Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

My gut was right. Breaking up for good was the right move. I guess I’m just a little stunned that this is happening, and it’s happening so quickly.

But I’ve had a day to collect myself. I feel much better about everything than I did yesterday after the call. Yet another reason why Ted and I aren’t right for each other. If I can recover in the space of a day from our permanent breakup, that’s a pretty good sign Ted is not the one.

Maybe Eli is.

He’s never home when I drop off my chapters. But imagining that he might be fills me with the kind of nervous excitement Cate feels when Gunnar walks into the room. I may or may not have written in a new kissing scene earlier, if only so I could put into words all the things I felt in Eli’s arms the other night.

Cate and Gunnar shared a few hours, a kiss, nothing more. She did not know him. She certainly had no claim to his attentions.

She seduced him. She kissed him. And then she’d left.

Feeling anything but hatred for Gunnar Danes was forbidden.

Still, she could hardly breathe for the intensity of this decidedly forbidden thing she felt.

Reading those lines, I press my fingertips to my lips. I can still taste him, the cinnamon and the male sweetness that is so particularly Elijah Jackson.

The fact that I can’t stop thinking about him assures me I’m making the right decision. I woke up this morning with the sun inside my chest, bright and burning. I could still smell him everywhere. On the sheets. In my hair.

With him all over me, I felt free and confident and alive.

My heart ached—still does—when I think about how he kissed me.

The sharp-edged softness in his eyes when he said I want you so bad it’s eating me up inside.

My stomach dips forcefully. I press a hand to it, sucking in a breath.

No one’s ever wanted me like that. Certainly not Ted, who’s always responsible and even-keeled.

I want to see Eli again.

My gut is telling me to do it. To go there.

Taking a deep breath, I do.

I open the door and head down the stairs.

That’s when I catch a whiff of tobacco. Not cigarette smoke. Something more earthy. Pleasant.

Eli’s cigar. Same kind I smelled when he shooed away the birds in the street that first night.

Holy shit, is he actually home?

I clamber down the remaining steps, my legs suddenly numb. Turning onto the lane, my heart leaps into my throat when I see him shoving a cooler onto the bed of a humungous black pickup truck. He turns. Picks up a canvas duffel bag and throws that onto the bed, too. A cigar is clamped between his teeth.

Billy wanders around the back tires, wagging his tail and panting.

It’s the fact that Eli is wearing a shirt—a broken-in white tee that his arms fill out nicely—that tips me off.

Something is wrong.

Does he regret what happened the other night? Did I chase him out of town with my ridiculous five hour make out session?

Clutching the chapter to my chest like a life preserver, I step forward.

Eli looks up at the same moment. His eyes are so, so green in the late afternoon light.

They’re stormy. His brow is furrowed.

I start to shake all over again.

“Hey,” I manage.

Plucking his cigar out of his mouth and balancing it on the edge of the pickup’s bed, he stalks toward me. “Hey you.”

Hey you. What is it about this man’s accent that makes everything, even the smallest of greetings, sound like a promise of sex and adventure?

Eli wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. A small wave of relief—arousal hot on its heels—washes through me when he presses a kiss to my cheek.

He smells like cigar and aftershave.

He’s touching me with a familiarity and a desire that’s new. His hands are sure as they slide from the small of my back to rest just above my butt. His pinkies flirt with my underwear, which peek over the waistband of my jeans. And he lingers a beat too long with his face half an inch from mine. His eyes flick to my mouth.

Mine flick to his. Did I really get to kiss those gorgeous, full lips?

Do I get to do it again?

Part of me was worried Eli would pretend we hadn’t even crossed the line we did last night. Another part hoped he’d acknowledge it just like this. With touching and teasing.

He can’t keep his hands off me. And I love it.

I loop my arms around his neck and hug him back, arching against him ever so slightly. A slow, warm beat of lust unfurls between my legs.

“What’s going on?” I murmur into his neck.

His fingers graze my ass. “Hm?”

“This.” I pluck at the back of his shirt. “It’s not you.”