Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

Eli stretches out his legs in front of him. “What about teachin’ those creative writing classes you mentioned at The College of Charleston? Do that and write on the side?”

“They aren’t hiring. And even if they were, I doubt I’d get a position there that offers tenure,” I say, shaking my head. “Most likely I’d be an adjunct professor. Which means I’ll be working for very little money. I won’t get any benefits. And there will be no guarantees of future employment. I do have some money in savings, but I imagine I’d burn through that pretty quickly living on an adjunct’s pay. As far as my books go…I mean. I haven’t even finished one yet. Much less thought about how I’m going to publish and market it.”

Eli steeples his fingers, bringing them to his lips. He’s quiet for a minute.

“Tell me something,” he says at last.

“Yeah?”

“When we were in bed—tell me about things I made you feel.”

Licking my lips, I take a breath through my nose. Consider my words carefully before I say them.

“You made me feel like I could. I felt so…sure with you in bed. So confident. Unafraid to be myself. To push boundaries and take chances, because we were there to catch each other if something went wrong. I could have my cake and eat it too, if that makes sense.”

“So I’m the cake in this scenario?” he asks with a smile.

My gaze flicks over his bare torso. “Eli, you are all the cakes in the world combined. You’re so delicious it’s kind of ridiculous.”

He laughs.

“See, I think you’re lookin’ at it all wrong,” he says. “I think you’re selling yourself short, thinking you can’t create a fulfilling life for yourself down here that works.”

“Eli,” I say. “Come on. Do you know how hard it is to make a living as a writer?”

“’Course it’s hard.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

“I can’t lose my tenure.”

Eli tilts his head. “You’ll give up your dream for tenure?”

My throat tightens.

“What if I fail?”

Eli scoffs. “Look at me! I’ve failed. Hell, I just failed spectacularly. In front of the whole damn world, too. All my peers. The press. The city. But I’m still standin’. And I still get to wake up every day and spend my time doing something I love.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t have your talent.”

“You don’t need talent. You need confidence. And a hell of a lot of perseverance.”

I shake my head, a tear spilling down my cheek. I wipe it away.

“I’m too scared.”

“Join the club. We’re all scared, sweetheart. But feelin’ scared because you’re chasing down your dream is better than feelin’ nothing at all. You just let me hurt you so you could feel something. Think about that, baby.”

I think about it. Wonder if the simple fact that I am thinking about it seriously means the scales are rebalancing inside my head. Am I more afraid to leave? Or more afraid to stay?

Can I really leave Eli? I’m sure we could try dating long distance. But he works crazy hours. And Ithaca is a long way from any major airports. It’d be really hard to make it work.

“When exactly do you have to go back to New York?” he asks.

“The end of the month.”

His eyes glimmer. “Two weeks.”

“Yep.”

“All right,” he says, nodding. “Two weeks.”* * *EliI have two weeks to convince Olivia to stay.

Two weeks to convince her to give her dreams a shot.

Convince her to give me a shot.Chapter Twenty-SevenEliThe next day is gorgeous. The marsh glitters beneath a spotless autumn sky. It’s a little chilly, so I light a fire in the outdoor fireplace, wrap Olivia in a blanket, and leave her to write.

I grab my latest read—a romance about a marriage of convenience, quickly becoming one of my favorite tropes—and settle onto the couch inside.

Billy hangs with me for all of five seconds before he saunters onto the deck. Through the open door, I hear Olivia greet him, and his tags jingle happily as he lays down at her feet.

I smile. Look at the three of us, getting all cozy and shit together.

The sun is out. The fire’s just starting to smell good. I keep smiling when I think about what I’ll make us for lunch. I’ve got some fish and a pineapple-and-cilantro slaw, made from scratch of course, to throw together for fish tacos. Add an ice cold Corona, and I know my Yankee girl is gonna be a happy camper.

So am I. A sense of contentedness washes over me.

For a second it’s overshadowed by nagging thoughts about The Jam. It won’t be fun to deal with the fallout when we get back into town. People are going to lose their jobs. I’ve already lost a fuck ton of money.

News is probably hitting the papers right about now. I wince when I imagine what the headlines must be.