Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

But instead, Luke doesn’t even look up from his sweeping.

“See ya,” he says, holding up a hand.

I furrow my brow. So does Eli.

That’s not like Luke.

“Well all right then,” Eli says, blinking. Gaze back on me. “Go get some sleep. I’ll be makin’ some breakfast tomorrow if y’all wanna stop by.”

“Sounds good.”

Eli steps back. Glances over my head. “See ya, Cinderella.”

We both wait a beat for Luke to respond.

Nothing.

My heart does skip. Not with excitement, though.

Apprehension.

Something is wrong.

The door closes behind Eli with a small whoosh. I turn to Luke. He’s emptying the dustpan into a black trash bag. He looks—

Not like himself. Face a little red. Mouth tight.

Probably just tired, right? He’s been here all night. And neither of us has gotten much sleep over the past week.

“Hey,” I say, walking over to where he’s standing. “We can finish up in the morning. Let’s get out of here. Get naked.”

My body warms at the idea of falling into bed with Luke. A quick, sweet fuck before a good, deep sleep.

What a time to be alive.

Luke goes still. Trash bag in one hand. Broom and dustpan in the other.

Only his eyes move to meet mine.

My stomach flips. They’re glassy. Pained.

Oh my god oh my God what happened? Did someone say something? Do something?

I will fucking kill them.

“I can’t do this,” he says quietly.

I blink. Feeling sick. “Put the broom down. You’ve already done too much.”

“It’s not the sweeping I’m talking about.”

“Put the goddamn broom down,” I say. My voice has started to shake.

I don’t know why. This is fine. We are fine.

Don’t get ahead of yourself. There is a perfectly reasonable, non-scary reason why Luke is acting the way he is.

Has to be. Nothing’s changed since we talked last.

Luke sets the broom and dustpan against the wall. Ties off the trash bag and sets it in the bin beside the kitchen door.

I step closer. Go to put my hands on his waist. But he stops me, grabbing my wrists.

That’s when I know something is really wrong.

The look in his eyes is pure anguish as he holds me there. An inch away from him.

“Gracie, listen to me.”

“No.” The word pops out of my mouth. Like my body knows what’s about to go down before my mind does. “No, Luke.”

He looks at me. Eyebrows drawn together. Muscle in his jaw ticking.

“This is never going to work. We’re too different. We don’t—Grace, you said it yourself. We are from different worlds. We’ll never be able to make this work.” His eyes cut between mine. “I gotta let you go, baby.”

The inside of my head explodes.

Too much.

Doesn’t compute.

Don’t understand how why who what are you doing we have something so good we are fine we are fine we are fucking fine.

My eyes flood with tears. Blurring my vision. I use all my strength to push my arms forward. But Luke is stronger—fuck him—his fingers gripping my wrists in a vise.

“You’re hurting me.”

“Listen.”

“Not if you’re gonna walk out on me.”

Like Nick. And the guy who came before him. And the guy who came before him, too.

“I have to.” His gaze is imploring. “Don’t you see? I’m holding you back. You and I—we don’t make sense, Grace. C’mon. You gotta see that. I got nothing real to offer you. You deserve better than me. You’ll be glad—”

“Don’t you dare patronize me.” A sob. My head spins. “Don’t you dare make this decision for both of us. That is not fucking fair, Luke.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s not fair to hold you back. You’ll only end up resenting me if we stay together. Want more than me, Grace. Ask for more. You’ll get it. Easy.”

Is he serious?

Is this seriously happening right now?

“I want you,” I say.

He lets out a breath.

The room swims around me. My brand new shop. All my dreams in one place.

Dreams coming true.

Dreams unraveling.

I push my hands again. Giving it everything I’ve got. Luke’s jaw hardens as he keeps me back. His grip on my wrist is bruising.

How far can I push him, I wonder? Will he really hurt me? What if I keep pushing? If I push hard enough, and fight fiercely enough, he’ll change his mind, right?

He’ll see what an idiot he’s being and he’ll let me touch him. Have him.

But I shout in frustration when he still holds me back. My fingertips reach for his shirt, but he won’t even let me go that far.

“Jesus Christ, Gracie, stop,” he says, taking both my wrists in one of his enormous hands and pressing them back against my chest. Breathing hard. Using the bulk of his body to keep me still.

“You promised you were different,” I gasp.

“I am different. But not in a good way.”

“Please. Stop. Stay.” I’m getting wound up. Woozy with grief. “Let’s talk—”

“Be honest.” His eyes lock on mine. “Did you see yourself ending up on a farm? Did you see yourself ending up with someone more redneck than refined? Someone like me?”