Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

She’s got this interesting way of speaking. It’s somehow smart as hell, refined almost, without being stuck up.

I grin. “Told you I’d blow your mind.”

“What are grits, anyway?” she asks, digging out a big scoop with her fork. “And how do you make them so damn good?”

I watch her take one last bite before I turn back to the stove. If I keep watching her—

Well. It’d make me a goddamn creeper, for one thing. And for another, I want Olivia to be able to enjoy my food in relative peace. To take in the flavors, remember them. This is her first time in the temple.

I hope she’ll be back. Her enthusiasm—those little sounds she makes—it’s a nice reminder of why I started cooking in the first place.

I crack another egg into the saucepan of water. “For simplicity’s sake, think of grits as ground up dried corn. They’ve been a staple down south for centuries. There are a million ways to make ’em, but I like to keep it simple. Add lots of butter, half and half. Sometimes cheese if I’m hungover.”

“They’re, like, savory oatmeal almost.” Olivia’s words are muffled around a mouthful of food. “But way better. Do you make them every morning? If you do, I might have to stop by more often.”

She’s kidding. I can tell by the teasing tone of her voice. But I still give her an earnest look when I turn around with my prepared bowl a minute later. I like having her in my kitchen. Anxiety and panic don’t threaten anymore. It’s just us. Good food. Good conversation.

“I’ll make them for you as often as you’d like, Yankee girl.”

Olivia’s eyes dance. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, southern…charmer.”

“Fuckin’ hell, that show,” I say, referring to a popular reality TV show about a rich, ridiculous group of Charleston residents behaving badly.

“It’s so awful,” she says. “I love it.”

“Me too,” I say, laughing.

I walk around the island and settle onto the stool beside hers. Her gaze flicks over me. Her nostrils flare, once.

She looks away.

At my feet, Billy perks up. He knows there are scraps coming his way.

“So you’re a chef,” she says.

I nod, taking a wolfish bite of bacon, egg, and succotash. Damn, that is good.

“Yep. Been workin’ in kitchens since I was fifteen years old. Mama is an incredible cook, and she passed on her love of food to me. Was a no brainer to come to Charleston for culinary school—I grew up in Aiken, which is about three hours from here. I opened my first restaurant five years ago.”

Olivia nodded. “And the rest is history.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Not quite. Few months back, I opened my second restaurant. I wanted to do something simpler. More casual. Critics have not been impressed.”

“Why not?” she says, shoveling another spoonful of grits into her mouth. I bite back a grin. Girl can’t get enough, can she?

“Bastards are tearin’ me a new one.” I shrug. For some reason, talking to Olivia about this stuff hurts a lot less than it usually does. Although I’d still prefer to talk about something else. “One of the guys called my menu ‘basic bitch southern food.’”

Olivia blinks. “That seems unnecessarily harsh.”

“Welcome to the restaurant world,” I say.

“No wonder you were cursing.”

“Yep. That had me going. And the coffee—shit, I forgot the coffee. Want a cup?”

She grins. “Yes please.”

I shovel in a few more bites myself before standing. When I have the time, I like to make coffee the Italian way—using freshly ground beans my sister Gracie, a coffee connoisseur, drops off from her coffee shop, and a moka pot on the stove.

I make quick work of it. Grind the beans, fill the moka pot. Set it over a low flame on the stove. It’s immediately fragrant.

Before the whole fiasco with The Jam happened, I used to love mornings at home. It’s been a while since I felt content like I do now. All thanks to the hungry girl who showed up in my kitchen.

I turn back to Olivia.

“Well.” She pushes her empty bowl forward. “Clearly you know how to cook. I don’t think you’ll have any problem changing up your menu to impress those critics.”

I settle my palms on the edge of the island and lean into them. Look at Olivia. “I’m not changing my menu.”

She blinks again, her brow scrunching up. “Really? I don’t know much about running a restaurant, but I can’t imagine bad reviews are all that great for your bottom line.”

“They’re not.” Another shrug. “Worst case scenario, we’ll have to close the restaurant. But I’m hopin’ it won’t come to that.”

Now she’s looking at me sideways. “You don’t sound all that concerned about losing a restaurant. Losing the opportunity to open more restaurants. Don’t you—I don’t know, want to make money? Be a celebrity chef and all that?”