Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

How can I be okay when I’m falling in love with a guy and a life that are completely at odds with everything I’ve ever worked for?

“I’m overwhelmed,” I offer, relieved that I don’t have to look him in the eye right now. I don’t think I could handle it. “As usual, Eli, you’re overwhelming me with your awesomeness.”

He begins to lightly stroke his thumb over the small of my back. I can’t help it; I arch into him, wanting more. It’s a tiny movement, but it’s turning me on in a big way.

I love the feel of his hands on me.

I just love the way he makes me feel, period.

“If you need to go, Olivia, just tell me. I hate that I’m upsettin’ you.”

“You’re not—” Upsetting me. You’re turning me inside out. “That’s not it. You’ve been nothing but excellent, Eli.”

Eli pulls back, arms still looped around my middle, and looks down at me, brows pulled together in concern.

“I’m never gonna push you, Olivia. But one of these days, I’d really like to know what’s goin’ on in that head of yours.”

I swallow, searching his eyes. Like Julia said, I need to figure this out for myself. It’s obvious I’m too swayed by other peoples’ opinions. I don’t want to involve Eli in my decision making. I don’t want his opinion. Not yet.

I need to learn to trust myself.

“I know. I’m sorry. I need some time. I just—I guess I wasn’t expecting you and I—I didn’t expect that we’d get so close. I wasn’t prepared for you.”

Eli grins, reaching up to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear.

The simple gesture—the handsomeness of his blunt tipped fingers—sends my pulse into a tailspin.

“Good thing I was prepared for you. I always make extra food, just in case beautiful women show up at my door.”

I laugh. Always so charming.

“C’mon,” he says, tilting his head toward the kitchen. “Let’s go eat. You’ll feel better with a full belly.”Chapter SixteenEliOlivia cleans her plate in record time. Watching her enjoy my food makes me feel better than I have all week. It’s been one shit storm after another at work. The Jam is on life support. It’s obvious we’re going to have to close it down. I was fine with that in theory, but now that it’s happening, it’s a bitter pill to swallow.

But being with Olivia chases all those heavy thoughts away. When she asks for another pancake, and then slathers it in butter and syrup, I have to stop myself from saying what I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

I wanna be more than friends, Yankee girl.

I want to take her upstairs and peel her clothes off. Fuck her for a week straight. Wake up next to her.

But she just asked for time. When she’s ready, she’ll let me know. This whole thing just feels so delicate. One wrong move, and I’m worried I’ll send her running.

I’ll just enjoy her company in the meantime. I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give me.

“So you never really told me why you write what you do,” I say, filling her mug with more coffee. “Why romance?”

Olivia sets her fork on her plate and sighs. A contented, sexy as hell sigh. My dick takes note. Which is just perfect, considering I’m going commando in sweats right now. You can see everything. I mean everything.

I look down to confirm. Yep. Even the ridge on the head of my dick is visible through the thin fabric.

Fuck.

I hang out on the other side of the island so Olivia can’t see the very obvious wood I’m sporting.

“I came to the genre as a reader first,” she says, cupping the mug in her hands and settling her elbows on the counter. “Reading romance is kind of what got me through my twenties. I plowed through everything I could get my hands on. I loved the adventure in the stories. The way the heroines had real agency—a real say in how their lives ended up, despite the horribly repressive society they lived in.”

I nod, sipping my own coffee. “Their bravery is admirable. So is their willingness to make hard choices. I think that’s what I like best about romance. How the main characters never take the easy way out.”

Olivia’s eyes soften when they meet mine. For a second I think I’ve upset her again. But then she blinks, clearing her throat, and takes a large swallow from her mug.

“You’re a very perceptive reader.”

I smirk. “It’s what makes me a good editor.”

She scoffs, smiling and rolling her eyes.

“Anyway,” she continues. “The few friends I told about my romance reading habit weren’t exactly supportive. They thought it was kind of a joke. They called it escapist trash.”

“Small-minded bastards.”

“Right? But I’m kind of like, wait, I think the escape actually improves our reality. I know my life is fuller and better and more interesting because I’ve read romance. Don’t we have a lot to learn from one of the few genres that openly embraces female ambition and sexuality? Isn’t it nice to see women in books having killer lives and killer curl-your-toes orgasms? I also love that romance always ends with a happily ever after. It’s such a nice reminder to stay hopeful, you know?”