Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

But Eli—he loves it.

The suffocation that has gripped my throat and squeezed for the past however many years feels so far away it might as well not exist. I can breathe here. Be myself—my messy, slightly drunk self—without being afraid of embarrassing or disappointing anyone.

A girl could get addicted to feeling like this.

“Guilty,” I say, grabbing a napkin to wipe my finger. “If you didn’t want me to be rude, you shouldn’t make your food so damn delicious.”

“You enjoyed it, then?” he says. There’s a hint of uncertainty in his tone. A hint of hope.

It’s cute.

A warning bell goes off in the back of my head. But I’m too far gone on wine and food and him to take heed of it.

“Hated it,” I reply with a smile. He lets out the breath he’s been holding. “So much so that I want to get my bill and get the hell out of here so I never have to come back. Speaking of—”

“Bill’s taken care of,” Eli says, waving me away.

I stare at him. “Stop it. Eli, you have to let me pay.”

“Seeing the look on your face while you ate was payment enough. You wear your stomach on your sleeve, Olivia.”

A new, more potent rush of heat to my face.

“Oh, Jesus, what kind of look are you talking about?” I ask.

His lips twitch. “The kind I like. C’mon, let’s grab a drink at the bar.”

Eli holds out his hand. I hesitate. Then, remembering to give in for the sake of my art, I take it. As he helps me down from my stool, an unmistakable charge of lust bolts through me from the place where my palm touches his.

I can’t be the only one who feels it. But he makes no outward sign of acknowledgment. Just smiles at me, eyes meeting mine, and walks me across the restaurant.

Probably for the best.

He pulls out a stool for me at the bar and heads to the other side. The bartenders, who were busy loading the dishwashers and wiping down the counter, now nod at Eli and slip out of sight.

My heart is pounding. I know I should go home. Call it a night. But I don’t want to.

Not yet.

“What are you drinking?” Eli asks, grabbing a shaker.

I look at the wall of liquor in front of me. “I’m really full—nothing too heavy. What would you recommend?”

He narrows his eyes playfully, searching my face.

“I got you. Hang on.”

Watching Eli work a cocktail shaker—the way he casually knows his way around the bar, the liquor, the glasses—

I am sweating. This town is turning me into a perpetually sticky, sweaty, lusty mess.

My body is practically throbbing by the time he slides a heavy bottomed glass across the bar. He’s holding another in his hand.

“Cheers,” he says, holding it out. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

I touch my glass to his. “Are you kidding? Thank you for having me. And for treating me to the best meal of my life. Seriously. I’ve never experienced anything like it. The food here—the atmosphere—it’s special, Eli. I’m in awe.”

He grins, bringing his drink to his lips. His eyes are on me as I sip mine. Like he’s a little nervous to know what I think.

A smoky-sweet flavor hits my tongue, cut with a refreshing edge of something cold and foamy and just a little bit tart.

“Stop blowing my mind already, would you?” I say, smacking my lips. “One time is enough.”

Eli is still grinning. “It’s the Mezcal. I’ve kind of been obsessed with it lately—it’s a Mexican liquor made from agave, and it has this incredible, sexy smoke to it I can’t get enough of.”

Sexy. That’s exactly how this drink tastes.

That’s exactly how I feel when Eli looks at me.Chapter NineOlivia“It’s delicious,” I say, looking away. “Everything you make is delicious. Watching you work in the kitchen gave me so much inspiration.”

“Inspiration?” He arches a brow. “For what?”

I freeze, holding my cocktail in midair.

I hadn’t meant to say that.

I meet Eli’s eyes. They’re dark. Handsome.

Earnest.

I think about what Ted said when I told him about my romance author aspirations.

Then I think about what Eli said the other morning over breakfast. The stuff about doing what makes him happy.

Maybe he’d get why I want to write.

Or maybe he won’t.

Either way, I kind of want to try on Writer as a profession. Just this once. If I can’t do it here, in a place where literally no one knows me, I never will. There are no friends to make uncomfortable. No colleagues to go running to my department head with the alarming news that one of their up and coming academic stars is writing a bodice ripper. No boyfriend to disappoint or embarrass.

It’s not like I’d be lying about it, either. I am writing a book.

My heart thumps once. Twice.

“Inspiration for my novel,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “I write historical romance.”