Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I find an adorable apartment on the second floor of a circa 1880 Charleston single house on Queen Street. It’s right on the edge of the French Quarter. It’s tiny and quirky and it gets incredible natural light in the late afternoons—my favorite time to write. The sloping porch faces St. Philip’s Church. You can just glimpse its stuccoed spire over the roof of the house next door.

Julia and I find an elegant writing desk with a busted leg at a store in Mount Pleasant one day while we’re antiquing. The owner sells it to me for a song. Julia fixes the leg, and I put the desk underneath the wavy glass window in my shoebox-sized bedroom. I write there on days I don’t feel like going out.

I sell my car and buy a mint green bike.

Every Friday, I ride it to Kathryn’s house on the edge of the College of Charleston’s campus. She hosts the Charleston Writers’ Club’s weekly meeting. Over gin cocktails and cheese straws, I pick every brain I can about agents, contracts, traditional versus indie publishing. Some of the people belonging to the brains I pick become friends. They invite me to their homes, and I am continually impressed by their warm hospitality. Also by how much they can drink.

Charleston is definitely a boozy town. And I don’t mind that one bit.

I start teaching my class. I love my students and my subject matter right off the bat. The vibe in the department down here is much more relaxed than it was at Ithaca.

I visit Louise at Rainbow Row Books often. We set up some signings with a few big names in romance—friends of other writer friends—and lay the groundwork for that romance book club we chatted about.

When I’m not writing or teaching, I’m walking. When I’m not walking, I’m meeting up with friends, or faculty from the college. As the trees begin to blossom and winter bursts into spring with crystal clear blue skies for days, I settle into my new life.

It is wonderful. Not perfect. I cry my way through the slog of writing the last chapters of Gunnar and Cate’s story. I cry again when I get quotes for health insurance.

But life here is still dreamy in so many ways. Still better and more me. I don’t know if it’s the spring air, or the fact that I finally finished My Enemy the Earl, but every morning I wake up and feel this searing sense of freedom. It’s open windows and freshly brewed coffee and nothing but writing all the words and teaching all the words on my to-do list for that day.

Some days, I almost feel guilty. Like I’m getting away with something for actually liking the person I’m becoming.

But then I think, wait a second. If I don’t deserve to feel this way, then who does? No one?

I fought so hard to get to this place. I know I still have a lot of fighting to do. But I’m not afraid to work hard if it means feeling like this most mornings.

My nights, though, are a different story.

That’s when the longing hits me. I thought by now, months later, I’d stop missing Eli so much. Especially after that last conversation we had. He was so awful. So mean.

But I only miss him more. I sit on my porch with a glass of wine and look out over the city, wondering where he is in it. The Pearl, most likely. Holding court in the kitchen, looking handsome as hell in his chef’s jacket and slicked back hair.

He’ll pop up in the local news every so often. I can’t stand to look at his picture in the articles. That smile and the scruff and those eyes.

Makes me want to see him again, despite how awful he was the last time we spoke. But what if he’s still not over losing The Jam? What if he is over me? There has to be a reason why he hasn’t contacted me. Eli’s not the type to play games. If he wanted to see me, he’d reach out.

And he hasn’t.

I drink my wine and I watch the sun set. My thoughts are a jumble. My neck and shoulders ache from another long day hunched over my laptop.

Yoga classes aren’t exactly in my budget at the moment. But maybe I could take just one. Just to clear my head and work these knots out of my neck.

I wonder if Eli still takes classes at Yoga First.

I shove the thought from my head. I’m practicing for myself. And if he happens to be there?

I guess I’ll find out if I really want to see him or not.Chapter Thirty-SixEliI am back in the kitchen. Worse for the wear. But I am semi-functional, and I no longer play Post Malone on repeat. That has to count for something.