Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

Ford’s got this gleam in his eyes now. Before I know what he’s doing he’s wrapping me in a bear hug, pounding me on the back.

“Damn that’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Although I will admit—that I’m not so confident about. Being able to open up, to let her in. In a meaningful, lasting way. I don’t know if I can trust myself. Or the universe. What if it comes back to bite me in the ass?”

Ford pulls away and looks me in the eye. “Worth it. You’ve got to see by now that you’re hurting people—yourself included—by holding back like you’ve been.”

“I do,” I say, nodding. “I see that now. Or I’m starting to, anyway.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Deep down, I think you know you’re not the bad guy. You can trust yourself, Grey. You do it all the time in our work, and look where it’s gotten us.”

“I’ll try.”

He grins. “That’s all I ask.”

“I have a favor to ask you, actually.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Help me play defense for Julia tomorrow at supper? You know, if Mom and Dad are holding her hostage? It’s just been so long since either of us brought someone home, I’m worried they’ll go overboard.”

“I’d be happy to help. On one condition. As part of this new you”—he motions to me—“can you try to quit smoking, too? Get the gum or the patch or whatever. It’s long past time, Grey.”

I take a breath. Let it out. Ford holds my gaze all the while. A challenge.

“Deal,” I say.

On my way to my next meeting, I make a pit stop at a drugstore and buy a pack of nicotine patches. I even manage to refrain from buying a pack of cigarettes. Guess I’m committed.

Although I admit my heart falls as I read the instructions on the box.

This is going to suck. Hard.

But like I told Julia, some of the best things in life are the ones you have to work hardest for. And I’m willing to work my balls off for her and our baby. I also want to be alive to see that baby grow up.

So I slap a patch onto my arm. Growling the whole time.

It’s not a cigarette. But it gives me enough of a nicotine buzz to get through the rest of my day.Chapter NineteenJuliaGreyson: Hey

Greyson: I know its late

Greyson: dinner took longer than expected. New investor who really likes what we’re doing..

Greyson: anyway I’m not asking you to come over because thatt feels too much like a booty call at 12am

Greyson: but I’m thinking about you

Greyson: I am little drunk and want a cigarette so bad but I’m tryin not to have one did I tell you im starting the patch

Greyson: I’d love to get you naked and fuck you twice

Greyson: and then tell you in person how much I like you

Greyson: and how you’re making me want to be different

Greyson: because you’re different in the best way

Greyson: so much yourself

Greyson: true real

Greyson: no bullshit

Greyson: and your ass in those yoga pants [peach emoji]

Greyson: my emoji use is strictly iconic

Greyson: ironic

Greyson: okay I’ll stop now because Im hard I need to take care of it this is is getting I’m sorry

Greyson: night Julia?.* * *On Sunday morning, I meet Eva, who’s in town again, Olivia, and Gracie at Tipsy Taco. It’s a low-key spot in the up-and-coming North Morrison area of Charleston that serves some of the best Mexican in town in a funky atmosphere.

Since it’s sunny and sorta-kinda warm, we grab a picnic table next to a pair of heaters on the enormous outdoor patio.

“Want a sip?” Olivia says, holding out her Bloody Maria (a bloody mary made with tequila instead of vodka) when she catches me eyeing it.

I manage a tight grin. “I’m good, thanks. Just order a second one and drink it for me. Hell, have the bartender make it a double so you can really taste the tequila. I love it when a cocktail puts some hair on your chest.”

“Still missing your liquor?” Eva asks with a smile.

“You have no idea,” I reply, picking up my menu. “Although, I have to admit it felt really nice waking up this morning fresh as a daisy. I miss drinking, but I don’t miss the hangovers.”

I don’t mention that masturbating to Greyson’s adorable drunk texts contributed to this morning’s freshness. When I woke up to eighteen texts from him, I thought for sure someone either died and/or Luke Rodgers’ barn burned down.

It was a pleasant surprise to find a sweet little confessional instead. I was flattered—and turned on—by the fact that he was thinking about me. And I’m happy for him that he’s trying to quit smoking. Personally, I was always more of a social smoker than anything. Every once in a while I’ll crave a cigarette. But it’s one of the few things I’m glad I had to go cold turkey on once I found out I was pregnant.