Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

The book that has changed my life in so many insanely rewarding ways.

“You came,” I breathe.

His eyes get warm. Soft. “‘Course I came. Wouldn’t miss your debut for the world.”

My mouth has gone dry.

“Nice turn out you got here,” he says, looking around the store. “Looks like I’m not Cate and Gunnar’s only fan.”

“But you were the first,” I reply, and I suddenly feel like I’m going to cry. “Which is the most important fan.”

He looks at me and smiles.

I have to look away.

Sign the book. Right. He’s here for the book.

My hand shakes so badly that I can hardly write. To Elijah—Thank you. For everything. This book happened because of you. Xx, Olivia.

“Thanks,” he says when I hand it to him, meeting my eyes. “I’m proud of you, Yankee girl.”

His words wrap around my heart and squeeze.

I manage to give him tight smile. “I would have never kept writing if it wasn’t for you, Eli. I mean it—thank you for everything. Thank you for being you.”

He taps the book against his palm, once. Twice. He wants to say something, I know he does. I can tell by the gleam in his hazel eyes.

Eyes that are currently locked on my face.

Oh, I want him to say it.

But then he draws a breath and straightens. “Don’t want to take you away from your fans.” He glances over his shoulder. “I’ll be hangin’ out with Louise if you get a breather. Although that doesn’t seem likely. There are a lot of people here.”

“I know,” I say. “I have no clue where they came from, but…”

Eli looks at me, and I’m struck by an idea.

No way.

He didn’t.

Did he?

Before I can ask him, he’s turning away.

“I’ll look out for Max and Jane’s story next,” he says, referring to secondary characters in My Enemy the Earl who clearly wanted to suck each other’s faces.

And then he disappears into the crowd.

A young woman approaches the table and smiles, clutching my book in her hands.

I manage a smile. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m Olivia. What’s your name?”Chapter Thirty-EightOliviaIt’s well past closing time when I sign the last of the books.

My hand is cramped. My mouth feels tacky from talking so much to so many people. I’m wiped.

And blissed out beyond belief.

My first signing for my first book was a success. I lost count of how many readers told me they heard “amazing things” about My Enemy the Earl. I don’t know how they heard about it.

But I have a good idea.

I make a quick trip to the bathroom. When I come out, I look around the room at the few remaining people. I see Louise, popping the last of the cheese into her mouth. Eli’s sister Grace, getting awfully cozy with Luke in the Nonfiction section.

But I don’t see Eli.

“I don’t know where he went,” Grace says when I ask, glancing up from the book on gardening Luke holds. Then she gives me a pointed look. “But you should definitely find him. He wants to talk to you.”

Luke gives her a gentle nudge.

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “Maybe my brother quite possibly would like to have a potential conversation with you. But only if you want to, too.”

I look from Luke to Grace and back again. They stare at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to know what the hell they’re asking me to do.

“Right,” I say at last. “I’ll go find him.”

I get stopped by a few people on their way out of the shop.

They open the door. And I catch a glimpse of a broad-shouldered figure in the parking lot. I see the end of a cigar light up. An ember in the darkness. A beat later, I’m hit by the earthy scent of tobacco.

I nearly sag with relief. I didn’t miss him. Eli is still here.

“Louise,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t hurry!” she replies.

I can hear the smile in her voice.

I step onto the porch and quietly make my way down the front steps. The parking lot is dark. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.

And then he’s there. Enormous man standing beside an equally enormous pickup truck. The smoke from his cigar creates a haze between us.

I feel his eyes on me. My nipples prickle to life.

Crossing my arms, I move toward him, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. I stop a few feet away, scared that I’ll reach for him if I get any closer. And I have no idea where we stand. Or if he still feels for me what I feel for him.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” I say. “You’re the anonymous fan who told everyone about my book and bought extra copies for me to sign.”

The tip of his cigar lights up again as he pulls on it. His eyes are pools of green. So translucent they seem to glow.