Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)
“I feel that having what you want is more important than having it all.”
– Judy Gagliardi Wagner
Chapter One
Olivia
Taking the exit ramp off I-26, I roll down my windows. Turn up the country song on the radio. A guy with a sultry southern accent is singing about making out in the back of his pickup truck.
Feels appropriate for my arrival in Charleston, South Carolina. The city I’ll be calling home for the next month.
While I wait at the light at the end of the ramp, I glance at the duffel bag in my passenger seat. The edges of the jewelry box I’ve stuffed into the front pocket strain against the crisp black nylon.
My chest tightens. It’s already sore from one thousand, one hundred and thirty eight miles of tears.
And probably for the one thousand, one hundred and thirty eighth time, I see the image of Teddy in my head. Excitement in his blue eyes dimming when, after an excruciating pause, I replied to his four word question.
I’m sorry, but I need time to think about it.
In that moment, I could just imagine my family—my friends—everyone putting their hands on their heads in disbelief and asking what the fuck is wrong with you?
What is wrong with me, needing time to think about marrying the perfect man who wants to give me the perfect life?
“But you could have it all!” my mother said, clearly bewildered. “Everyone loves Ted. You don’t run from a man like that.”
But here I am, running.
Like a coward.
Like an idiot.
It’s the only thing that felt right after the proposal blew up in my face the other night. I wanted to say yes to Teddy. But as he kneeled there, offering me the most gorgeous diamond ring on Earth, I got this awful gut feeling that the whole thing was wrong.
Which is laughable, considering how picture perfect Ted’s proposal was. He pulled out all the stops: flowers, dinner at a Michelin starred restaurant, flawless four carat diamond. It was so him.
But was it at all me?
Lately, I’ve fought this feeling of being suffocated. I don’t understand it. I was raised under the banner of “having it all”, and I’ve worked my butt off to do exactly that: have the dream job, the dream house, the dream guy. It’s all finally within reach. I just had to say yes to Teddy. But I couldn’t. All I could think about as I stared down at the ring was a conversation he and I had had recently. We were talking about my love of romance novels.
“As a professor of feminism in nineteenth century masterpieces, aren’t you supposed to, like, be opposed to everything those books represent?” he asked, shaking his head.
Romance is feminist. The reply was on the tip of my tongue. Romance is one of the few genres that explicitly puts a woman’s dreams and desires, sexual and otherwise, front and center. It’s one of the many reasons I love reading it.
But I didn’t say that. Ted is not at all supportive of my romance habit—I read at least one a week. When I drunkenly confessed my secret desire to write a full-length romance of my own a couple months back, he laughed and said I had better things to do.
I mean, I get it. Ted has a very specific vision for our future together. As one half of the power couple he sees us becoming—he’s a corporate lawyer, I’m a professor at an Ivy League University—I have to stick to the straight and narrow. Ted’s always polished and put together, and he encourages me to be the same. He likes when I wear expensive clothes—“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” he says—and insists we socialize with other well-dressed, like-minded couples that live in the neighborhood we recently moved into just outside Ithaca.
Being with Ted has transformed me into the successful woman I always thought I’d be. So why does being that woman make me feel so smothered sometimes?
It’s a very privileged problem to have. I recognize that. But I can’t seem to kick this feeling. Overcome it.
I start at the sound of a honk behind me. The light is green. I follow the nice GPS lady’s instructions and hang a right onto Meeting Street.
I’ve never been to South Carolina before. The first thing I notice is how damn hot it is. The air blowing through the windows is thick with humidity and the salty smell of the ocean. So different from the crisp feel of late September in upstate New York.
My long-ish hair whips in my face, already frizzy. Usually that bothers me. No one appreciates a great blowout more than I do. But right now, hair seems like a silly thing to worry about. So I just tuck my sunglasses onto my head to keep it out of my eyes.