Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

I turn my head and press a kiss into her palm. The light is green. I turn back to the road.

“You’re welcome, baby. I’m proud of you for how far you’ve come. And I really do think you’re the perfect person for this job. I figure you can learn a bit about the book business while also meeting the right people—readers, other authors.”

She rubs the pad of her thumb over my scruff.

“You really want me to make this book thing happen, don’t you?”

“I really want to make you happen. The real you.” I cut her a glance. “I hope this means you’re gonna be staying in Charleston.”

Her cheeks flush pink. “I’m hoping that, too. I still need to iron out some details. But I’m trying, Eli.”

“You just let me know how I can help.”

Olivia grins. A sexy, saucy thing.

“Just keep giving me ideas for sex scenes,” she says. “If I’m going to write romance for a living one day, I’ll be working on lots of those.”

I laugh. “Done. Speakin’ of—you’re still comin’ over tonight, right?”

Olivia wags her brows teasingly. “How about you come over to my place instead? I’d like to give you a surprise.”

“I like the sound of that,” I say, grinning.

She grins back. “I’ll leave a key—”

“Not under the mat.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. How about in the flower pot at the bottom of the stairs?”

My turn to grin.

“That’ll work.”Chapter ThirtyOliviaI walk my usual route through the College of Charleston on my way to Holy City Roasters later that day. There’s nothing quite like being on campus on a crisp, sunny fall afternoon. I pass a pair of students—young, sophomores maybe—who are deep in conversation about the ethics involved in robotics. A knot of girls lingers around a bench, doing some last minute crunching together for an organic chemistry exam. The guy in front of me is on the phone with his mom.

“Yes, Mom, I promise, I’m fine,” he says, clearly exasperated. “It’s just a cold. No—no, really mom, please don’t try to mail soup. Pretty sure that will end badly for everyone. I appreciate the thought, though.”

I grin.

I don’t miss my job. The pressure cooker environment. The awful office politics. I never think about the job itself; I only think about how I’m going to leave it. Between all the fictional sex I’m writing and the very real, very excellent sex I’m having, I don’t have time to think about anything else. My new life in Charleston has swallowed me whole.

I couldn’t be happier about it.

But I do miss teaching. Interacting with bright young people. Writing can be a pretty awesome gig. It does get lonely, though. Being part of a campus culture was one of my favorite things about being a professor.

I stop in front of the English Department. It’s housed in a cute yellow Charleston single that looks a little worse for the wear. Through the old wavy glass windows, I can see people moving around inside.

My heart works double. I’m a little early for my appointment with the Department Head. But I want to make a good impression.

I can’t live on my writing alone. Not at first. I don’t want to blow through all my savings. Having a part time job teaching would be a nice little bridge between my old life and my new one. I know there are no openings at the moment, but I can at least toss my hat in the ring. Feel the Department Head out on openings in the future.

It would just be really, really cool to teach something different. Something I’m actually passionate about. No more moody Byron (thank God). No more Dickens. I want to teach Nora Roberts. Beverly Jenkins. And of course Jane Austen.

I’m nervous.

A feeling I kinda-sorta welcome. I’ve experienced the gamut of emotions down here. It’s made me realize how numb I am back home. Or maybe how hard I tried to sweep whatever I felt under the rug, because it got in the way of living my “perfect” life.

Standing here in front of a crumbling house, wearing jeans and my heart on my sleeve, I’m about as far from perfect as it gets.

I’m also as close to my true, romance-writer-wannabe self as I’ve ever been.

Taking a deep breath, I climb the steps and go inside.* * *Eli’s been working especially late this week. I’ve been trying to squeeze a nap in around dinnertime so I can be awake when he gets home. I have to admit I sorta love the fact that he comes straight to me after walking through the door. He doesn’t put down his keys. Doesn’t grab some food or a glass of water. He always makes a beeline for me, tearing off his clothes as he comes to tear mine off, too. Then we’re up late. Fucking, then talking. Then fucking again.