Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

Gah, way to chicken out.

I’m just—

Just.

“Why’d you stay with him?”

It’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask.

“Who?”

“Daddy’s boat guy. If the sex was meh.”

“Oh. Nick. Well.” Gracie finishes her beer. “I thought the sex would get better, for one thing. So typical of me to think if I just tried harder, if I could just become his perfect partner, I could make him want me enough that the problem would go away. Which is why I kept most of my bucket list from him.”

“You kept yourself from him.”

But you didn’t keep yourself from me.

She tips her beer in my direction. Scoffs. “Yup. Crazy it didn’t work out, right?”

I tip back my beer and finish it. Gotta be careful—I’m driving, so two beers is my limit tonight. Right now, though, I could use a little liquid courage.

“You still think we got a chance to work out?” I ask, locking gazes with her.

Her lips part. Eyes go all soft again, just how I like ’em.

I feel like I’m being raked over hot coals as I wait for her reply.

“I do,” she says. “I really do, Luke.”

“Why?”

“Because.” More dimples. “That night at The Spotted Wolf—remember when we talked about intimacy? I realized I had never been fully intimate with anyone because I was too scared to show them who I really was. But you’ve given me a safe space where I can just be. No trying to be perfect. No smothering or hiding. I can show you the truth about who I am and what I want. And you—Luke, you welcome me with open arms. You see me, and you know me, and you make me feel more at home in my own skin than I ever have before.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’re giving me way too much credit.”

“I’m not,” she replies easily. “I’ve done a lot of work on my own to get to this place, yes. But you’ve been right there beside me. You.”

Me. No one else.

None of those suits at the party.

None of those guys from her past.

Me.

“What about you?” Gracie asks. “Do you think we have a chance?”

Do I?

I want to be with Gracie. For real. Forever.

Maybe we come from different worlds. Maybe we’ll never make those words overlap. Maybe she’ll slip through my fingers no matter how tight I hold on.

But if I don’t take this chance while she’s offering it, I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

“Let me go grab us another round,” I say. “I think we got a toast to make, Gracie girl.”Chapter Twenty-FourGracieWe spend hours at that picnic table. Talking shit. Talking about everything and nothing and our parents and our pasts.

Shyly talking about our future plans. Together.

The sun sets. Crowd changes. Luke goes inside to grab a banana pudding for dessert.

We go across the street to another bar. I manage to sneak my card to the bartender so I can buy a round.

This pisses Luke off to no end.

“Would Max the Duke let Lady Jane buy him a drink?” he says. Holding my beer hostage between his fingers.

I try to grab at it. He fends me off by offering his forearm.

I gladly grip that instead.

He steps closer.

Why does he gotta look so good in that shirt and this hat? I’m wearing flat gladiator sandals and he towers over me. Shirt lying smooth against the muscles in his chest, his arms. His back.

He smells like a literal fucking Irish spring. Clean. Skin. Boy.

“He wouldn’t,” I reply. “But she’d do it anyway. You see, she does what she wants. And Max adores her for it.”

“Does he now?” Luke says, finally handing me my beer. Brushing his fingers against mine in such a blatantly intentional way I can’t help but smile. “Just like I adore you?”

I look up at Luke. Heart dipping inside my chest.

“Yeah,” I say softly. And I mean it. “So you know I love romance. I’ve gotten flak for it. A lot of it centering around this idea that it gives readers unrealistic expectations. Which I don’t agree with now, but for a hot minute there, it did make me think. I mean, I was reading about these men who were successful and ripped and really, really good to the heroine. They weren’t perfect, but they were absurdly thoughtful. Absurdly confident. And the guys I was with in real life—”

“Were disappointing in comparison?” Luke says, tipping back his beer.

“Yes. Exactly. And I started to think that maybe romance was bad for me because it made me feel bad about who I was with. They could never possibly measure up, you know?”

Luke is shaking his head. “I get what you’re saying. But I don’t think the problem is romance. The problem is the real-life guys who don’t treat you right. They’re the ones who made you feel bad. Not the books you’re reading.”