Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

I’m trying. Maybe that’s enough right now.

I clear my throat. The words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them.

“What are your plans for this weekend?”

“My plans?” He sounds surprised. “Well. I was gonna harvest some watermelons. And. Uh. Make some dinner for my mamas. Otherwise…I’m pretty open. I’ll actually be downtown tomorrow if you’re around. Got my delivery to make to The Pearl. Then I was gonna head to the library to do a little research on some seeds. But afterward, I’m free.”

Oh, be still my nerdy, book-loving heart.

I don’t know what’s more stupid—asking what I’m about to, or not asking at all.

I decide to ask.

“I have a thing tomorrow night.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah. A cocktail thing. It should only last an hour or two. But the drinks are always great and so are the people.” I take a breath. Lord, please don’t let me be making a mistake here. “Come with me. Then we can hang out afterward. Grab a cocktail. Do butt stuff.”

Luke pauses, and my heart jumps to my throat.

“Gracie. What are you doing?” he asks. Voice low.

“I’m being open minded,” I say. “Just like I promised.”

Heart drumming as I wait for his reply.

And wait.

“I’d love to,” he says at last. “What time can I pick you up? And are you gonna bring the lube or am I?”

I laugh. “I got it.”

We spend the next hour talking about lube and legumes (he grows a lot of beans on the farm). About Olivia’s writing and the new Jack Ryan series—the one with John Krasinski (Luke and I are both big fans). About John Mayer and my attempts to remedy my addiction to Instagram and Luke’s shaving routine (he shaves his neck and trims his beard every other day, otherwise it gets itchy).

The water gets cold. Luke gets sleepy, his voice like gravel.

I’m smiling when we finally hang up.

A smile that lasts through the next morning, when I make a trip to the Rite Aid down the street first thing.Chapter FifteenLukeGracie is running late at the shop, so she told me just to meet her at the cocktail party. I didn’t think all that much about the address she texted me when I Googled directions.

But now that I’m downtown, my GPS telling me I’m three hundred and thirty one feet from my final destination, I am thinking about it.

I’m thinking about it because this part of town is nice. It’s the South of Broad neighborhood—the leafy, mansion-lined streets you see in all the travel brochures and commercials about Charleston. Bill Murray lives somewhere around here. Along with all the old money Charleston can squeeze into the tip of the peninsula.

I haven’t had an occasion to be down these streets in years.

I pass a massive house on the corner that seems to go on forever. Honestly, the thing must be ten, twelve thousand square feet, easy. Three stories and wide porches on the top two levels that look out over a gorgeous garden overflowing with—well, from what I can tell, some epic boxwood topiaries, towering oaks, and a wide, manicured lawn. Plus a pool, a fountain, and some moss-covered statues of naked babies.

What is up with rich people and their statues of naked babies? My mamas and I never got that.

The whole property is lit up. Enormous gas lanterns hang from the porch ceilings, bathing the people below in soft, summery light.

Looks like a party. A very fancy pa—

“You have arrived at your destination,” my GPS informs me.

My stomach clenches, and for no reason at all I slam on the brakes. My truck is a trooper. But stopping short is one of the (many) things it does not handle well. It groans. And then it shudders before making this terrible, rusty clanking noise.

It’s so loud that the people at the party on the porch look up.

Aw, shit.

Immediately I turn off the Reba I got blasting. My windows are down—it’s eight o’clock, finally cool enough to not die without the A/C going—and that means everyone and their mama can hear what I’m playing.

I spear a hand through my hair.

Quite the first impression I’m making.

Jesus. Gracie’s gonna pull a watermelon on this date before it even starts.

Reba was supposed to calm me down on the ride over. Nothing like belting out the lyrics to “Fancy” to soothe one’s soul. And Lord do I need some soothing. I’ve been a lot excited, a little nervous ever since Gracie invited me out last night on the phone. I am trying very fucking hard not to read too much into it. I told myself not to get my hopes up. I told myself she only asked me to come as a friend and a butt stuff buddy, nothing more.

But maybe, just maybe, she asked me as more than that. She was the one who called me yesterday. Granted, it was for phone sex. At least at first. Then we started talking about her day, about the value of taking risks, and then all of the sudden she’s asking me out.