Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

Going a whole day without thinking about The Jam sounds like heaven right now.

“Got any plans for the rest of the day?” I ask, sipping my coffee.Chapter FiveOliviaMy ridiculously full stomach twists at the honey brown kindness in Eli’s eyes.

He’s scary handsome. And one hell of a cook. And full of conviction. Which only adds to his distinct, down to earth charm.

He practices yoga.

And he’s looking at me like I haven’t been looked at in a long time. With warm, naked interest.

The air between us crackles with attraction. Energy. He’s so easy to talk to. To look at.

Probably easy to fall in bed with, too.

My arousal lights into confusion. I may be on a break from Ted. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump into bed with someone else. I still feel so mixed up inside. So raw and tender to the touch. A hook up is not a good idea right now.

What if it’s terrible?

What if it’s not?

I am going back to New York at the end of October. I have a really great life waiting for me there—the job I’ve worked a decade to get, the house I’ve saved for, the relationship I’ve always wanted. No guy, no matter how delicious he may be, is worth sacrificing all that.

And I have to remember why I came to Charleston in the first place. To work on my book. Which I should be doing right now, instead of ogling this sexy, shirtless chef.

I stand up, my stool grunting against the roughed up wooden floorboards, and look away. Look around the house. It’s small. But it’s exquisitely renovated in what I can only describe as historic-Charleston-meets-southern-California style. Downstairs is all one big room, done in masculine shades of black and army green, punctuated by pale, antique-looking oak floors and these gorgeous ceiling beams that look like they were salvaged from a very chic barn.

There’s a gigantic bookshelf that lines the length of an entire wall. The shelves practically groan beneath the weight of a zillion books stuffed haphazardly here and there. There are also a few bright yellow boxes, marked Cohiba, Habana, Cuba, scattered amongst the books. His cigars.

My heart literally skips a beat.

Of course Eli reads. Because the food and the yoga and the tattoos weren’t sexy enough.

I catch a few names on well-worn spines. Hemingway. McCarthy. Nikki Sixx’s Heroin Diaries.

I’m impressed. Although there’s a conspicuous lack of female authors and subjects on these shelves. Something I’d be all too happy to remedy.

I push the thought aside. Probably best if I kept my distance from this house. This man. Too much opportunity for distraction.

Still, I can’t help looking around a little more. A massive, commercial-style range occupies the opposite wall. An enormous antique table serves as an island and, I imagine, a gathering spot in the middle of the room. Across the space, I glance longingly at the leather sectional sofa in front of the TV. It looks cozy.

And the smell in here—it smells like bacon and delicious man. Eli’s cologne, maybe. Something spicy and dark and woodsy. What I imagine Tom Ford would wear if he were a sexy southern chef. It’s mouthwatering.

Oh, I want to stay. Pick his brain some more about happiness and compromise and the supreme trust he seems to have in himself.

But I shouldn’t.

I really, really shouldn’t.

“I should actually get going,” I say. I realize I’m still holding my empty coffee mug. I set it carefully on the island, grateful for the excuse not to look at Eli. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome. Thanks again for the grits and the coffee—it was seriously the most delicious breakfast I’ve ever had.”

I turn to see Eli studying me. He’s skeptical. Knows something is going on, but is too polite to ask me outright what it is.

I’m glad he doesn’t. I’ve felt so…free while I’ve been here. Like I can let my guard down and just relax. Be myself. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way sharing a meal with Teddy. I guess I always feel the need to be “on” when we’re together. Like I need to fit a certain mold by saying the right things and wearing the right clothes and hanging out with the right people.

But Eli? Eli clearly doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of that stuff. Which makes me not want to talk about it. He makes me want to talk about big picture stuff instead. Stuff I haven’t talked to really anyone about, except maybe Julia.

Talking to Eli like that would be dangerous. So I won’t.

I can’t.

“You sure?” he asks instead. “As long as you love to eat, you’ll never overstay your welcome. Stop by anytime, Olivia. You’re welcome here, always.”

His ridiculously hot southern accent makes the O in my name disappear. Livia.

A warm, happy shiver darts up my spine.