Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Might as well be three years.

Glancing down at my phone, I see that Bryce has finally passed out. I’d do a jig if I didn’t feel like death warmed over.

My stomach plunges at the knock on my door.

My first thought is, of course, Eva.

I suddenly don’t feel so tired as I leap off the couch and head for the door. My heart pumps with excitement, even as I tell myself not to get my hopes up. Could be a neighbor. Could be the exorcist God knew I needed tonight.

Could be Eva, coming to end things—really end things—even though I don’t know why she’d do that, considering she ended our relationship last time I saw her. But the sadist side of my imagination won’t let the idea go.

Gripping the knob in my hand, I close my eyes for a brief half-second. Then, heart in my mouth, I open it.

I feel like I’m going to actually pass out when I see Eva standing there. Wearing jeans and a white-t shirt, a tattoo peeking out of the sleeve. Hair in a ponytail, eyes swollen.

Eyes that fall on my face and well with tears, her lips parting on an intake of breath.

Feeling—so much damn feeling—filling the space between us. Crowding out every idea, every memory, every thought except the one that tells me to touch her. Soothe her. To trace the curve of her face with my fingers. The swell of her hip with my palm.

Eva lifts her arms. She’s holding a red and white thermos in one hand and a cloth grocery bag in the other. Her throat works on a swallow. She licks her lips. I wait for her to say something. Anything. Explain the cooler. Save me.

Shoot me down. Again.

“I…Ford, I fucked up,” she blurts, a tear slipping out of her eye.

Before I know what I’m doing I’m stepping forward in my bare feet and catching that tear with my thumb. She drops her arms over my shoulders and burrows into my chest, tucking her face into my neck. I feel the wet glide of her eyelashes against my skin as she closes her eyes.

The bag and thermos dangle at my nape.

My heart is doing continual somersaults inside my chest. But they’re excited somersaults. Hopeful ones.

Cupping the back of her head in my hand, I press my lips to her forehead and keep them there. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“I was wrong,” she says. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry, Ford. If you’ll let me, I’d like to apologize. Explain myself. I brought some whiskey sours I whipped up—”

“Of course you did,” I say “What’s in the bag?”

She steps back and pulls a couple pizza boxes out of the bag in question. “Frozen pizzas. I had time to make the cocktails, but not the pizza. Because priorities.”

“I already like where this is going.” I smile, the tension in my chest loosening. “Come in.”

I grab my phone from the couch, monitor still cued up. In the kitchen, I toss the phone onto the counter. Preheat the oven and take the pizzas out of their boxes while Eva pours cocktails from the thermos. I feel like I’m going to explode with joy just seeing her in my house again. I was really starting to believe she’d never be back. Filling the rooms in this house with her laughter. Her cooking. Her generous, wild spirit.

Handing a whiskey sour to me, she meets my eyes. “I’m sorry it took me a few days to reach out. I already made the mistake of having a serious conversation while in the throes of flu-induced mania, and I didn’t want a repeat of that lovely experience. Figured you wouldn’t, either.”

“Agreed on that point.”

“I also wanted time to gather my thoughts.” She takes a sip from her cocktail, rolling her lips between her teeth. “Figure out exactly what I wanted to say. I wouldn’t ask you for more than one chance to talk this through, and I had—have—a lot going on in my head, so…”

I manage a grin, leaning my head to the side. “What, you? Obsessing over what to say? What to do? Trying to perfect your grovel? Naw.”

She laughs. “I’m working on it.” Taking a deep breath, she sets her whiskey on the counter and nods at the stools. “Mind if we sit? I’m still not feeling one hundred percent. That flu really gave me a run for my money. How is Bryce feeling?”

Warmth invades my gut. I like where this is going. A lot.

I slide out two stools, and motion for Eva to sit in the first. She settles into it gingerly. The pain of the past week knocked her on her ass, too. We’re both bruised. Both worse for the wear.

But she’s here.

“Her fever broke a few days ago, and she’s on the up and up. Still cranky as all get out, though. In fact, an hour before you got here, she had a total meltdown about wanting to see you. And not wanting to take a bath. I love that baby, but Jesus Christ was I relieved when bedtime rolled around.”