Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I guess I was actually humming. I’m never gonna live this down.

“Uh,” I say, blinking. “No? Yes? Maybe?”

Naomi shakes her head. “Who are you, and what have you done with the foul mouthed chef I know and love?”

I roll my eyes, pretending to be absorbed in the dirty dishes I’ve piled up in the sink. “What news are you talkin’ about?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?” I say, turning on the faucet.

A pregnant pause if there ever was one.

“Oh, Eli.”

Her tone—quietly distraught—makes me look up.

Her eyes are wet. A tear slips down her cheek, and she looks away, wiping at it with the flat of her palm.

In the five years we’ve been working together, I’ve never seen Naomi cry.

My stomach plummets. The pleasant, happy warmth of a moment ago dissolves, and my blood suddenly rushes cold.

Naomi doesn’t need to tell me The Jam is finally done.

I know it just from the look on her face.

I turn off the faucet and, not bothering to dry my hands, grab my phone off the couch. Sure enough, there are seven missed calls. Three from Naomi, one from The Jam’s manager Katie, and the rest from members of the restaurant group who’ve been my business partners since I opened The Pearl.

Standing in my kitchen, I just stare at the screen. My pulse pounds. There’s a ringing in my ears.

My eyes burn and I find it suddenly difficult to breathe. My lungs aren’t working.

I blink away black spots that mar my vision.

I imagine this is what it feels like to be mauled by an eighteen wheeler.

“I am so, so sorry,” Naomi says, taking a step toward me.

I take a deep breath through my nose. Try to shake the paralysis from my head. My heart.

It’s okay. We’ll be okay.

“We knew this was comin’,” I say, the well worn lines spilling out of my mouth. “I have no regrets, and you shouldn’t, either. We made food that I’ll always be proud of. We stuck to our guns and stayed true to who we are as chefs and as people. This isn’t a death sentence, Naomi. We learned a lot together, didn’t we?”

The look in her eyes now—hell, is that pity?

“You know you don’t have to be strong for me, right?” she says. “Don’t feed me your bullshit. It’s okay to admit you’re torn up about this. I sure as hell am.”

My fingers tighten around my phone.

“Of course it hurts,” I reply. “But it’s not a comment on our potential. Failure is not a death sentence, Naomi, it’s—”

“An opportunity. You love that line, don’t you?”

I meet her eyes. “What do you want from me?”

She takes another step forward. “Chef, I want you to feel this. I can’t shoulder all this hurt and disappointment alone. I want you to acknowledge that this is a loss and that it fucking sucks. Stop pretending like you’re okay. Because I know you, and you’re not.”

I’m gripped by a sudden, sharp surge of anger.

I don’t do loss.

I don’t do failure.

Spearing a hand through my hair, I look down at my phone. Another call is coming in. This time from Luke.

Like it always does in this city, word is spreading fast about The Jam closing.

I ignore the call.

“Look,” I say quietly. “This is new territory for me. I gotta process it in my own way. I need—”

Well. I’m not sure what I need.

Scratch that. I need Olivia.

I need her, and I need to get away.

I run through the week in my head. With The Jam closing, I can send Naomi over to The Pearl. Put her on the line and let Maria cover for me while I’m gone.

I know I’m running with my tail between my legs. But I haven’t taken time off—real time off—in more than a year. Maybe getting out of town, and getting out of the kitchen, will give me some much needed time to reflect.

Much needed perspective.

Looking up at Naomi, I say, “I’ll call a meeting with everyone this afternoon. We’ll iron out the details. Get you and the staff squared away, and start the ball rolling on selling off whatever equipment we don’t want for The Pearl. Anything else, we can deal with when I get back.”

Naomi’s eyebrows leap to the top of her forehead. “Get back from where?

“The cabin,” I say. “Where else?”Chapter Twenty-TwoOliviaIt’s late afternoon by the time I have a chapter ready for Eli. My hands shake a little as I gather the pages into a neat pile and fasten them together with a binder clip. I’m nervous to see him again.

I’m also still reeling a little bit from my conversation with Ted. I wouldn’t say he was cool with me breaking up with him. But he was very civil about the whole thing. Calm, even. Suspiciously so. Which, again, makes me think we didn’t love each other enough to be together. Much less to get married.