Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

“I’m so sorry,” she teases, her grin deepening. “My brother can be such a pain in the ass. Thank you for putting up with him.”

I laugh. “No problem. He’s actually been a pretty great neighbor so far. He saved me from those birds—you know, the ones that wander around in the street?”

“The Guinea Fowl! Yes!” It’s Grace’s turn to laugh. I recognize the way she laughs with her eyes. Eli does that, too.

My pulse skips a beat.

“Where the hell did they come from?” I ask.

“No one really knows. But I guess there are enough gardens and trees in your part of town to provide a little makeshift habitat for them, because they’ve been around for a while and they keep having babies.”

“They’re fearless,” I say. “I almost ran them over when I first got into town a few days ago. I think I’d still be sitting in my car, playing a game of chicken through my windshield with them, if Eli hadn’t shooed them away.”

Grace rolls her eyes. “He’s a show off. Have you eaten at one of his restaurants yet?”

I smile. “I actually did the chef’s tasting last night at The Pearl. It was probably the best meal of my life.”

“It’s pretty ridiculous,” she says, nodding. “I don’t see him nearly enough, because he’s always working. But I am super proud of him. His food is the best in the city.”

“You should be. He’s a really talented chef, and an even better guy.”

Grace studies me for a second, her grin knowing now. Almost wistful. I feel myself beginning to blush.

“Welp, welcome to Charleston,” she says. “Please make yourself at home, and don’t hesitate to come find me if you need anything. I’m glad Eli’s found a new friend.”

Friend. I know I was the one to put that label on my relationship with Eli. And as nice as it sounds—as safe as it sounds—I’m surprised to discover I kind of hate it when someone else says it.

I don’t allow myself to dwell on what that means.

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” I say, and I mean it. Seriously. Is everyone in this town so friendly? So willing to help out a total stranger?

It’s quickly becoming apparent that things are done differently down here.

Priorities are different.

I settle down at a table by a side window. I open my laptop, fully expecting a repeat of last night’s magical, super productive writing session.

Popping in my headphones, I start to write chapter two.

At first, it is a super magical session. The chapter opens with this angsty, sexy kissing scene, where, after Gunnar gives her a tour of his castle, Cate pushes him against a wall in the medieval chapel. He smirks. She burns.

He was her enemy.

And she was going to kiss him.

Gunnar was looking down at her, the angle of his bent neck so very, very enticing. Strands of wavy dark hair framed his face.

Cate wanted to kiss him.

For once, she did not think. She did what she wanted.

But then, after the kissing ends and Gunnar and Cate go home to their respective castles, I hit a wall.

What the fuck do I write next?

I start a new scene—one where the two of them run into each other the next morning at church, as one does in Regency England—but every word is like pulling teeth. Some raunchy Shakespeare lines about fatal loins and virginity float through my head. I try to cleverly incorporate them into Cate’s inner dialogue, but it slows me down so much I end up taking two hours to write two paragraphs.

At this point, I’m so frustrated by my lack of progress—my lack of direction—that I open my old friend The Internet. I promptly fall down a celebrity gossip hole wherein, like one possessed, I hunt down every hilarious Instagram comment Chrissy Teigen has ever posted.

And she’s posted a lot of hilarious Instagram comments.

The longer I dick around, the more frustrated I become with myself and my writing.

My dissertation was painful to write. But I was expecting that. Writing romance, though—the kind of delicious, sexy, angsty romance I love to read—I thought it would be fun.

Easy.

Especially because the story came on to me so strongly at first. I plowed through that first chapter in a burst of inspiration.

Writing this book isn’t supposed to feel like work. This is supposed to feel like a dream coming true, right before my eyes.

Dreams aren’t supposed to make you want to chuck your laptop across the room.

The urge to quit for the day is strong. I could go for a walk. Shave my legs. Do anything other than work on this goddamn story.

I feel a smidge of regret. Maybe the grass really isn’t greener. Maybe I really don’t want to be a writer deep down.

I expect the thought to make me feel better. It would mean all the choices I’ve made up until now were the right ones. It would mean I could go back to New York and say yes to Ted without any qualms. Without any of the uncertainty I felt when he proposed.