Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

“Of course I want to make money,” I say, searching her eyes. “But not at the expense of my happiness. I’m not gonna change my menu. I genuinely love the food we make. I’m proud of it. Cooking that way makes me happy. But changing who I am and what I cook to please some idiot behind a computer? That sounds like my own personal hell. Why on God’s green earth would I do something that makes me unhappy?”

Olivia blinks. Her gaze has turned thoughtful.

“But the money,” she presses. “The press. Being famous. The security that would buy you—the reputation you’d have—”

“Isn’t worth it if I’m not happy,” I repeat. “I’m not sayin’ money isn’t important. Man needs something to live on. But I’ve got all I need.” I gesture to the room around us. “Could I afford a bigger place if I changed up my menu? Got better reviews? Opened more restaurants? Probably. But I love my little slice of Charleston. I love what I do. And that’s something I’m not willin’ to compromise on.”

It seems self-explanatory to me. But Olivia is staring at me like I’m some kind of exotic species she’s never seen before.

Like she’s never even considered putting her happiness first.

Which begs the question: what does she put first? Why isn’t it happiness? Yeah, I may not be the happiest guy on the planet right now with everything going on. But that doesn’t mean I don’t try to prioritize it as much as I can.

The coffee starts to steam behind me. I turn to the stove. Turn the burner off. I grab two mugs and a carton of half and half from the fridge.

Facing her, I hold the carton over her cup. “Half and half okay?”

Olivia hesitates. Then: “Sure. Why not. I’m…”

I wait for her to finish. I’m on vacation. I’m wanted by the authorities and this could very well be my last meal as a free woman. I’m in agreement that full fat dairy makes life worth living.

“I’m okay with that,” she says at last.

Oh, this girl is running from something all right.

Hiding something, too.

But it’s not my place to push her. If she wants to tell me, she will. When she’s ready.

I’ll feed her in the meantime.

She’s careful not to let our fingers brush as she takes the mug.

“Jesus,” she says after taking a sip, her voice an octave lower with pleasure. “Do you make the best everything? This coffee tastes like liquid velvet.”

I grin at her over the rim of my mug. What started out as another shitty morning in a string of shitty mornings is actually turning out to be pretty damn great.

“It’s literally my job to make the best food on the planet, so…yeah. Glad you’re enjoying it.”

Olivia looks down at Billy. “It’s not even noon, and already this might be the best Monday I’ve ever had. All thanks to food.”

“Not me?” I say, arching a brow.

She laughs, her blue eyes dancing again. “Maybe if you put a shirt on.”

“Never.”

“You don’t compromise on anything, do you?”

I lick my lips. “Not on things that matter.”

Olivia swallows. “I admire that, Eli.”

Insert Robert Plant howl here. I like it when she says my name. Maybe it’s her accent. The sultry voice she’s still using as she finishes her coffee.

“And I admire your appetite, Olivia.”

Her gaze skips over my stomach. “Unlike me, you clearly keep yours under control.”

“Not really.” When she spears me with a look of pointed skepticism, I grin. “I eat a lot. But I also bike all over town, and I’m rollin’ out my yoga mat whenever I can.”

“You practice yoga?” she says, brightening. “Me too. Although I’m terrible at it.”

“We should take a class together sometime.”

I look at her. It’s not an invitation to a date. But it’s pretty damn close. Hey, I like hanging out with her. Like how she keeps me out of my head.

I wait for her to turn me down. Tell me she has a boyfriend, a husband. A husband and kids.

But I’m not seeing a ring on any of her fingers.

Olivia runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “It’d be great if you could point me in the direction of a studio close by.”

“Consider it done. We’ve got plenty of great studios in town. My favorite is probably Yoga First on Spring Street—hot yoga at its best. Take Peter’s class if you can.”

Her eyes latch onto mine. A beat of unmistakable heat passes between us. How long has she been here? Half an hour? Half a day?

I want her to stay. It’s only gotta be an hour or two until lunch. I’ve got some basil and fresh peaches—maybe have one of my prep guys bring some of that burrata we made yesterday at The Pearl—I’ve just got this feeling Yankee girl here would love my southern riff on a Caprese salad. We could eat it on the couch while catching up on that terrible reality TV show we both like.