Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

* * *We hit up Peter’s yoga class first thing the next morning.

“Something to think about as you practice,” Peter says as he makes his way to the front of the room. “Yoga is a union, or a bringing together, of all your various selves or beings. Your mental being. Your physical being. Your spiritual being. When we practice yoga, we practice bringing all these parts of ourselves into harmony. We strip back our layers to get to our most essential self. There’s a Sanskrit phrase for this—sat nam. It means ‘truest self.’ Let’s make that our mantra today. Say those words to yourself as you breathe. Far too often, the world encourages us to move away from our true selves. Yoga asks us to go toward that self. So try that on today and see how it feels.” A pause. “Let’s begin in child’s pose.”

I feel the heat of Eli’s gaze on me. This is exactly the stuff we’ve been talking about over the past couple weeks.

Without looking at him, I settle into child’s pose. I feel tired and full. Not at all in the mood to do this right now. To dwell on the very real possibility that I’ll be taking the biggest leap of my life soon with no guarantees. No real safety net.

All in the name of seeking out this true self.

At first, I fucking hate sat nam. In my head it sounds like Satan. Which, considering how my shoulders and hamstrings burn during the opening sequence of sun salutations, seems appropriate.

But as I move, encouraged by Eli’s graceful, steady movements beside me, my mind begins to clear. The burn begins to fade. I just keep going, silently chanting with my breath.

Half lift. True. Bow. Self.

My sweat patters softly on my mat as I sit into chair pose.

The more I chant, the more I think. I had no idea who my true self was before I came to Charleston. I was aware of the concept. But I didn’t think it was important.

Having a big fancy job? Being a good girlfriend? Keeping up with the Joneses? That shit was important. But finding out what I loved? Spending time doing it?

Nah. There weren’t enough hours in the day to do that.

Standing here, twisted into eagle pose, breathing and silently chanting and peeling back my layers, I can’t help thinking that the way I’ve ordered my priorities has been incredibly stupid.

What’s the point of all this if not to enjoy it? To do good, meaningful work and laugh with those who know and love the real you?

And I know, with this gut-deep, jarring sense of certainty, that I can’t enjoy life the way I deserve to if I don’t fess up to who I am and what I want.

By the time we get to the torturous let’s-do-200-bicycle-crunches portion of class, I can’t tell if it’s sweat that falls on my mat, or tears.

Which of course makes me think of Cate. All the tears she sheds as Gunnar pushes her up against her assumptions about herself and her life again and again and again.

Eli is doing the same to me.

Being in Charleston is doing the same to me.

I was afraid before. But now I’m grateful.* * *Eli is quiet on the quick ride home. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he guides the truck into his driveway.

I can tell he’s anxious. He told me he has to let most of The Jam’s staff go today.

Even though I’m soaked and smelly, I get out of the car and pull him into a hug.

“I’ll be around all day,” I murmur into his shoulder. “If you need me, just call, okay? You’re going to get through this. You’re still Elijah Jackson, and your biscuits can still make me come.”

He scoffs, holding me a little tighter. “They’re that good?”

“They’re that good.” I give him a kiss on the cheek. “Hang in there. Your wounds are fresh right now. Today might be tough, but it will get easier from here. You just need some time.”

“I just need you,” he replies, pressing a hot, lingering kiss onto my neck before pulling back to look at me. “I should be done by midnight. I want you to be in my bed when I get home.”

I cock a teasing brow. “So bossy. What if I want you to be in my bed?”

“Just leave a key under the mat,” he says, grinning. “On second thought, don’t do that, because someone else might find it and beat me to you. My bed. Midnight. Bonus points if you have a chapter for me to read. Can you make it happen?”

No please. No uncertainty.

No shame.

God, I love it.

“I should be able to work something out,” I reply saucily.

“Don’t keep me waitin’.” He gives my ass a squeeze before he turns toward his house. I feel a neat, hot pulse of longing between my legs as I watch him go. Speaking of ass—his is perfect. Just like the rest of him.