Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

I was clearly not that someone, and never would be.

So I doubled down on my passions. I started my blog. Wrote like crazy at night, and worked at barbecue places during the day.

I missed Ford less, and liked myself more. I was doing what I loved. Granted, the pay was shit and so were the hours. But I stuck to my guns.

I stayed true to myself.

And you know what? It worked. Looking back, that period of my life was a painful, lonely, very broke time. There were days when I hated everything and everyone. But I kept at it. I leaned on family and friends. I saw a therapist.

I saw other people.

Now, a decade later, I’ve created a life for myself that I’m insanely proud of. It’s not perfect—hello, writer’s block, anxiety, and uncertainty—but it’s me. And I’m not sure that would’ve been the case if Ford and I had stayed together.

“Yeah,” I say. “It was awful at the time. But it was ten years ago, and I really do believe things happened the way they did for a reason, so…”

“So you’re going to walk into that barn like you own it,” Julia says, giving my leg a squeeze. “Remember you’re a kickass cookbook author and entrepreneur who built her own business from scratch. And—oh yeah—you look super hot in that dress.”

I tug at the hem of said dress, a strappy, flowy number in bright coral. I am kind of obsessed with it.

“You’re right,” I say. I clap my hands on my thighs. “You’re right. I’ll get the cake.”

I grab said cake—it’s enormous, stored in an equally enormous box—carefully lifting it out of Gracie’s trunk. I head up a gravel path toward the barn’s main entrance, keeping my eyes trained on my feet. Don’t want to twist my ankle in my new platform wedges.

Also don’t want to make unintentional eye contact with any fellow guests.

One guest in particular.

The barn itself, and the twenty acres of farmland surrounding it, belong to Gracie’s boyfriend Luke. He bought the Wadmalaw Island property a few years back. He grows heirloom varieties of corn out here that he mills into the most delicious grits on Earth. Recently, he hired Julia and Greyson to restore the barn into a storefront and gathering place where he can sell his grits and host monthly potluck brunches.

It’s why we decided to host the shower here. Julia and Grey fell in lust, then love, while working on the barn together. Not difficult to see why. The place is gorgeous. Carolina Lowcountry at its best. Late morning light filters through the giant oak trees that dot the property, their branches dripping with Spanish moss.

Stepping into the barn, I can’t help but smile. Julia’s talented designer touch is everywhere. The simple wrought iron chandeliers. The touch of European glam in the shiny brass cabinet hardware and plumbing fixtures. Shiplap on the walls, antique beams overhead.

I came out here last night with the other girls who are hosting the shower to decorate the space. We went with a honey bee theme, complete with balloons, swags of tulle, and cheesy but fun letter garlands that read: WHAT’S BUZZIN BABY. WELCOME HONEY BEE.

My chest swells with pride. I’m so damn happy for Julia. Things were looking a little dicey there for a minute for her. Her dad died last year. She got unexpectedly pregnant from all the hate sex she was having with Greyson, who was her boss at the time. She really wanted an equal partner in parenthood, but wasn’t sure Grey would be up to the task.

And now, how many months later, the two of them are crazy in love. Case in point: they’re currently holding hands in the middle of the barn, marveling at Julia’s work. She laughs; Grey kisses her.

My smile grows. Their story was less than perfect. Complicated. A little fucked up.

Love at its finest.

I want to find that brand of romance myself. I’ve had my fair share of relationships over the years. Boyfriends, eHarmony dates, booty calls. I wouldn’t say I’m unsatisfied.

I just haven’t found the kind of overpowering, soul-deep love I’m looking for.

I set the cake box on the long farm table at the front of the space. Tuck my hair behind my ear. Damn it, I don’t even know why I curled it this morning. The humidity has already made a mess of—

“Nice box.”

A tremor bolts through me—electrifying but silent, like heat lightning pulsing inside my skin—at the voice behind me.

It’s the kind of deep that sounds like it’s been roughened by sweet-smelling vices. Expensive cigars. Barrel-aged Kentucky bourbons.

The kind of deep I’d know anywhere.

Oh, Jesus.

I turn around, and my stomach dips.

He is standing there. All six-foot-two inches of him, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his perfectly tailored, perfectly pressed grey trousers.

Dark hair, light brown eyes, heavy scruff that borders on a beard.