Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

“Sounds good,” I say, and grab her hand. “Thanks, y’all. For being here. Clearly I’d be doing this alone without you.”

Olivia gives me a sympathetic smile and runs a hand across my back.

“He’ll show, Julia. It was probably just a mix up. And if it wasn’t, I will personally go kick his ass.”

“I’ll go too,” Gracie says. “Luke taught me how to properly swing a baseball bat. I keep one in my trunk, just in case.”

But Grey doesn’t show. The girls and I spend hours in the store. Scanner guns in hand, the three of us debating the merits of various bottle nipples and whether or not I’ll need a wipe warmer.

It’s not super fun picking everything out. Studying the various safety features of car seats is only so exciting. But it is fun being with my girlfriends for the morning. I always love their company. And it is exciting to think about using all this stuff when Charlie Brown arrives. Now that I can feel him or her moving, the whole thing is starting to feel thrillingly—terrifyingly—real.

Still. There’s a lump lodged in my throat the entire time as my anger and disappointment and frustration grow.

I feel like I’ve asked very, very little of Grey up to this point when it comes to the baby. Yes, he’s cooked. Yes, he’s been to a couple doctor appointments, and he’s taken me to Jeni’s when I’m craving Chardonnay but settle for ice cream instead.

But he hasn’t dedicated real time to really un-fun baby things like I have. The bottle nipples and car seats are case in point. I’d much rather read romance than books on breastfeeding, or spend the afternoon recruiting panel members and keynote speakers for next year’s summit.

Grey promised to be an equal partner in this. But the baby is barely the size of a spaghetti squash, and already I feel like I’m the one doing the heavy lifting.

It’s not fair. And it hurts my feelings that he’d put me in this position. That he’d let me do more, full well knowing how important it is to me that we share the work as equally as we’re able.

Grey calls just as we’re walking out of Hello Baby.

“Jules,” he says before I can say hello.

“Hey,” I manage.

“Oh my God, I am so fucking sorry, sweetheart. Shit really hit the fan over at The Champagne Bar this morning. A server stole three cases of Cristal and six of Veuve Cliquot—some of the most expensive stuff we have on the menu. Over ten grand, just gone. The cops came and we filed a report. I was on the phone for a fucking hour with our insurance agent trying to figure out what to do. It was a total clusterfuck. I couldn’t get away, and I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. But I—”

“Had to work,” I reply tightly. “Right.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Look, I really am sorry that happened at the bar. That sucks, and I hate that you had to deal with it. But we’ve had registry shopping on the calendar for months. Olivia and Gracie are here. This is important, Grey. Couldn’t, I don’t know, Ford or that sommelier who owns the bar have handled the situation over there? Why do you always have to be the one on the ground?”

“Because.” He lets out a breath. “This is my company, Julia. I have a lot of people depending on me to get these things right.”

I swallow. Let a beat of uncomfortable silence bloom between us.

“Grey, I’m disappointed. And embarrassed. And angry.”

“I know, I know, and that’s completely fair. I deserve all that and then some. I’m sorry, Julia. Let me make it up to you. Please. I swear I’ll make this right.”

I swallow. “Just like you swore to show up today?”

He lets out a breath. “I deserve that. I mean it this time. Please. Give me another chance. I’ve been sitting on something exciting for a bit—been waiting for the right time to share it.”

“Share what?”

“You’ll see. Can I pick you up in a bit? Your place?”

My turn to let out a breath. I cross one arm over my chest. Glance at Olivia and Gracie. They’re pretending not to listen to my call.

I think about that baseball bat in Gracie’s trunk.

I think about Greyson dancing at Olivia’s wedding.

“Please, Julia,” Grey is saying. “I feel like a fucking idiot. I messed up. I know that. But I want to show you that I am doing my homework—I am doing stuff to get ready for Charlie Brown’s arrival.”

“All right,” I say. “I should be home in an hour or so.”

“I’ll be there.”

Greyson is waiting for me in the driveway when I get back into town. When I climb into his truck, I notice he kind of looks like hell. His hair, usually neatly combed, is a mess. There are purple thumbprints underneath his eyes.