Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

A beat of heated silence. His chest presses against mine as he takes a breath. Lets it out.

“The Jam is closing,” he says. “It’s official.”

Something in my chest catches. He sounded so…nonchalant, almost, when he’d talked about the possibility of losing his restaurant that first morning we met.

But now? Now he sounds defeated.

Not at all like the Eli I know. Poor guy.

I pull him closer.

“I’m so sorry. That really, really blows.”

He swallows. “Yeah. It does.”

Squeezing me one last time, he pulls back. He’s still standing too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

“What can I do?” I ask, looking up at him.

“I’m leaving town for a few days. Need time to clear my head. I got a cabin out by the water.” He searches my eyes. “Come with me.”

My pulse leaps. I blink, ridiculously flattered—and ridiculously happy—that he’d ask me.

“I was just about to go knock on your door. I know it’s last minute,” he continues. “But I need a break, and you need a place to write. Cabin’s perfect. It’s quiet. Pretty. Just put a case of wine in my truck. And goes without saying I’ll make you all the food your muse needs to keep writin’.”

Goes without saying we’ll fuck.

I mean, how could we not? It’ll be just the two of us. In a cabin. With a freaking case of wine.

That alone makes me want to say yes.

But more than that, it’s the hurt in his eyes that really pushes me toward going. He’s distraught, even though he’s pretending not to be. I don’t know much about the restaurant industry, but I know closing a restaurant is a big deal. Especially after the success of The Pearl. Here Eli was, thinking he was on top of the world.

And then he’s brought down into the mud.

I feel terrible for him. The man’s been nothing but wonderful to me since we met. I want to return the favor. I want to help him out of this hole the way he’s helping me out of mine.

“I’d love to,” I say.

His turn to blink. He runs a hand up the back of his head and grins, letting out a breath. “I was hoping you’d say that. How much time do you need?”

“I’ll just throw some stuff in a bag. I can be back down here in ten minutes. Is there anything you need me to bring?”

Eli shakes his head, his eyes going soft again when they trail down my body, then back up.

“Just you, Olivia.”* * *I am not prepared for how hot Eli looks when he’s driving.

One enormous hand on the wheel. The other hanging out the window, holding his cigar between his first and second fingers. He’s wearing a pair of gold-rimmed aviators that make him look like an especially attractive off-duty cop.

He guides the truck along a series of country roads with well-practiced ease. He’s master of this little universe.

And I’m wet. So wet I can feel it soaking my underwear.

The windows are down, but that does nothing to cool the heat that stretches between us. The air is thick with it.

My hair is everywhere. “I’m On Fire” is playing, because Eli is thoughtful like that and put on Springsteen even before we backed out of his driveway. Outside the windows, a fiery sunset paints the marshy low country landscape in shades of orange and purple and blue. Billy pants in the backseat behind us.

The smell of the ocean fills my head.

Ocean and Eli.

I venture a glance in his direction. Take in the square lines of his scruffy jaw. The sensual curve of his lips. His eyes are thoughtful behind his glasses, crow’s feet deepening when we round a bend and sunlight slices through the windshield.

He’s not usually this quiet. This contemplative. I can feel the hurt—the confusion—radiating off him.

“Y’know it’s not polite to stare,” he says, eyes darting to mine before returning to the road. One end of his mouth curls into a smirk.

I swallow. “Yeah, well. It’s not polite to be so damn good looking.”

“I could say the same to you.” Through the lenses of his glasses, I can see his eyes flick over my bare legs.

A charge of electricity moves through my skin.

“Now who’s staring?” I say, holding my hair back when it whips into my face.

He puts out the cigar in a tin container on the console between us. Then he shuts the container with a small, neat clap. “Me.”

“You’re not supposed to drive distracted.”

His smirk deepens. “Can’t help it. You’re awful distracting.”

“Try me,” I say, wiggling my dress up a little more.

The truck swerves. Eli rights it with a grunt.

“Do you want me to drive us into a tree?”

“If it takes your mind off things, then yeah. Maybe I do.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” he says, reaching over to playfully pat me on the leg.

My breath catches. Eli pulls back. Clears his throat.