Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

I shake my head, my anger growing. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You have my love. I love you. I trust you. I’m offended you’d ever think I could be bought like this.”

His eyes search mine. Anger’s in them now too, along with the hurt.

I’ve hit a nerve.

“I’m not trying to buy you,” he says, nostrils flaring as he ducks to get in my face. “I’m trying to do something nice. If you don’t like the damn house, then fuck it. We don’t have to buy it. We can just tell our kid to go play in the street in front of your garage apartment or something. I’m sure that’s safe.”

I’m breathing hard. Blinking back tears.

“Don’t be stupid,” I bite out. “Yes, we need a place that’s better suited to kids. But we don’t need a place that’s this big or this new or this expensive. We need one that we can afford without you working eighty hour weeks.”

“Jesus Christ, Julia, what do you want me to do?”

“Our lives are about to change, Grey. Our priorities should, too. Work is important. But it’s not everything. It can’t be.” I blink. Hard. “Please. Meet me halfway here.”

He scoffs. “Is buying our family a house not meeting you halfway? Is that not showing you I’m committed to you and this baby?”

“It’s showing me your priorities are fucked up. You don’t contribute by throwing money at us. You do it by participating in our lives in a meaningful, consistent way. You show up to doctor appointments on time. You spend Saturdays in bed with me instead of in meetings. You don’t blow off important dates. You say you’ve searched for a house for months. But have you even looked at your paternity leave yet? Are you planning on taking any? You keep saying we’ll figure things out, but I think that’s just your way of blowing me off. I’ve spent hours in meetings with HR and my bosses and mentors trying to figure out how to make my maternity leave work without damaging my career. Days coordinating appointments and ultrasounds and reading books. Days researching registries and working on budgets for when I go on leave. And what have you done? Honestly, Grey, tell me what heavy lifting you’ve done for this baby.”

He lets out a growl and spears a hand through his hair. Looks away.

“I work. A lot. In a very stressful environment. You can’t tell me that’s not heavy lifting.”

I just shake my head. “It is. Of course it is. I know you work hard. That’s not the point I’m trying to make. I’m trying to say working like that isn’t the right kind of lifting. Working like that is exactly what’s keeping you from being the partner I need. You’re stressed. Worn out. Buying this place is only going to make that worse. Do you see what I’m saying here, Grey? Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

He shoots me a look. It’s murderous. Angry.

“The money I make won’t just pay for a house like this. It can pay for childcare. College. Whatever this baby needs, I can give them.”

“Except quality time. That, you can’t spare.”

Yeah. Think it’s safe to say he doesn’t see. He’s too angry. Too entrenched in old ways of thinking, maybe.

All I know is I can’t reach him. Which fills me with a crushing sense of loss.

“You don’t want the house,” he grunts. “I get it.”

He turns and stalks out of the kitchen.Chapter ThirtyGreysonThe space between Julia and I rings with silence on the drive home.

I’m worried I’ll say shit I’ll regret if I open my mouth. I already did enough damage back at that house.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know she’s right. But so am I. I worked really hard to find that house. Time spent on the phone with Vanessa, touring properties, thinking about what my family will need going forward.

I’m too wound up, maybe. It’s not like I didn’t want to go registry shopping with Julia. Hell, I would’ve loved to have spent the morning with her. Way more than I enjoyed dealing with cops and crises and all the other un-fun crap that comes with opening a new bar or restaurant, that’s for damn sure.

But who else was supposed to deal with that stuff? What was I supposed to do? Tell my business partners—my investors—hey, sorry, can’t open the bar we’ve all poured tons of money into because someone stole our stock but I couldn’t handle it because I had to run out to buy some baby bottles we won’t need for another four months?

I’ve been the point person on this project since the bar’s inception. I had to be there. It would’ve been irresponsible to leave. Not to mention stupid.

“Drop me off at my place,” Julia says. Eyes glued to the passenger side window.