Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

My heart begins to free fall as I watch the realization wash over his face.

“So you’re not just from there,” he says flatly. “You live there.”

I nod, taking another sip of wine. “I’m on leave right now. My TA has taken over my class load. But her baby is due at the end of October. So I have to be back by then or—”

“Or what?” His eyes glisten in the darkness.

I roll my lips between my teeth. Look down. Look back up. “Or I lose the tenure I’ve worked my entire career to get. I lose my salary. Insurance. My future as an academic.”

He puts the cigar back in his mouth. Takes a long, slow puff, eyes on the ground.

“What about your writing?”

“What about it?” I shrug, the words sour on my tongue. “Right now, it’s just a hobby. Something silly I’ve always wanted to do.”

He spears me with a look. “It’s not silly, Olivia. It’s who you are.”

My throat gets tight.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Means I’ve read your work. And I can tell by the passionate way you write and the care and dedication you put into it that it means somethin’ to you.” He taps some ash onto the ground. “I can tell it makes you happy.”

I swallow, hard. “How can you tell that?”

“The day we met—when you first got here—you had all this pent up energy. This pent up passion. I saw it in your eyes. You were holding it in. Hiding it. But now I see you releasing that passion onto the page. I see you lightin’ up when you talk about romance. Writing. Gunnar and Cate. I don’t know what your life was like before you came to Charleston. But you write an awful lot about feeling trapped. About being held back by other peoples’ expectations. But it seems like you’re free from all that bullshit down here.”

Oh, Jesus, it’s like I’ve swallowed the moon, and now it’s stuck in my throat.

“Those are Cate’s problems,” I say, my voice wobbling. “They’re fictional.”

“The way you write them—they feel awful real to me, sweetheart.” His voice softens. “So what exactly are you runnin’ from, Yankee girl?”

The careful way he asks—the sincere concern in his voice—it’s too much. I keep swallowing, hoping to clear the logjam in my throat. I’m having trouble breathing.

“A lot of things,” I manage. “But the impetus for coming down here was getting away from my ex.”

Elijah’s fingers tighten around his cigar. “He hurt you?”

“No, no, it’s not like that.” I shake my head, looking down to pick at my yoga pants. I take a breath. Look up and meet Eli’s eyes. “He actually proposed. I wanted to say yes. But I couldn’t.”

I can’t read the expression in Eli’s eyes. “Why not?”

“It didn’t feel right. The life I’d be saying yes to is a good life. A beautiful one. But I wasn’t sure it was me. I felt so stifled by it. After being down here, I understand why. I can’t be who I am in that life. You know, the steamy book writer who bikes around town and splits her time between being terrible at yoga and reading romance.”

That earns a small smile from Eli.

“You’re not terrible at yoga,” he says.

“I’m actually the worst. But you’re sweet to pretend otherwise.”

I take a sip of my wine. Eli puffs on his cigar.

“My life back home—everyone was always telling me how perfect it was. I have it all,” I continue. “But now I’m realizing that none of it makes me very happy. There’s no room for passion or creativity in perfection. It’s bloodless.”

He shoots me a look. All these damn looks of his. Dark and steamy and cutting in all the right ways.

All the hard ways.

“That why you wanted to bleed?” he says. “To feel somethin’?”

Yes.

I struggle to admit it out loud. So I tell him with my eyes instead.

He pulls on his cigar. Smoke rises from his lips, making him squint.

“I know it’s fucked up. But I liked it, Eli.” I shake my head. “Jesus. What is wrong with me?”

His brow puckers as his fingers go still. “Nothing is wrong with you. You’re human. You wanted to feel alive. I just don’t want to have to hurt you to get you there.”

“Maybe I deserve to hurt,” I say, looking away. “Considering all the people I’m disappointing.”

I hear Eli swallow.

Looking up, I say, “I admit that when I first came down here, I thought for sure that I’d be going back to him. But now I can’t. Not after being with you.”

Eli’s eyes glisten. He stubs out his cigar in the glass ashtray on the arm of his chair.

“That mean we’re together?” he says slowly, glancing up at me. “That mean you’re gonna stay in Charleston?”

“Yes.” It’s my turn to swallow. “And maybe. I can’t make any guarantees, Eli. Not yet. But I do want to be with you. And I would love nothing more than to stay in Charleston, because I love it down here. I just don’t know what I’m going to do about my job. It’s obviously in New York. Yeah, there are some things I don’t like about it. But I do love my students. And I’ve got a really bright future in my department.”