Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Eva’s eyes flash. She dips her head in a nod. “Accurate. And let me just say there are days when I do feel like a badass, and days when I definitely don’t. I’ve been experiencing a lot of the latter lately.”

“Let’s talk about that,” I say, pulling out the empty barstool in front of me. My heart thumps inside my chest. “Sit.”

She looks up at me. Another beat of hesitation.

The bar thrums with rising energy, and so does the air between us.

“You really want to hear about my cookbook woes?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’re really not going to make me feel like an idiot for my career choices?”

“Fuck no. Only jackasses do that.”

Her lips twitch. “All right. If only because the jackass in you seems to be genuinely contrite.”

Sending up a silent prayer of relief, I hold out my hand. She takes it as she slides onto the stool. Electricity zings up my arm from the simple contact and spreads through my skin. Making it feel tight and warm and tender.

Two heartbeats later, I send up a silent curse when I notice her dress slide up her leg, revealing the smooth slice of muscle running up the side of her thigh.

I picture Eva kickboxing, pummeling the shit out of a bag as sweat drips down her neck. Down the crease between her tits. Punching and grunting.

Panting and sweating.

Clearing my throat, I give my pants a discreet tug underneath the bar. I stand beside but also a little behind Eva in the hope I can keep my badly behaved dick out of sight.

I never get wood in public.

I feel like a sick bastard for admitting this, but I kind of like it. Makes me feel wild.

Young.

Very far away from the reliable boss and responsible parent I have to be these days.

“Your mind’s in the gutter again, isn’t it?” Eva asks.

I blink. Look down at her. She’s got those fucking legs of hers crossed now and her dark eyes on my face, flashing with mischief.

I always found her brand of mischief irresistible.

“Nope,” I lie crisply. “So what’s going on with this cookbook?”

She tilts her head, like she knows I’m lying—oh, yeah, she’s grinning, she definitely knows—but instead of calling me out, she sips her cocktail and sets it on the bar.

“I just can’t seem to make it work. My first book came from such a place of love and certainty. Like, I knew what I wanted to say. What kind of food I wanted to share. But now…”

I take a gulp from my glass. They do not fuck around with their cocktails here. The liquor burns into my bloodstream. Adding fuel to the fire inside my skin.

“Now you’ve gotta go deeper,” I reply. “What else do you have to say? What other stories do you have to tell—the more subtle ones, the ones you’re less certain of? Stories that you’re afraid of, maybe, or that you haven’t quite figured out yet.”

“First of all, you’re totally setting me up for all these ‘that’s what she said’ moments.”

“Well, yeah. Old habits die hard. Always liked to make you laugh.”

“That’s a tall order these days,” she says, but she’s smiling as she says it.

“I’m up for the challenge.”

Eva holds up her drink. “This isn’t hurting.”

“Plenty more where that came from. Keep talking.”

Because when she talks, she burns. Good, bad—she feels it all, and she doesn’t shy away from it.

Probably the whiskey, but I’m suddenly starving for that kind of unabashed, unguarded heat.

“I guess I just don’t know what I’m trying to say. Or if I even have anything else to say. Like, am I a one hit wonder? I put everything I know about meat and smokers and sauces and sides into my first book. What else is there in my world?”

“Plenty,” I reply. “I mean that. A decade ago, I fell for the woman who wasn’t a successful pit master yet. And she had plenty to say then. She was plenty interesting, and real, and rare. Even if I couldn’t appreciate her in all her glory at the time. You’ll find your inspiration.”

She turns her smile on her nearly empty glass, curling a damp bar napkin around its base.

“That’s sweet of you to say. But sometimes…I guess sometimes I don’t feel like I’m enough, you know? Or maybe like I’m not doing enough. I keep thinking if I just try more—” Shaking her head, she lets out a heavy sigh. “Anyway. I was totally floundering in Atlanta, and my gut was telling me to come back home. So I rented an apartment over in the French Quarter next to Gracie’s, and here I am. I’m hoping that visiting my favorite spots in Charleston—places like this—will kind of kick-start my creative muse. Or at the very least kick its ass into gear. Plus I get to see my family a lot more, so that’s nice.”