Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

My OB-GYN sends me on my way with a literal bagful of literature. Breastfeeding and childbirth classes. A page-long list of fish you are and aren’t allowed to eat. A pamphlet on options.

My head is spinning.

It’s a beautiful fall day, the weather sunny and mild. My amazing TA, Irene, is handling my afternoon class, so I don’t have to head back to work. I’ve always been a big walker; it’s where I do some of my best thinking. When I get home, I cue up My Romp With the Rogue on my phone—I’m on my second read because I love it so much—pop in my earbuds, and head outside.

Outside Charlotte’s bedchamber, Callum was still very much a monster. Growly. Rude. Impatient.

But in it?

In it, the man proved to be an altogether different creature.

They’d been married for weeks now, and he came to her chambers every night. And every night, it all felt thrillingly new.

Even now, buttering her toast the morning after he had her up against a wall, had her bent over her writing desk, and had her once more in the warmth of her bed, her toes curled at the memory of his ministrations.

He took charge, certainly. But he could also be tender. Generous.

Even kind.

It made Charlotte think there was a good man behind the mask.

Which begged the question—why did he hide behind it?

She nearly jumped when he appeared in the doorway. He was in breeches today, topped with a smart waistcoat that accentuated the breadth of his chest and shoulders.

She knew what he’d ask before the words left his mouth. His eagerness for an heir was obvious from the start.

“Any news?”

Charlotte shook her head. “Not yet. I shall inform you of any as soon as I have it myself.”

“And your courses?”

Normally, she’d blush at discussing such personal matters with anyone, much less a man. But with Callum, it almost felt…natural.

Easy.

“No sign of them yet.”

He fell heavily into the chair across the table from hers and reached for the toast.

“Why are you so eager?” she asked. “For an heir?”

Callum’s eyes flicked to meet hers. “It was in the marriage contract. I must have an heir in order to inherit my uncle’s land.”

“I think there’s more to it than that.” She straightened, gathering her courage. “Your butler informed me your brother was your only sibling. Your mother died when you were young, and your father spent his life in London, leaving you behind in Scotland. Exactly how lonely were you?”

He went very still. Clouds gathering in his eyes.

“We do not speak of my brother in this house,” he replied evenly. “I forbid it.”

If only Charlotte were not drawn to forbidden things.* * *I walk for hours. Up East Bay. Across the Ravenel Bridge and back. Walk through my thoughts, parsing through fears, hopes, histories.

I end up standing in front of a familiar, four-story facade on Church Street in the South of Broad neighborhood.

The house I grew up in during my teenage years.

Daddy and I pored over paint samples for months before deciding on the white-on-white color scheme. Our inspiration had been a house in London’s Notting Hill, which we’d photographed on one of our many trips to Europe over the years.

I take out my earbuds. My grief hits me square in the gut, leaving me breathless. I miss him. Every damn day. I was always close with my parents. But Daddy and I had a special bond. He was a well-known architect here in Charleston, and we were both obsessed with design. Specifically European design, and the travel and the history that came with it.

He was the best travel buddy, my biggest cheerleader, and my shoulder to cry on. Losing him was like losing a limb. I knew I’d never move in the world the same way again.

I grip the wrought iron gate guarding the driveway, trying to steady myself. Trying to breathe.

Squirrels dart across the lawn and climb up an old oak tree. The humid, salty smell of the ocean, just down the street, permeates everything.

I swallow the tightness in my throat. Heart racing.

What in the world am I going to do about this baby? This feels adult and scary in a way nothing else ever has. Not going away to college or getting a job or starting my own design business.

This is not at all the direction I imagined my life would take.

Then again, I’m thirty-four. I have the privileges of a great job with decent benefits, a healthy savings account I’ve worked for years to build, and an amazing support network. I’ve had plenty of time to experience the world on my own and achieve my goals. If I decide to have this kid, chances are I could provide the kind of life I want for her and for myself, too.

This pregnancy was unplanned. But in many ways, I am not unprepared.