Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I laugh. “You know I’m not one to put my feet up. But if you wanna cook, then by all means—kitchen’s yours. Can I be your sous chef?”

“What’s that?” she says with a grin.

I shrug. “Your helper. How about I chop, and you cook?”

“Deal. Now please tell me you have a pantry.”

“Of course I do,” I say. I open the narrow door across from the refrigerator, revealing a pantry that’s well stocked even by my standards.

Olivia comes over and grabs a box of spaghetti noodles and some cans of crushed tomatoes. “Perfect. I’ll make a quick version of my mom’s Sunday sauce.”

Standing underneath my outstretched arm, she looks up at me. I’m overwhelmed by the desire to kiss her.

“All right, chef. Just tell me what to do,” I say.* * *I open the windows. Open a bottle of good Barolo. Put on some Pearl Jam.

And then we get to work.

I dice garlic and onions while Olivia browns the meat in a big stockpot on the stove. Like the rest of the cabin, the kitchen is tiny, and we bump into each other with welcome regularity.

With Olivia in my kitchen and the smell of dinner in the air and Eddie Vedder singing in the background, the elephant rolls off my chest. I zone out as I chop, rocking my knife. Soothing motions I could perform in my sleep. Charleston and all my problems there slowly fade, until they start to feel like nothing more a bad dream. Something my subconscious made up.

Olivia takes care of pretty much the whole meal. She does ask for help, once, when the sauce comes out under seasoned. I’m way too fucking flattered by her trust in me to fix it, and it feels good to help her out in this small way. In that moment, I felt the opposite of the way I’ve been feeling for the past six months. I felt like I knew what I was doing. I felt like I was needed.

I felt at home in my skin, and in the kitchen, too.

A nice little reminder that I don’t always suck.

We eat outside at the picnic table on my deck. Olivia talks to me about places she’s visited and loved in Charleston. I give her all the gossip on restaurants and bars. Deadbeat owners. Who’s fucking. Who’s cheating. Who makes the best shrimp and grits in town.

I get the feeling she’s intentionally keeping the conversation light. Which I appreciate, more than she knows. The last thing I feel like talking about is my own restaurant.

My own fuck ups.

I also just like talking to her. She could be talking about the mating habits of the crickets that surround us, and I think I’d still be enthralled. The words she uses, the stories she tells. She’s got this way of commanding the conversation—this confidence that actually reminds me of my teachers at culinary school.

Makes me wonder who—what—she was in her previous life. Before she became a writer.

I am a patient man. But the more time I spend with Olivia, the hungrier I become for her story. I want to know everything there is to know about her. I want to know what she’s running from.

I want to know if she makes love as passionately as she writes.

The stars are pulsing against a pitch black sky by the time we bring our empty plates and wine glasses inside. Olivia puts hers in the sink, already piled high with dirty dishes. She turns on the water and starts scrubbing.

I sidle up behind her. Put my arms on the lip of the sink on either side of her waist, caging her.

Leaning my front into her back, I press a kiss to the nape of her neck. Her hands go still. A rush of blood stiffens my cock. I been waiting all damn night to do this.

“Leave it,” I murmur against her skin, nipping at it with my teeth. “I wanna take you to bed.”

She draws a shaky breath. After a beat, she turns off the faucet. Then she lets me work my way down the slope of her neck to her shoulder. Her skin is covered in goosebumps. I lean into her a little more, canting my hips so my hard on glides between her ass cheeks.

Her hand finds mine on the sink and squeezes.

It’s quiet in the kitchen. The only sounds coming through the open window. Crickets. The distant rush of the ocean.

“I’m so—” Her eyes flutter shut when I nip at her earlobe. Her breath catches. “Jesus, Elijah, I am so turned on it hurts.”

A grin tugs at my lips. She’s already falling apart.

She is already coming apart in my hands, and I’ve barely even touched her.

She’s gonna fucking lose her mind when I make her come. Because that is something I can give her. I may not have the biggest bank account. I may have failed.