Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

Only the Grace I know is a serial monogamist. Last I checked, she was still dating Nicholas.

So what the hell is she doing asking Luke out for coffee?

Grace rolls down her window, brow creasing with concern.

“How ya doing, E?”

“Been better,” I reply, giving my cigar a solid pull.

I hear her car gears clank as she puts it in park. “Need me to take you home?”

“Nah.” I wave her away. “Y’all go. I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” Luke asks.

“I’m sure.”

I meet Luke’s eyes. Tell him, as best as I can without saying a word, to keep it in his fucking pants.

I’ve seen the thing. It’s become something of an Urban Legend. I hear girls whispering about it in bars as we pass. The Luke Lady Dagger, they call it.

A lady dagger that leaves behind a trail of destruction and heartbreak wherever it goes.

Luke shoves his hands in his pockets. “Of course. Think about what I said, yeah? And call me if you need me, E. We’re gonna get through this.”

Easier said than done, I think to myself as I watch my sister and my best friend drive away. Together. To “get coffee.”

Seriously. Has the world turned upside down over the past week? Or is it just me?* * *I go home. I skip my usual four fingers of bourbon and take a long, scalding hot shower instead.

And I try to stop.

Stop fighting my feelings. Stop lying to myself.

Stop holding it all in.

Giving in doesn’t come easy. I’ve built up my walls nice and high. I feel the flood coming, pressing against my defenses. Rising up, filling my lungs.

Until finally, as I stand underneath the shower head, the giant tidal wave of all the things I’ve bottled up for so long comes crashing over my walls. The impact is immediate and devastating. I feel everything.

Disappointment.

Frustration.

Regret.

Panic.

Loneliness.

Fuck this sucks. It hurts so bad that I can’t stay still.

I beat the outsides of my fists against the tile until I feel a crack in my left pinkie finger. I’ve suffered enough hand injuries over my career—burns, cuts, accidental amputations of fingertips—to know it’s broken.

Fuck fuck fuck.

My first impulse is to dull the pain with a bottle of Jack Daniels. But by the time I get out of the shower, I feel wrung out. Too exhausted to get drunk, or even go downstairs.

I’ve hit a new low.

All I can do is collapse into bed. I fall into a drowsy half-sleep, waking with a start whenever my brain conjures a fresh round of panicked thoughts to torture me with. It happens over and over. All night.

I worry The Pearl is going to fail next. I worry about the cooks and wait staff and bartenders I had to let go. I worry about their futures, and I worry about mine.

I hadn’t realized how tied up my self-worth is in being successful. Here I was, preaching the importance of fulfillment and passion to Olivia, telling her I valued my convictions over money and fame, when part of me obviously does value those things.

The next morning, I call my sister, and then I call a therapist. I throw out all my bourbon. Go to yoga.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be the kind of man Olivia deserves. But if I need to, I’m gonna die trying.Chapter Thirty-FourOliviaThe drive back to Ithaca goes by too quickly.

I don’t want it to end. Because when it does, I have to burn my old life down so I can start a new one.

I am scared out of my mind. Mostly because I know I am going to hurt people I care about. All my life, I’ve tried very hard to please everyone. That was who I was—the people pleaser. I got so much praise for being easy going. For not rocking the boat or causing trouble or being difficult.

I am about to be very difficult. And while I feel confident that, in the end, I’ll be glad I chose to prioritize my happiness, it’s still going to suck crushing other people’s.

I call Ted to let him know I’m on my way—I plan to swing by and grab some things before I go stay at my parents’ house. Just hearing his voice on the phone was enough to send me into a tailspin of doubt and guilt.

I drive and I cry and I don’t eat a thing because my insides are in knots. I feel like I’m going to be sick the whole way. A voice inside me asks if you’re making the right choice, why does it hurt so much?

Doesn’t help that I can’t stop thinking about Eli. The argument we had was horrible. I replay it over and over inside my head. I regret not telling him about the fucking ring. I begin to think that I was a coward, too, for hiding that piece of my story from him.