Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

“Lucky Billy. He’d love that. I keep a key in the pot by my back door—it’s the one with the tomato plant in it. Feel free to come over anytime you’d like.”

Toe-mata.

His accent is especially velvety this morning.

“So chapter three? I can expect it tonight, then?” he says.

“Yeah,” I manage. “Tonight. I’ll have it in your mailbox.”

“Get to it, girl.”

I do.* * *Over the next week, I settle into a nice little routine. For the first time in all my thirty-two years on this earth, I don’t have to set an alarm. I get up early, practically leaping out of bed to discover what goodies Eli left me on the front step. One day it’s scrambled eggs and sausage. Another, it’s a grits bowl topped with bacon and chives. Oatmeal with candied pecans and brown sugar. A B.E.L.T.—bacon, egg, lettuce, and tomato—on thick slices of sourdough slathered in mayo.

The designer wardrobe I brought with me gets tight to the point of pain. I buy a pair of ripped up boyfriend jeans—inspired by Eli—and some flowy dresses, and I wear those instead.

Eli always leaves an impeccably edited chapter alongside the food. He edits in blue felt tip pen, his letters all neat, small caps. He tells me what he likes—Cate’s reaction is great here. He tells me what he doesn’t—dialogue comes off stilted. Let them flirt!

He makes a comment on chapter six—something about making Gunnar a beta hero outside the bedroom, but an alpha hero in it—that gives me pause. Those terms are romance terms. Stuff I only know about because I read a lot of it.

Makes me wonder what Eli is reading. No way he’s reading any romance other than mine.

Right? The thought is too lovely to even consider.

I go through Eli’s edits while I eat. Then I have coffee, do some research on publishing online. The weather is getting nicer with each passing day, the temperature and humidity dropping just enough to leave us these slightly crisp, gorgeously sunny days. So when I’m done eating, I grab Billy, and together we take long walks along the battery. Minus his gigantic poops, he’s a great walking buddy.

Some days I squeeze in a yoga class.

Then I grab a shower and head over to Holy City Roasters for the afternoon. Grace and I chat for a while about her coffee and my book. My chapters are averaging about ten pages—two thousand words, give or take—and, sitting down at my usual table by the window, I don’t leave until I finish a whole new chapter for Eli to edit that night. Sometimes it takes me all of an hour and a half to bang it out. Other times, I’m still typing away at closing time.

On days when I finish at a decent hour, I take myself out on dates with the city. I go where I want, when I want. I peruse shops. Tour historical homes. Pop into bars. Try new restaurants.

People weren’t kidding about the food down here. It’s insane. Each meal is better than the last. Just when I think I’ve found a new favorite spot—an Italian place on Upper King Street that serves pizza with the best, crispiest crust ever, or the tiny French-Spanish restaurant that serves the most delicious gazpacho I’ve had—I eat another amazing meal at a new restaurant.

I’ll meet Julia for dinner sometimes, or dessert. She introduces me to some of her colleagues at The College of Charleston. I have a great chat with the English Department head about their creative writing program (yes, it exists, but no, they’re not hiring). One of the tenured professors, Kathryn Score, actually writes romance that she indie publishes herself. I meet with her twice to pick her brain. She writes contemporary romance, which means her market is a little different than mine. But she hooks me up via Facebook with a few historical authors who are also self-publishing their books. They are a literal treasure trove of information.

Slowly, slowly, I am stitching myself into the fabric of life in this city. I start to recognize faces around town. People stop to say hello. I run into Kathryn at Holy City Roasters, and we decide to have a standing writing date there every other day.

I have my favorite smoothie shop. My favorite place for takeout. My favorite bar (well, my favorite bar after the one at The Pearl).

I walk everywhere. My fancy car sits idle in the driveway. I don’t miss it.

I walk so much that when I finally fall into bed at the end of every day, I pass out hard. I’m so tired that even the thoughts that have weighed so heavily on me lately don’t have a chance to enter my mind before I’m asleep.

But I do have a thought first thing when I wake up.

That thought is always about Eli.