Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

Gunnar opened his eyes, and the beautiful stranger was there. A few strides and he’d be at her side. Inside his veins his blood warmed. He tried to fight it. He knew this feeling—the devil inside him, simmering to life. He should run, find a freezing pond to leap into, a priest.

I can fucking relate to that, man.

The story sucks me right in. Everything about this book is ardent. The characters. The angst. The sexual tension.

The vulnerability.

This isn’t the work of the girl in the Chanel sunglasses and silk dress.

This is the work of the girl who looked like she was coming while she ate my food. The girl whose eyes flashed, naughty and bright, when she talked about dukes who were good in bed.

The girl who is burning up inside.

She is so fucking talented. Which strangely enough makes me question if I’m talented enough to be with her. If I’m good enough to be with someone who so clearly has a bright future ahead of her. Because my future is looking pretty fucking bleak right now.

What if I’m too simple, like that one critic implied? Too stupid for someone as smart as Olivia?

Holding up the pages, I look down to see that I’m pitching a tent. Intelligence has always been a huge turn on for me.

I’ll take care of my dick in a minute. I gotta find out what happens after Gunnar and Cate’s first witty exchange.

So I shove those nasty thoughts from my head and keep reading. When I flip a page, only to find it’s the last one—Goddamn it, Olivia gave me exactly ten pages, not a sentence more—I literally curse out loud.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Billy looks up from his pretend balls. We meet eyes.

“What?” I say. “It was just getting good. Gunnar was about to give Catherine a ‘private tour’”—air quotes—“of his castle.”

If Billy could shrug—who gives a fuck?—he would right now.

He goes back to his butt.

I re-read the ten pages. Then read them again.

I make a few notes. Mostly about trimming stuff down.

I read and I write and I want. Reaching down, I give myself a few light strokes. My dick feels hot and huge in my hand.

I want to see more of this woman. The one who writes with such playful verve and eroticism and obvious skill.

I stroke a little harder now. I feel my orgasm approach at lightning speed. I’m so hard it hurts. One, two vicious strokes, and then I come, my hips bucking off the bed as I spill into my palm. Jet after jet of hot cum.

After I clean myself up, I get back to Gunnar and Cate.

I have read exactly zero romance up to this point. But I’ve read enough novels in my lifetime to recognize quality storytelling when I see it.

My Enemy the Earl is top quality.

I can’t help but notice the way Olivia wrote longingly about freedom and choice. It comes across loud and clear that her heroine feels trapped by her life. By convention.

Cate lost herself in Gunnar’s world, wondering what it would be like to be him. A handsome man, whose life was freedom and possibility. A life that was much, much different from her own.

I keep coming back to that line. I make a note to ask her about it.

As much as I feel like I’m getting to know Olivia—the real Olivia—by reading her work, I also feel like I have more questions than answers about her. I know Catherine is a fictional character. But how much of her is based on Olivia’s own experiences? Why choose freedom as a theme if it wasn’t something Olivia wrestled with in her real life?

It’s after two by the time I put down My Enemy the Earl. I’m tired and turned on again. Frustrated and curious. Hopeful but cautious.

I’m learning Olivia. The more I learn, the more I want.

I’m never one to deny myself. If I want something—someone—I go for it.

But what if Olivia isn’t there for the taking? What if I reach for her, only to have her slip through my fingers? I’m about to lose a restaurant. Losing a girl just might push me over the edge.

Running a hand down my face, I will the thought to go away.

I’m being ridiculous. I’ve known the girl for all of, what, three days?

I turn off the light, determined to sleep off this second hard on.

Determined to stop wanting this girl so damn bad.

I’d be lying, though, if I said I’m not thinking about what food I should bring over to her tomorrow morning along with my edits.

Someone’s gotta keep her fed so she can finish this story.

That someone’s gonna be me.Chapter ElevenEliI climb the carriage house steps, the first chapter of My Enemy the Earl in one hand and two foil wrapped egg-and pimiento-cheese biscuit sandwiches, still warm from the oven, in the other. The plastic handle of a travel coffee mug dangles from my pinkie finger.