Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

What he thought of last night’s chapter.

Why I had an explicit dream about him. Again.

When I’m going to see him. As much as I love his edits, I miss him. Being around him. I like who I am when we’re together. He’s working, I know. Trying to save The Jam. Doesn’t mean I don’t wish our schedules matched up a little better.

He’s making me forget myself.

Making me lose grip on the fact that this isn’t my life. Which makes me wonder if it could be.* * *The following Monday, I wake up to an empty front stoop.

Puzzled, I immediately glance across the alley. Eli’s house is locked up: doors shut, lights out. I have to admit I was really hoping to see him today. He told me he has Mondays off.

Is he okay? Did he not like chapter eight?

Did he not get to it because he took someone home last night? Someone he’s probably worshipping with those big, calloused, knowledgeable hands of his…

I shiver, surprised by the stab of jealousy in my gut. I have no right to be jealous. I’m the one with a potential fiancé waiting for me at home. And I’ve known Eli for, what, a little more than one week?

Gorgeous, talented, tatted up guys like him probably go for girls who look like Gisele and paint like Picasso anyway. Girls who can convincingly rock vintage Levi’s, who have tans and talents and the kind of thick, wavy, ombre-colored hair that is just made for Instagram.

I am not that girl. I am his friend. He said so the other morning.

But when I head back inside to see my phone lighting up with a call from Eli, butterflies take flight in my belly anyway.

I pick it up.

“I was starting to get worried,” I say. “I didn’t find any edits or breakfast goods on my step this morning.”

Eli laughs, the deep, extra rumbly sound making my heart stutter. Sounds like he just woke up.

The image appears inside my head and stays there. Eli on his back in bed, naked. One hand over his head. Sheets riding low over his hips. His scruff even scruffier than usual. Hair sticking up every which way.

I put a hand on the counter to steady myself.

“That’s ’cause I’m holding ’em all hostage,” he says. “I’m off today. Come over for breakfast—we can talk edits over coffee and sweet potato pancakes.”

A wave of relief hits me head on.

So Eli wasn’t with an ombre-haired painter last night.

I smile.

Shit. I don’t want this information to make me smile. I don’t want it to make me feel or do anything.

But it does.

Oh, does it.

“Do I have time to shower?” I say, running a foot over the prickly hair on my shin.

“Take all the time you need, Olivia,” Eli replies. “Just let yourself in when you’re ready.”Chapter FifteenOliviaI take way too long getting ready. I don’t want to dress up, but I do want to look my best.

Unfortunately, the “careless, casual, but cute” look I’m going for takes a lot of freaking effort. I try on every item of clothing I’ve bought recently. Eventually I settle on my boyfriend jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. Simple, but comfortable.

By the time I get out the door, I am absolutely starving.

It’s already a glorious day. Fall is really in the air this morning, the leaves on the trees turning almost violent shades of yellow and red and orange. I walk next door, my hair fluttering in a soft, crisp breeze.

I breathe in lungful after lungful of air. It’s scented with salt and sun. Turn my face up to the wide open sky and close my eyes for a minute, just soaking it in.

Just being in this perfect, perfectly content moment.

Never thought my weekday mornings would ever look or feel like this. Usually I hate weekdays, dread sitting like a brick in my stomach from the second I crawl out of bed to the second I fall back in it, too exhausted to even read.

That’s just how it is, my mom says.

Adulting sucks, my friends say.

Think about our future, Teddy reminds me.

But standing here in the sun, ideas for my novels taking shape inside my head, a day of good food and good writing time ahead, I get this pressing, urgent feeling that maybe I really can do things differently.

That maybe there’s a different way to live.

Maybe I want to live like this. Happy and free and excited about my day, rather than dreading it.

But is this even real? Can this feeling last? Is being true to myself just an exercise in idiotic self-indulgence? And what about all the people I’ll have to hurt or disappoint to stay here?

It’s such a huge risk. A huge, huge risk. One I am not sure I’m prepared to take.

Then again, is anyone ever prepared to take a leap into the great unknown, no safety net, no guarantee they won’t fall on their faces?