Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I look away and hit the gas.

Longitude Lane is less a lane and more like a long alley that’s barely wide enough to fit a car. My tires trundle over uneven brick pavers.

My GPS tell me I’ve reached my destination after I’ve sailed past the house next to BILF’s.

Julia did not mention she had a super-hot neighbor.

Throwing the car in reverse, I check the number on the stuccoed pillar beside a small gated drive.

Yup, this is 7 ½ Longitude Lane.

I type the code Julia sent me. The gate opens and I drive inside, parking my car on the brick driveway.

I look up at the narrow building in front of me. It’s small, two stories, with garage doors on the bottom floor and windows on the second. A curving wrought iron staircase leads to the front door on the second level.

The house is painted white with bright blue shutters. The window boxes on the second floor burst with greenery and white and purple flowers.

It just might be the cutest damn thing I have ever seen.

The inside is even cuter. In true Julia style, it’s decorated to the nines. Lots of expensive antiques mixed with more modern furniture. The gleaming kitchen is small but exquisite, complete with a French range and marble countertops. There’s a bedroom, a huge walk in closet, a tiny bathroom, and a screened in porch off the back.

The heaviness in my chest lifts.

But then it returns with a vengeance when, while I’m unpacking in the bedroom, the ring box falls out of my bag. I sit down on the bed and open it.

The enormous diamond winks at me from its classic platinum setting. My heart palpitates. It’s so beautiful. And so big. Exactly the kind of diamond Ted would pick. Nothing but the best for him.

“Nothing but the best for us,” he likes to say.

I close the box with a sharp clack. I go over to the tall boy dresser and open the top drawer. I set the ring inside. The sight of the box makes my stomach hurt. So I cover it with a handful of my underwear and shut the drawer.

I’ll feel better about everything at the end of the month.

Until then, I’m going to try to forget about the ring. Focus on myself and my writing instead. The more time I spend doing that, the more refreshed I’ll be for my return to New York.* * *I wake up the next morning and forget where I am.

Instinctively I turn my head to look for Teddy on the other side of the bed. But it’s empty.

Since we’ve been together, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve woken up alone. I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.

So I head to the kitchen to make some coffee. Always a solid first step.

The Nespresso machine I found in a cabinet whirrs to a stop. I lift my mug of foamy coffee from the maker and set it on the counter, adding a splash of the almond milk I picked up last night at the convenience store a few blocks away.

My head throbs. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing. I finally fell asleep around three or four. Even though I stayed in bed until nine—late for me—I feel groggy. Beat up.

Taking a sip of coffee, I grimace. It tastes as bitter as it smells.

I’m overwhelmed by a sudden wave of homesickness. Teddy makes us coffee every morning. A special Columbian blend that he discovered in law school.

In that moment, I miss him. So damn much.

Resisting the urge to pick up my phone and call Ted—we agreed not to contact each other so I could have as much space as possible—I add more almond milk to my coffee and grab a protein bar. I usually stick to light breakfasts. I’ve got a closet full of beautiful clothes back home that I won’t be able to fit in otherwise.

My laptop leers at me from its perch on the counter. Probably should check my email. Make sure Christine is handling my class load okay.

I want to miss work. And I do, but not as much as I feel like I should. I grew up loving Jane Austen, which eventually led to my interest in nineteenth century British literature. I still love Jane. I really love my students. They’re top notch, smart, and ambitious. Being in a classroom with them is a real pleasure.

But as much as I love teaching, the politics of our department have been difficult to deal with. It’s definitely a cutthroat culture, egged on by a “publish or perish” mentality. A lot of the time, it feels like having a gun to my head—especially considering how hard I’ve pushed myself to climb the ranks within the department.

Even so, it’s not like I’ll ever leave. Shrinking budgets means it’s ridiculously difficult to get tenure at universities these days. Tenure—which I got last year—is every academic’s dream. It comes with prestige and security. Benefits. Basically, it opens the door to a very bright future in academia. I’d be out of my mind to give that up.