Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

“It’s me,” she calls, closing the door behind her.

BILF’s girlfriend?

I don’t know why I feel a stab of disappointment. I came to Charleston to get a break from men. Not to find one.

Besides. Even if I was in a finding mood, I doubt I’d have a chance in hell with that guy. I bet he dates models. Artists. Models who are artists. I’ve always attracted more straight-laced, corporate types anyway.

But my heart still skips a beat when a pair of french doors on the first floor of BILF’s house open. I’m hit by the smell of bacon.

My stomach rumbles. I glance at my half-eaten protein bar.

A beat later, I overhear a string of expletives that almost make me jump.

“You can tell those dickheads to go fuck themselves.” I recognize the rumble of BILF’s voice. His words are angry, but his tone is not. He speaks slowly, evenly, just like he did yesterday in the street. “Who cares about critics anyway? I’m proud of the food we make over there. So it’s simple. That’s the fuckin’ point. I make food the way my mama did, and her mama before her. I am who I am, Naomi, and I’m not gonna change for anyone. Least of all a goddamned stranger.”

Naomi. Of course she’d have a gorgeous name like that.

I hear the murmur of her voice. I can’t tell what she’s saying.

Another smell. Something frying in that bacon fat.

Maybe it’s the budding novelist in me. But I can’t help but feel something juicy is going down at my hot neighbor’s house.

Juicy and delicious. I’m starving. My usual protein bar isn’t cutting it today. Maybe BILF has some bacon to spare?

It’s the potential for writerly inspiration—and breakfast meat—that makes me close my laptop and stand up.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I head next door.Chapter ThreeEliI give the onions in my ancient cast iron pan one last flip. They sizzle and pop over the high heat, browned with bits of the bacon I’d fried up earlier.

Gracious, that smells good.

I was raised in the temple of simple southern cooking. My faith in a nutshell: all good things start with bacon fat, butter, or bourbon. Bonus points for all three. Means I have to spend extra time at the yoga studio. Also means I get slaughtered by critics on occasion.

Both worth it. Although I’ve never had critics actually bring a restaurant to the brink of bankruptcy before.

I shove the thought from my head. Too depressing.

I dump sweet corn, fresh from the cob and gorgeously juicy, into the pan, along with a handful of lima beans from my garden out back. Wiping my hands on a kitchen towel, I toss it over my shoulder.

“Expecting company?” Naomi asks from her usual perch on a stool at the island. “You’re making enough succotash to feed a small army.”

I nudge the pan forward, then quickly dip it back. The onions and corn and beans rise together in a tidy wave, then fall back into the cast iron with a satisfying sizzle. I add a generous pinch of Kosher salt. Give it another flip.

I don’t usually cook like this for myself. But I’ve had a lot on my mind, and cooking helps to clear out all the bullshit. Helps clear out the heavy sense of anxiety that’s weighed me down lately.

“Nah,” I reply. “Just you.”

“As tempting as that lovely invitation is,” she says sarcastically “Sergio and I have a date. We’re grabbing lunch over on Shem Creek.”

It’s Monday. My restaurants are closed. Means my staff members, like Naomi and Sergio, get the day off.

“But I thought we were in crisis mode,” I say, not looking up from the pan. “You know, critics-eating-up-my-new-restaurant-we’re-all-doomed-save-our-souls shit. Do y’all really have time for a date when the world is fuckin’ ending?”

Naomi calmly plucks an ice cube from her tea—toothache sweet, just how we both like it—and hurls it at me. I hold up my arm a second too late. The cube hits me square in the temple.

I wince. Naomi, being Naomi, cackles. She’s worked in my kitchen at The Pearl for close to five years now, pretty much since I opened the place. We cooked side by side until I promoted her to head chef of my new restaurant, The Jam, which I opened earlier this year. Even though she runs her own kitchen now, we still squabble like kids.

“Girl’s gotta get laid, even if the world is ending.”

“I already told you,” I say, gently kicking the ice cube across the floor to Billy, my ten-year-old lab-and-God-knows-what-mix. Billy sniffs at it, not impressed. He sighs. I feel you, buddy. “Ignore what the critics are saying, and just keep doin’ what you’re doin’. There’s a reason I made you head chef. You know what’s important, and you stick to it. As long as we’re making food we love, and as long as customers love that food and leave happy—hell, Naomi, you know those are the only things that matter.”