Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

Old habits die hard.

Letting out a long breath through my nose, I try to focus on Max and Jane. Maybe they can help me break this vicious cycle of mediocre sex and lingering heartbreak.

He locked eyes with her. His gaze was so searing—so probing, as if the longer he looked, the more of her he could open up, peel back, expose—she had to look away.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Look at me, Miss DuPont. You’ll never get what you want if you don’t look me in the eye and ask for it.”

“I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

She ventured a glance his way, but didn’t meet his eyes. Her heart clenched. He was so handsome. And so intent on turning her inside out.

Why? Why did he care about her desires? Her, a strange, stranded spinster who longed for ardent experience but was too scared to share even a look.

Part of her wanted to run out of the room. Seek comfort in her father’s small but well stocked library. Seek comfort with her students. She was at home amongst lessons and literature. But with Max—

Max made her feel things that were terrifying.

“Afraid you’ll see something you don’t like,” she replied at last.

Max brought those dark brows of his together. He was silent for a beat. Then another.

“My thoughts are my own affair,” he said at last. “This is about you. What you think. What you feel. You’ve got to be more selfish.”

“I don’t imagine a selfish lover is a good thing.”

His lips quirked. “Indeed not. I only meant to suggest you think less about what I might see, and more about what you want. If our desires are not compatible, then what? We’re not compatible. No great tragedy. We couldn’t make each other happy anyway if that were the case. Regardless, I won’t have you holding back on me, Miss DuPont. I won’t have you smothering yourself, because you’ve done that long enough. Tell me what you need.”

Heat coursed through her body and gathered in her sex.

He was still a Duke.

She was still afraid.

But something in her had caught at the word ‘smothered.’ She had denied herself for too long. She had already lost so much time to hiding her desires.

She was done with that. Here, now, she would stake her claim. If things went wrong, she’d address it when the time came.

Meeting his eyes at last, she said, “I need you to call me Jane. And then I need confirmation that your backside is as delightful in the flesh as it appears to be in your breeches.”* * *Ducking underneath the sheet of plastic that divides the two halves of Holy City Roasters the next morning—we’ve remained open despite the construction—my mood lifts.

The new space is still a mess from all the work going on. We basically gutted the place, reworking the layout to create the light, bright, open atmosphere our customers adore. For months, it’s been a jumble of tools and dry wall, loud noises and construction dust. But I can finally see how it’s all coming together.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

The walls are covered in white subway tile that glistens invitingly in the early morning light. Toward the back, a long counter and pastry case combo stretch the length of the building. Topped in honed black granite, it’s sophisticated and simple, especially when paired with the unlacquered brass hardware we had custom made in England. My designer Julia calls it south-meets-southern-California-meets-the-tiniest-bit-chic-London-townhouse.

When the space beside ours became available last year, I jumped at the chance to grab it. My biggest goal has always been to create a real sense of comfort and community at the shop. To that end, I’ve spent years building up a loyal clientele. Which has paid off. I’m tickled to say we’ve got a lot of regulars, but also means we were bursting at the seams.

The new addition will give us an extra two thousand square feet. We’re adding new seating areas, an enormous communal table, and a kitchen, where the team of pâtissiers I hired will turn out all kinds of goodies to fill our new pastry case.

We’ll also be adding a nook with plenty of open shelving for merchandise. Our star logo wall has become a downtown Instagram darling, so we branched out into tees, travel mugs, and even tote bags. They’ve sold well so far. I imagine they’ll sell better when they’re not displayed in messy heaps in baskets crowded next to our register.

For a second I just stand there amidst the sawhorses and the plumbers streaming in and out of the bathrooms and the noise. Second cup of coffee in hand. Heart swelling as I take in ten years of dreaming—I knew I wanted to open my own coffee house after spending small lifetimes in coffee shops in Paris when I studied abroad—and five years of work coming to life.