Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

For a second I just stand there, too dumfounded by her words, by the press of her body against mine, to formulate a coherent thought.

She’s not wearing that expensive perfume today.

Instead, she smells like coffee. Clean sheets. A smell that fills my head and chases away whatever anxiety hovered at the edges.

I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her as close as I dare. She’s all curves and softness against me.

I close my eyes and breathe her in. Her head is tucked into the crook of my neck. She fits perfectly there.

Damn it. I want her.

I wanna take her home and make her come and stay up late, talking and eating and fucking. I can only imagine how good Olivia would be in bed once that inner fire of hers is let loose.

But I can’t take her with me. And that’s kinda killing me right now.

“Anytime,” I say, forcing myself to step back. “I’ll look out for chapter two tonight.”Chapter TwelveOliviaIt’s not as hot today, so the fifteen minute walk to Holy City Roasters is actually pleasant.

I head north on King Street. It’s Charleston’s main artery, cutting the peninsula in half lengthwise. I’m starting to recognize certain landmarks. Certain brightly colored houses. The old time-y men’s store on the corner of King and Broad that marks the end of the residential area and the beginning of the long, crowded shopping corridor. The cute art gallery I’d like to check out when I’m done writing for the day.

I think about what to write as I walk. The fresh air must be good for my imagination, because ideas swarm inside my head like bees in a hive.

Or maybe it’s Eli’s excitement about Cate and Gunnar—his certainty about the merits of their story and my skill—that’s making my muse sing.

I don’t need his stamp of approval. I’d be writing this book with or without his help. I’ve wanted to write it for a long time. It’s taken me years—and a botched proposal—to finally screw my courage to the sticking place and do it. I am making this decision on my own.

But it is nice to have Eli in my corner. It’s too easy for me to get stuck inside my head. To give up on myself and just do what everybody else is doing. Hell, I’ve built a whole life around that. But Eli won’t have it. He’s pushing me to give my dreams—my dreams, not everybody else’s—some breathing room. And maybe I just needed that push—that nod of encouragement—to get the ball rolling. I needed to see how another creative person took their head out of their ass and just created.

The actual creating, though?

That’s up to me.

Hanging a left on Wentworth Street, tourists give way to students wearing shorts and backpacks. I can feel the familiar energy of a university in the air. The students are smiling as I pass. They’re talking to their friends, slowing down to peek inside shop windows and pet dogs.

It makes me smile. The sunshine and the wide open blue sky certainly don’t hurt, either.

Neither does the fact that I’m going to write a novel on a Wednesday afternoon.

Pinch me.

A shadow moves over my sunny mood when I remember I only have three and a half weeks before I have to report back to my old life.

My real life.

But I decide that today I’m going to take a page from what I did the other night at The Pearl and give in. I’m going to pretend this is my real life. I’m going to pretend that I live here and that I’m a writer and that dreams—ridiculous, silly dreams—really do come true.

I take a deep breath. Let it out. That sense of freedom, familiar now, washes over me. I’m wearing shorts and a cruddy t-shirt. I’m not worried about who sees me or what they might think. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m not running around. I’m just doing what I want to be doing.

It’s really, really nice.

Holy City Roasters just might be the cutest, coolest coffee shop I’ve ever been in. It’s on the small side, buzzing with students and professors and handsome hipsters. Couples flirt over mugs so big they look like bowls. A woman with the most gorgeous tattoos on her arms is tearing at a flaky chocolate croissant with her fingers while she peers at some kind of design on her laptop screen.

The earthy scent of coffee hangs so heavy in the air I can taste it.

I order an iced coffee and a cupcake—because why not?—from the woman behind the counter. She’s wearing thick, tortoiseshell framed glasses and bright red lipstick. Emboldened by her friendliness, I ask, “Are you Grace?”

She grins, holding out her hand. “I am. And you are?”

“Olivia. Eli—Elijah Jackson—he said to tell you he sent me. He’s my new neighbor.”