Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

“Hi,” she says, putting her hand hesitantly on the doorjamb. “I’m—um—staying next door. I heard some shouting, and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

Her New York accent dips on door. Comes out sounding like dawr.

It’s cute.

Naomi’s eyes dart to meet mine.

“Eli doesn’t shout,” Naomi says. “But he certainly has a way with profanity, doesn’t he?”

I look to see the woman letting out a breath. What did she expect to find? Me threatening Naomi or something?

My stomach dips.

“Shit, I’m so—shit, I can’t even apologize properly, can I?” I say, fisting my hair in my hand. “I’m sorry if I scared you. The cussing—it’s a bad habit.”

“One you’re awfully proud of,” Naomi says.

“Well, yeah,” I say. “I mean, I haven’t had my coffee yet. I can’t be held accountable for the stuff that comes out of my mouth.”

The woman’s shapely lips curl into a small smile. Just big enough for me to catch a flash of white, even teeth.

“So you’re saying you always call people dickheads and make bacon before coffee,” she replies.

I let out a bark of laughter.

“Only on Mondays.” I walk across the kitchen, Billy at my heels, and hold out my hand. “I’m Eli. I saw you last night in the street, right?”

The woman takes my hand and gives it a firm shake. I catch a whiff of her perfume. Smells sexy. Expensive.

Too expensive for you to afford.

I blink. That’s a nasty little thought. This whole business with The Jam has really got me feeling all out of sorts.

I ignore it. It isn’t like me to worry about shit like that. I don’t need to impress women with money to feel good about myself. Never have, never will.

“Nice to meet you, Eli. I’m Olivia. And right—that was me last night. Thanks for the rescue from the fowl. I was worried I’d gotten lost. Charleston is definitely…interesting.”

When I drop her hand, she pushes her sunglasses onto her head. Her eyes catch on my bare chest. They’re pale blue and wide. Intelligent.

There are purple thumbprints underneath them.

I notice she’s kinda pale. On the thin side.

My kitchens are full of lost souls and misfits and tortured characters. I know a runaway when I see one.

And this pretty girl in her fancy get up is definitely a runaway.

Blame it on the overly friendly southern boy my mama raised me to be. But I want to know what her story is. What she’s running from.

And yeah, that just fucked hair doesn’t hurt, either. Neither does the idea of having some company for breakfast. I don’t want to be alone right now. It’s hard to keep anxiety at bay when I’m alone.

“You still look lost,” I say.

She clears her throat, blinking, and meets my gaze.

“And you’re still not wearing a shirt.”

It’s Naomi’s turn to laugh. “Amen. I’ve been after Eli for years to dress like a gentleman. Or dress at all. Still a work in progress—the man never wears a shirt at home.”

Olivia looks a little alarmed—and a little amused—at the notion.

“Really?”

“Really.” I nod, crossing my arms. “I’m always coverin’ up when I’m at work. If a man can’t be free in his own goddamned home…well, that’s a sorry state of affairs right there.”

She’s grinning now. “The fowl certainly didn’t seem to mind. Do you have names for all of them? Or just Dolores?”

“Just Dolores,” I reply, grinning back. “She’s my favorite.”

Olivia’s stomach rumbles. Audibly. She quickly puts her hand on her belly, like she wants to muffle the sound.

“Smells so good in here,” she says a little sheepishly. “This whole town smells good.”

Naomi looks at me. I look at Naomi. She knows how much I like to feed people.

She also knows how much I like brunettes.

I’m not a pussy hound. Never have been. But after ending a long term relationship last year, I’m down to have a good time. I pretty much chucked normalcy out the window when I decided to become a chef. Maintaining a normal relationship with the hours I keep and the environment I work in is almost impossible.

Almost. I still believe it can work if I find the right person. A woman who’s as passionate about what she does as I am. Figure that’s the only way someone will understand why I work and cook the way I do.

Billy is looking up at Olivia now, wagging his tail. She reaches down to give his ear a gentle tug.

“Why don’t you stay for breakfast, Olivia? I’m used to cooking for a crowd, and I made way too fuckin’ much, as usual,” I say, gesturing to the handful of pots and pans on the stove.

Olivia’s eyes stray to the succotash. Then they move to Naomi.

“I don’t want to interrupt—”

“Sweetie, you’re not interrupting a damn thing.” Naomi slides off the stool. “As delicious as Eli thinks he looks without a shirt on—”