Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

And honestly, what are the chances that Eli will take the same class? At eleven on a Tuesday? He has a restaurant empire to run. I imagine that leaves very little opportunity to squeeze in some midday exercise.

The studio is on Spring Street, a little over a mile from the carriage house. So I grab Julia’s bike—with a fancy wicker basket, Carolina blue paint, and buttery leather handles, it looks like a Gwyneth Paltrow-approved version of a bicycle living its best life—and head up the peninsula. I saw lots of people biking on my way in, so I figure I’ll join in on the fun.

The late morning sun is just getting hot. I stick to the shady side of the street when I can. My legs yawn awake as I pedal, my calf muscles stretching pleasantly with each lazy rotation.

I’ve decided that while I’m here, I’m not going to rush. For one thing, no one else in this town seems to be in a hurry. Fowl included.

For another, I’ve always got my foot on the gas back home. If I’m not running to work, then I’m running to a meeting. If not to a meeting, then to the gym, or to the grocery store.

And damn it, I’m tired of running. Maybe it’s time I start thinking about why I do all that running in the first place. Because everyone else does it?

I blame my sudden change of pace on Eli’s slow, intentional way of moving around his kitchen yesterday morning. The way he made me sit and eat a real breakfast with him, like we were Europeans and the idea of not sitting down to a meal was sacrilege.

How he took his time making the perfect cup of coffee.

That coffee. If I had to think of a word to describe it, orgasmic comes to mind. So different from Ted’s. So delicious. I’ve never had anything like it.

I could’ve used some of it earlier today. My writing mojo is nonexistent. I just can’t seem to get to the actual story. I have too much going on peripherally, trying to capture on the page how the characters look and smell and behave in my head. What they want. Their histories. Their weaknesses and favorite sexual positions and clothing.

Then there’s the themes I want to get at. The feminism. Matching up the character arcs so the hero and heroine touch on the other’s sore spots, which then forces them to confront their demons. And then of course there have to be great secondary characters who drop nuggets of wisdom just when the hero and heroine need them…

Whew. Anyone who says writing a romance is easy has clearly never attempted the feat themselves.

Although I have to admit I enjoyed mentally dressing Eli in a riding jacket—no shirt underneath, naturally—and breeches as a stand-in for my hero.

I enjoyed mentally undressing him even more. Even though I knew I shouldn’t. Even though thinking about anyone other than Ted was weird. Weird and exciting, if I’m being honest.

I try not to think about what that means.

I pedal up Meeting Street, enjoying the breeze being on the move creates. I can’t remember the last time I rode a bike. In New York, I’m always inside or in a car.

It’s nice. Especially when my route takes me through the College of Charleston’s bustling campus. I’m suddenly curious; I don’t know much about it, other than the fact that Julia teaches there.

I ride past as slowly as I can without running any students over. It’s very pretty. Very southern, lots of big oak trees draped in Spanish moss and pastel buildings held up by towering pillars.

Out of the blue, I wonder if they have a creative writing program. Julia did say they have fiction writers on staff. On bad days back at my university, I fantasize about ditching my classes on twentieth-century literature and teaching classes on writing instead. On fiction. Romance.

Not that it matters. Teddy would shit a brick if I did something so impractical and…well, kind of strange. I can just imagine him saying something along the lines of, “You’re capable of more than that”. Or even, “What will people say when they find out you went from teaching premier classes on the greatest writers in the English language to teaching courses on how to write trashy books? Come on, Olivia”.

Come on, Olivia. Ted says that a lot. But he’s right. I have to keep my head screwed on straight.

It’s a quick ride up to Spring Street. The city is much newer and younger up here. I nearly swoon with delight when I see Yoga First is housed an adorable pink cottage beside an even more adorable inn. I lock up my Gwyneth Paltrow bike on the rack beside the door and head inside.

I don’t roll out my mat as often as I’d like. Teddy prefers golf—he belongs to a local club near our house—and even though I suck at it, I try to play with him as much as I can. Once I get good at it, I’ll start to like it. That’s what he tells me, anyway.