Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

Eva draws back. “Holy shit. That’s actually really sweet.”

“Right? I was shocked,” I say. “But I’m excited. To meet his family, obviously. But also to find out where he comes from. Maybe get a few clues as to why he is…you know, the way he is. He’s been slowly opening up to me, but I haven’t gotten the full story.”

“I know he got divorced a few years back,” Gracie says. “Greyson is a very private person, so he’s never explicitly mentioned it to me. But I bet that has something to do with his growling.”

My pulse skips a beat. I had no idea Greyson was married. I’ve had a few friends go through divorces, and it’s pretty horrible for all parties involved.

I remember that sliver of vulnerability I saw in him the other night. I thought it was at odds with his intensity. But maybe I was wrong.

He’s intensely focused at work. Intensely involved, down to the last detail.

Makes sense that he’d feel things intensely, too.

My pulse skips another beat at the thought of him hurting. The thought of him being wounded.

Or was he the one who did the wounding?

“Maybe,” I say absently, glancing at Eva’s margarita. “I just want him to let me in.”

“If he’s as crazy about you as it sounds like he is, then he will,” Olivia says. “It took me a good bit to let Elijah in. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, you know? So maybe Greyson taking things slow is his way of protecting you.”

Shit, I’m going to cry again.

I shove a chip into my mouth. Chew. Swallow.

If Greyson is protecting me—

If he’s holding back on my behalf—

If he gives that much of a fuck—

The idea is making me ache. The kind of ache I feel when I read an especially juicy romance novel.

Eva nudges me with her elbow. “You all right there, killer?”

“No. Nope. I’m—y’all, I’m so overwhelmed. In the best way? Kind of?”

“Want to talk about penises instead?” Gracie pops another chip into her mouth. “You said Greyson’s got a nice one.”

“That’s as much info as y’all are getting,” I say, laughing. “If you need more penis in your life, read one of Olivia’s books.”Chapter TwentyJuliaThere’s a prenatal class later that afternoon at the yoga studio Olivia recommended. Stuffed to the brim with lady love and shrimp tacos, I decide to give it a shot.

I just barely fit into my stretchiest pair of workout tights. My sports bra strains over my ever-growing breasts. I feel chunky and unwieldy. But I am determined to make it to class nonetheless.

So I drive to the studio and rent a mat. The dude at the front desk directs me to studio C, all the way at the back of the building.

I put my shoes and purse in a locker and tuck my mat under my arm. The smell of incense tickles my nostrils as I head down the hall, painted orange and decorated with posters advertising various classes and yoga-related trips.

I pass studios A and B on the way. Through the frosted glass doors, I can see there are classes going on in each one. They’re packed.

Makes me think there’s a real community at this studio. Or maybe that’s just me hoping there’s a lot going on here. Don’t get me wrong, I have an amazing support system in my life right now. But I don’t have a lot of mom friends.

I don’t know anyone who’s going through what I am right now.

It would be really, really nice to have some people to commiserate with.

I pause in the threshold of studio C when I see the twenty or so pregnant women inside. They come in all shapes and sizes, same as their bellies. Some are heavily pregnant, their inverted bellybuttons poking sweetly through their tank tops. Others, like me, aren’t showing much at all.

Everyone is chatting. The room buzzes with energy.

I feel equal parts intimidated and…relieved, maybe?

The teacher, an Asian woman with a sleeve of flower tattoos, greets me warmly, beckoning me into the room. She holds a plastic model of a pelvis in one hand and extends the other to me.

“I’m Katie,” she says. “Welcome to class. I don’t recognize your face. Is this your first time in the studio?”

I don’t know why, but my voice shakes a little when I introduce myself. Which in a way delights me, as I’m used to addressing rooms full of people. I’m out of my comfort zone here.

Not a bad thing.

I grab one of the few remaining spots toward the front of the room. Katie sets me up with “props”, as she calls them. Two foam blocks, a bolster, and a blanket.

To start class, she has us go around and introduce ourselves.

“Tell us how far along you are, if you know the gender, and how you’re feeling. Please, don’t be shy with details. We love to overshare in this class!”