Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I have to get out of here.

Now.

“Thanks,” I say. We look at each other for a beat. How do we end this? I can’t hug him. He’s half-naked, for Christ’s sake. So I awkwardly extend my hand like the confused, sleep-deprived idiot that I am. “Sorry I’m running out on you like this, but I…have a lot to do today. It was nice meeting you, Eli.”

His lips twitch into an amused grin. I don’t think this guy—this big, tatted up, self-assured guy—could be awkward if he tried.

He takes my hand in the enormous mitt of his. His palm is dry and calloused. I feel the press of a strange ridge along my thumb—some sort of scar on his palm. I resist the urge to ask about it.

“Nice meetin’ you too.” He gives my hand a squeeze that’s just firm enough. A current of electricity snaps up my arm, making my skin break out in goose bumps. “Hope to see you around.”

I give Billy’s velvety ear one last tug. Then I turn and dart out of Eli’s house like it’s on fire.

I’m on fire.* * *I close the door behind me. Let out a breath now that I’m in the safety of the carriage house. My face feels hot.

The whole world feels hot.

I am completely, uncomfortably, deliciously full.

At the same time, the caffeine from Eli’s fancy coffee is hitting me. I’m sleepy and jittery, all at once.

Okay okay okay.

What should I do next?

Write. Yes. That’s what I’ll do.

I grab my computer and set it on the counter. But instead of opening Word, I open my internet browser and Google “Eli hot chef Charleston”.

I get about fourteen thousand hits. Which means this guy is a big deal down here. Not that you’d know it from the way he dressed. Or the way he talked. The way he was.

At the top are articles from national newspapers and magazines.

How Elijah Jackson’s Simple Southern Fare Changed The Foodie Scene Forever

Star Chef Eli Jackson’s New Restaurant a Disappointment With Critics

A Table at Eli Jackson’s The Pearl Still Hottest Reservation in Town Despite Struggles at New Joint

Elijah Jackson. Is there a more perfect name for a sexy-sweet southern chef?

I think not.

So he owns that pretty restaurant I saw on the drive in. I’ll have to check it out.

I read the scathing reviews of his new restaurant, The Jam. They feel personal, somehow. Maybe because I just ate the food that these critics are lambasting. Food that was incredibly delicious. So good I’d almost call it a religious experience. I’ll never look at breakfast—at Monday mornings—the same way again.

Makes me realize just how much I hate my usual Monday morning routine. Recently I’ve been getting the Sunday scaries bad, which always keep me up half the night. I wake up Monday morning to my alarm blaring with a knot in my stomach and single thought in my head: how am I going to get through this day?

I know I can’t have hot guys cook me a hot breakfast every Monday morning.

That’s not real life.

That’s not how the adult world works.

Mondays suck for everyone. Except, apparently, Elijah Jackson.

Which makes me wonder if what I’ve been putting myself through every Monday morning—every weekday morning—is just a shitty fact of life, or a conscious choice. A wrong choice. Are all the expensive clothes and makeup and cars indicators of me living my best life? Or are they a kind of golden cage I’ve put myself in?

Why on God’s green earth would I do something that makes me unhappy?

Eli shrugged when he said those words. Like everyone followed their happiness. Their hearts. Not prestige or perfection or expectation.

But Eli is insanely talented. He has the luxury of living this wild, weird life. That isn’t the case for normal people like me.

I have to be practical.

How much can I realistically ask of the universe anyway? I have a supportive family. A great job. A man who loves me.

I’m incredibly lucky. People would kill to have what I do. It’d be greedy to want more. Not more stuff necessarily. But more fulfillment. More freedom to be myself, the way I was just now with Eli. It just seems silly to want fulfillment with all the very real pain and suffering going on in the world.

I have my happily ever after. And if I occasionally feel smothered by it, well…that comes with the territory. Having it all requires work. Constant, exhausting work. But it’s worth it.

Right?

“Helllooooo!”

I start at the sound of a familiar voice. Julia is standing in the door, wearing what is doubtlessly a couture floral dress and a smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not look like a million bucks.

Leaping from my stool, I dash across the kitchen to wrap her in a hug. Seeing a familiar face after feeling all those unfamiliar…well, feelings at Eli’s earlier makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst with gratitude.