Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

Knocking on the door with my elbow—more like thudding—I wait.

My heart’s doing this funny little dance in my chest. I glare down at it, like I can will the damn thing into submission.

I’m tired as fuck—I don’t sleep much these days, thanks to everything going on at The Jam—but I feel strangely decent. Energized, even. Like the passion in Olivia’s writing has reignited my own or something. I found myself wide awake before seven, wondering if I had enough butter in the fridge to whip up a batch of Grandma Mae’s biscuits.

I had just enough.

So here I am, two hours later, flour in my hair and a stupid fucking smile on my face, waiting impatiently for Olivia to open her door.

When she does, I feel like I’ve been punched square in the gut.

Her wide blue eyes light up and she smiles. This wide, unguarded, totally gorgeous smile of surprise. She’s wearing a sweatshirt and these tiny little pajama shorts that show off her muscular, lithe legs.

Her dark hair is everywhere.

I’m struck speechless. Literally speechless. I just look at her.

Her. The girl who writes so vulnerably about longing and sensuality and freedom.

The girl I’m smiling at like she hung the goddamn moon.

Lord above.

“Hi!” she breathes, suddenly a little shy when her eyes flick to the pages in my hand. “Oh my God, don’t tell me you already read it.”

I clear my throat. “First thing I did when I got home last night. You kept me up late, girl.”

“Is that a good thing?” Her smile fades. “Or a bad one?”

I hold up the pages. “This? This is one of the best damn things I’ve read in a long time.”

Olivia blinks, her lips parting in happy disbelief. Her cheeks flush with pleasure.

“Really?”

“Really. I’ll tell you more if you let me come in and feed you some breakfast,” I say, nodding inside.

She bites her lip, opening the door wider. “You really have to stop being such a great neighbor. I’m never going to be able to pay you back.”

“I don’t want to be paid back.” I follow her to the tiny but stylish kitchen. The whole place is actually pretty stylish. No surprise there. I’ve met the owner of this place, Julia, and she told me she was into antiques. “I just want you to eat. And to write more. Gunnar and Cate’s chemistry burns right off the page. Please tell me they’re going to get it on soon.”

Olivia is still smiling when she turns to grab a couple plates and some napkins.

“I have to torture them a bit first,” she replies.

I move beside her, opening cabinets until I find two coffee mugs.

Her arm brushes mine when she reaches inside a drawer for spoons. My skin prickles to life.

The air between us tightens. Thrums with a low current of electricity.

“Sorry,” she says, quickly retreating to the safety of the small island.

I glance at her. She’s studiously unwrapping the biscuits, not looking at me.

Her cheeks are pinker than they were a second ago.

Is she uncomfortable? Embarrassed? Aroused?

“Torturing the characters really amps up the tension,” she continues, still not looking up from the biscuits. “As delicious as the sex can be, I happen to think the stuff leading up to it can be even juicier.”

I unscrew the top from the travel mug and pour the coffee into the mugs. I already put half and half in it, just in case Olivia didn’t have any.

“Interesting theory. What kind of juicy stuff are we talking about?”

“All kinds of juicy stuff.” She looks at the biscuits, bits of melty pimiento cheese oozing out from the sides. “Christ, Eli, these look incredible. Don’t tell me you—”

“Made them from scratch this morning?” I grin. Hand her a mug. “If you think I’d ever serve you anything from a freezer, then you don’t know me at all, Yankee girl.”

Olivia looks down at her mug, the expression in her eyes tightening.

“Eli,” she says slowly. She looks up. “Why are you being so nice to me? First the grits bowl, then the chef’s tasting. Now homemade biscuits and a glowing review for my romance novel. I can’t help but feel like I’m having a Fight Club moment.”

My brow puckers. “Does this have something to do with those bareknuckle boxers you like? Because I’m a fast learner—”

“No,” she says, laughing. “I just—I feel like you’re so kind and so…” Her eyes stray to my bare chest. “Shirtless that I must be making you up.”

I pick up a plate and hand it to her. “This biscuit sandwich I made you is real. So am I.”

“You promise?” Her blue eyes flick to meet mine. My stomach drops.

“I promise,” I reply. “I gotta admit, Olivia, your question worries me a bit. People not nice to you in New York? This is just how we are down here.”

Her lips twitch against the lip of her mug. “Half-naked?”