Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

Eli holds up his hands in mock surrender. “You got me there. I’m not perfect, Olivia. But I am willing to learn. How about I start with your books? Just give me the titles and I’ll have my friends over at the Rainbow order ’em for me.”

Seriously.

This guy.

I hadn’t expected Eli to be so enthusiastic about my writing.

I definitely hadn’t expected him to want to read my writing. Even if he is a big reader, guys don’t read romance. They make fun of it. Belittle it. At least in my experience.

But looking at Eli, seeing that earnest glint in his gorgeous eyes, I get the feeling he wouldn’t make fun of it the way Ted does.

He’d devour it.

Just like he’s kind of devouring me right now. Or maybe it’s me that’s devouring him.

I keep saying this. But I’ve never met a guy like him. A man who cooks for a living, who’s tatted up to within an inch of his life, who loves to read and do yoga and talk passionately about big ideas like romance and freedom and purpose.

He’s one of a kind.

A kind that would make the people I know back home uncomfortable. They wouldn’t be caught dead socializing with someone who works in a kitchen. They’d roll their eyes at his tattoos and his accent. Don’t even get me started on how they’d feel about his walking-around-town-shirtless habit.

But right now, Eli is making me feel like a million bucks.

I’m hit by the wild idea that that is all that matters. Not what other people think. Not what other people expect. But how I feel and what I want.

It’s a stupid idea. I can just imagine Ted shaking his head and sighing. A tired, disappointed sigh that he’d follow with something like don’t be ridiculous, Olivia, you’re an adult, not some teenaged free spirit nursing a crush.

Still. Why not try it on while I’m here? Doing things because I want to, because I feel like it?

Blame it on my excitement. The wine. The way Eli talks to me like I’m not insane for writing romance. But I feel like taking a chance. Maybe having some kind of accountability—say, turning ten pages into Eli every night—will be the push I need to get this novel off the ground.

It’s ballsy. But if not now, then when?

“Actually,” I say, wrapping my hands around my cocktail glass. “I could use some help with a manuscript I’m working on. I keep hitting these roadblocks. I can’t seem to move past a few thousand words. I know you’re busy, so I totally get it if y—”

“I’m in,” Eli says. “I’m no editor, and I don’t know my way around romance. Yet. Like I said, I’m willing to learn. I’d be happy to read what you have.”

“Really?” I’m fighting a smile so big it actually hurts. “You’d do that?”

He grins. That slightly devastating, totally handsome quirk of his lips.

“’Course. Maybe then you’ll be stoppin’ by my place for breakfast more often,” he says.

An almost violent rush of heat prickles in my cheeks. Between my legs.

I remind myself that with a personality as big and warm as his is, Eli probably flirts with everyone, men and grandmas and babies included. I’m nothing special in his eyes. In all likelihood, I’m the fiftieth person Eli’s laid out with his charm in the past hour alone.

I’m nothing special.

Even if he makes me feel like the sexiest, most interesting woman in the world for just being myself.* * *Eli is called to the kitchen to deal with a crisis—something about a dishwasher and a waiter being caught en flagrante in the locker room—so he puts me in a cab (“Olivia, you’re outta your goddamn mind if you think I’m lettin’ you walk home alone in the dark”) with a promise to look out for the first ten pages of my manuscript I said I’d have on his doorstep the next day.

I giddily skip up the stairs to the carriage house. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept properly in what feels like years. But from the way I float through the kitchen to the bathroom, even doing a quick little twirl while I wipe off my eye makeup, you’d think I’m bursting with energy.

I am bursting with energy. I haven’t felt this jazzed up to write in…forever. Cozied up in bed in my pajamas, I open my laptop and plug in my earphones. I turn off the internet—a first for me—and then I open a fresh new Word document.

My muse is singing.

I don’t second guess. I don’t edit as I go. I just write, letting the words fall and trip over each other as my fingers move furiously over the keyboard.

MY ENEMY THE EARL

By Olivia GatesROMEO AND JULIET meets Regency England

(meets the tiniest bit of GAME OF THRONES)