Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

Then I called my boss, the English Department Head. She was not happy with my emergency request for a sabbatical. But I was firm in my need for a break. There’s no way I could do my students justice right now. She finally relented when I convinced her my top notch TA, Christine, could handle my class load; Christine had agreed to take over until she has her baby at the end of October.

So I’ve got almost four weeks to reset, recharge, and dabble in my book.

I make the turn onto Longitude Lane.

Right away, I slam on my brakes.

“What the f—”

A handful of humungous birds loiter in the middle of the alley like bored teenagers. They look like turkeys. Or maybe they’re geese? They peck at each other. Peck at the ground.

One of them has the balls to look me in the eye for a full beat. Like I’m the one holding up traffic.

I wait for them to move, but they don’t. I start to sweat. I mean, what the hell are you supposed to do when you encounter birds the size of beach balls in the middle of a city street?

I consider honking my horn. But this little alley is nice. I half expect Scarlett O’Hara to come charging out of the house to my left, bottle of bourbon in one hand and a shotgun in the other, telling me she doesn’t give a damn if I’m tired and hot and cranky, people down here don’t honk.

On to plan B. Maybe if I get out of the car—

But then a man appears, saving me from what I’m sure would have devolved into a scene from The Birds.

Not just any man.

A shirtless one.

A sexy, shirtless, tatted up man.

I watch, my mouth going dry, as he strides out into the street, his broad back to me. He shoos away the birds with one arm, urging them to the other side of the alley.

He is barefoot.

The sting of cigar smoke fills my nostrils.

“Don’t be a dick, Dolores,” he says, pointing to the only white bird in the group. “I know you understand what I’m sayin’. Get! I told you to stay out of the street. You wanna end up roadkill? Huh?”

He’s got a southern accent. More velvety than the guy’s on the radio. I feel that velvet on the underside of my sternum. My heart brushes up against it, purring at the sudden softness.

The birds finally meander to the sidewalk. Then the man turns to look at me. Our eyes lock.

I swear to God my normal bodily functions skid to a dead stop. Even my eyes stop blinking.

He is gorgeous. In a scruffy way. He rocks a full beard. Dark, graphic tattoos. His dark hair is wet, like he just got out of the shower, and long enough to be held back by one of those elastic headband things I’ve only ever seen hot European soccer players wear.

The stub of a cigar is clamped between his teeth. He squints his eyes—they’re hazel, more green than brown—against the smoke.

He clearly works out. Thick torso and shoulders, shapely waist. Forearms so sinewy and perfect they make me want to die a little.

The definition of a BILF. Beard I’d like to fuck.

They do not make men like this in small town New York.

He holds a mug of what I assume is coffee in one hand, even though it’s almost dinnertime. I get the feeling he’s just starting his day. What does he do?

He holds up the other hand to me.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says around the cigar. Shit, now I’m looking at his lips. His full, expressive lips. “Damn fowl are always causin’ trouble.”

Ah. So they are fowl, not geese.

(Like I’d know the difference. But still.)

Leaning out the window a little, I say, “No problem. About the, uh, fowls. Fowl. Heh.” I resist the urge to grimace. When was the last time I got flustered around a guy? I’m thirty-two years old, damn it. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

I watch him make his way to the house on my right. All the while blinking back a strong sense of where the fuck am I? A half-naked guy with a hot accent just saved me from some fowl in the street. He seemed unmiffed about it. Like this kind of thing happens all the time on Longitude Lane.

Maybe it does. Maybe wild birds and wilder men are common in Charleston.

If so, this is going to be an interesting four weeks.Chapter TwoOliviaBILF climbs the steps to his house. It’s small and old but, from what I can see of it, spectacular. Glossy black doors. Gas lamps. Ivy climbing up one wall.

Before he opens the door, he glances in my direction again. His gaze—it’s got this intensity. This unabashed pointedness he’s totally aware of.

Makes me feel like I’ve committed a crime.

My stomach dips.