Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

I scoff. “Do you have to?”

“Unfortunately, restaurants don’t operate according to Kenny Chesney songs. No shirt, no shoes—no service. At least in South Carolina.”

“A pity.”

“Not if it keeps me from maulin’ you before I treat you to a proper supper. How does barbecue sound?”Chapter Twenty-ThreeLuke“Cheers,” Gracie says, holding out her bottle. “Here’s to whole hog barbecue and Bud Light. I ain’t mad at it.”

I tap my bottle against hers, nodding at the red plastic basket in front of her. “You sure about that? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want some fancy-pants shrimp cocktail and a white Burgundy to wash it down with instead.”

I’m teasing. But there’s some small, mean part of me that’s still stung by what happened the other night.

A part of me that still feels insecure.

But Gracie laughs. Dimples coming out to play.

I forget about the fancy pants. Feel my own pants getting a little tighter instead.

“Luke, it is hot as balls, and I’m sure we’ll be engaging in some pretty strenuous activity later on.” She wags her brows, motioning to the meal spread out between us on the picnic table. “So nothing better right now than this.”

The ocean’s not far from here. I can smell it on the humid breeze.

“You too hot? I can go look inside to see if anything’s opened up.”

Taking a sip of beer, Gracie shakes her head. “This is perfect. We’ll catch the sunset this way.”

We’re on the back patio of Lacy’s BBQ in downtown Sullivan’s Island. If you could even call Middle Street a “downtown”. It’s more like a country road with restaurants and a few bars crowded on either side. Throw in a gas station and you got what we call bustling in this part of the low country.

But because it’s high season—tourists rent the large beachfront homes close by—the place is actually as busy as I’ve ever seen it. Which is why Gracie and I are outside, despite the ninety-degree heat. There were no seats left inside the tiny, low-ceilinged dining room.

I watch Gracie sip her beer as I sip mine. The beer is ice cold, thank the Lord, and refreshing as all get out.

She seems to be enjoying hers, too. Her skin is dewy with sweat, glowing in the twilight. Her hair sticks to her forehead. Tank top cut low enough for me to just peek at the lacy black bra she’s wearing. The one I like.

My girl looks so good it hurts.

Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s not my girl—not officially, not yet—that hurts. I’ve never been possessive of women. Never felt the need to claim.

But with Gracie, I do, and I don’t know how to talk about it without scaring her off. I just…

I been on the verge all damn night, ever since Gracie showed up at my place wearing those itty bitty shorts and a smile.

Not to mention her excitement about my farm. My grits. My plans. For a city girl, she sure as hell showed a lot of enthusiasm for a hundred year old grist mill.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t picturing her bringing Rodgers’ Farms to life right beside me as I took her on that tractor tour. Sleeping in my bed under the eaves in my house. Walking beside me through the fields. Baby on my hip, dogs at her feet, the two of us working side by side at that farmer’s market she was talking about.

Am I crazy to think we could make something like that work? Gracie said she wanted to help me transform Rodgers’ Farms. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.

More than that, she clearly believed in my vision for the property. If she believes in that—if she sees the same magic and same potential I do—does that mean she could grow to love the place, too?

Was Eli onto something when he said Grace and I got a shot at the real thing?

I look at her. Grace looks back. Smiles a little shyly, holding the mouth of her beer to her lips.

“What?” she asks.

I shake my head. Not gonna ruin our date by diving into the deep end of the pool first thing. I’m no novice—I’m good at dates. Gracie asked to see more of my world, and I’m gonna show her.

“Nothin’,” I say, grabbing a handful of napkins from the dispenser at the end of the table and passing them to Gracie. “Here. You’re gonna need these.”

I set my beer down and pull my little basket of food toward me. Gracie and I ordered the same thing: pulled pork sandwich, side of slaw and collards. I may have snuck in an extra side of Mrs. Lacy’s mac ’n cheese for good measure.

I take the top bun off my sandwich and set it to the side. Then I reach for the caddy of sauces beside the napkin dispenser. Don’t even need to look to grab my favorite sauce. I can just tell by the color—the sauce is in a clear plastic squeeze bottle.