the stove. If I keep watching her—

  Well. It’d make me a goddamn creeper, for one thing. And for another, I want Olivia to be able to enjoy my food in relative peace. To take in the flavors, remember them. This is her first time in the temple.

  I hope she’ll be back. Her enthusiasm—those little sounds she makes—it’s a nice reminder of why I started cooking in the first place.

  I crack another egg into the saucepan of water. “For simplicity’s sake, think of grits as ground up dried corn. They’ve been a staple down south for centuries. There are a million ways to make ’em, but I like to keep it simple. Add lots of butter, half and half. Sometimes cheese if I’m hungover.”

  “They’re, like, savory oatmeal almost.” Olivia’s words are muffled around a mouthful of food. “But way better. Do you make them every morning? If you do, I might have to stop by more often.”

  She’s kidding. I can tell by the teasing tone of her voice. But I still give her an earnest look when I turn around with my prepared bowl a minute later. I like having her in my kitchen. Anxiety and panic don’t threaten anymore. It’s just us. Good food. Good conversation.

  “I’ll make them for you as often as you’d like, Yankee girl.”

  Olivia’s eyes dance. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, southern…charmer.”

  “Fuckin’ hell, that show,” I say, referring to a popular reality TV show about a rich, ridiculous group of Charleston residents behaving badly.

  “It’s so awful,” she says. “I love it.”

  “Me too,” I say, laughing.

  I walk around the island and settle onto the stool beside hers. Her gaze flicks over me. Her nostrils flare, once.

  She looks away.

  At my feet, Billy perks up. He knows there are scraps coming his way.

  “So you’re a chef,” she says.

  I nod, taking a wolfish bite of bacon, egg, and succotash. Damn, that is good.

  “Yep. Been workin’ in kitchens since I was fifteen years old. Mama is an incredible cook, and she passed on her love of food to me. Was a no brainer to come to Charleston for culinary school—I grew up in Aiken, which is about three hours from here. I opened my first restaurant five years ago.”

  Olivia nodded. “And the rest is history.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Not quite. Few months back, I opened my second restaurant. I wanted to do something simpler. More casual. Critics have not been impressed.”

  “Why not?” she says, shoveling another spoonful of grits into her mouth. I bite back a grin. Girl can’t get enough, can she?

  “Bastards are tearin’ me a new one.” I shrug. For some reason, talking to Olivia about this stuff hurts a lot less than it usually does. Although I’d still prefer to talk about something else. “One of the guys called my menu ‘basic bitch southern food.’”

  Olivia blinks. “That seems unnecessarily harsh.”

  “Welcome to the restaurant world,” I say.

  “No wonder you were cursing.”

  “Yep. That had me going. And the coffee—shit, I forgot the coffee. Want a cup?”

  She grins. “Yes please.”

  I shovel in a few more bites myself before standing. When I have the time, I like to make coffee the Italian way—using freshly ground beans my sister Gracie, a coffee connoisseur, drops off from her coffee shop, and a moka pot on the stove.

  I make quick work of it. Grind the beans, fill the moka pot. Set it over a low flame on the stove. It’s immediately fragrant.

  Before the whole fiasco with The Jam happened, I used to love mornings at home. It’s been a while since I felt content like I do now. All thanks to the hungry girl wh
o showed up in my kitchen.

  I turn back to Olivia.

  “Well.” She pushes her empty bowl forward. “Clearly you know how to cook. I don’t think you’ll have any problem changing up your menu to impress those critics.”

  I settle my palms on the edge of the island and lean into them. Look at Olivia. “I’m not changing my menu.”

  She blinks again, her brow scrunching up. “Really? I don’t know much about running a restaurant, but I can’t imagine bad reviews are all that great for your bottom line.”

  “They’re not.” Another shrug. “Worst case scenario, we’ll have to close the restaurant. But I’m hopin’ it won’t come to that.”

  Now she’s looking at me sideways. “You don’t sound all that concerned about losing a restaurant. Losing the opportunity to open more restaurants. Don’t you—I don’t know, want to make money? Be a celebrity chef and all that?”

  “Of course I want to make money,” I say, searching her eyes. “But not at the expense of my happiness. I’m not gonna change my menu. I genuinely love the food we make. I’m proud of it. Cooking that way makes me happy. But changing who I am and what I cook to please some idiot behind a computer? That sounds like my own personal hell. Why on God’s green earth would I do something that makes me unhappy?”

  Olivia blinks. Her gaze has turned thoughtful.

  “But the money,” she presses. “The press. Being famous. The security that would buy you—the reputation you’d have—”

  “Isn’t worth it if I’m not happy,” I repeat. “I’m not sayin’ money isn’t important. Man needs something to live on. But I’ve got all I need.” I gesture to the room around us. “Could I afford a bigger place if I changed up my menu? Got better reviews? Opened more restaurants? Probably. But I love my little slice of Charleston. I love what I do. And that’s something I’m not willin’ to compromise on.”