Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

But only when Luke comes in to drop off a crate of pie pumpkins does anyone confront me face to face.

It’s a Friday afternoon. A little past two, but the kitchen is already bustling as we prepare for the weekend rush.

I’m turned away from the door, so I can’t see him enter. But I know it’s him by the low, judgmental whistle he lets out.

“Damn,” Luke says. “Is he really makin’ y’all listen to Post Malone?”

I can hear the eye roll in Maria’s voice when she answers him.

“He’s been playing ‘I Fall Apart’ on repeat for a week now,” she stage whispers. “I can’t stand it anymore! For the love of God, help us, before I start dreaming about pasty white men with face tattoos.”

Luke drops his crate of produce on the counter next to me, making me jump, and hits the power button on my portable speaker.

“Hey!” I snap, looking up from the tilefish I’m fileting. “Put that back on.”

My stomach dips at the look in his blue eyes. He’s trying to hide his surprise, but failing miserably at it.

I must look pretty close to death to scare Luke. He’s seen me at my worst.

Shit, maybe this is my worst.

“No more Post Malone,” Luke says firmly. “You look like hell, and you smell even worse. Go home, E.”

I’d rather chew off my own arm than go home. The silence—the emptiness—it just makes me think of all the ways I’ve fucked up. Losing The Jam. Losing Olivia.

Work is the only thing keeping me sane.

“I’m fine,” I growl, turning back to the fish. “We got a full house tonight. Kitchen needs me.”

Luke takes a step forward so that he’s in my vision. There’s no getting away from him now.

“That’s a fuckin’ lie, and you know it. C’mon—I wanna talk to you outside.”

Without waiting for a reply, he grabs my arm and drags me through the kitchen and out the back door. I blink at the onslaught of natural light, even though it’s pretty gloomy for two in the afternoon. My head throbs.

Luke grabs a couple crates from beside the dumpster and sets them against the building. He pulls two cigars from his pocket.

Cohibas. My favorite.

He holds one out to me, along with a cutter and a stainless steel lighter.

Fuck this guy. He knows exactly how to get me to listen.

“Sit,” he says, nodding at one of the crates.

I take the stuff he’s holding out and, with a grunt, do as I’m told.

He sits beside me. We hang out in silence for a couple minutes while we light our cigars.

I take giant puffs. My mouth tingles, then becomes pleasantly numb.

If only all my other shit—heart, head, dick—would do the same.

“Was I right?” Luke says at last, plucking the cigar from his mouth.

I clear my throat. “Right about what?”

“What we talked about that night at The Spotted Wolf. That why you and Olivia broke up? Because you’re feelin’ like shit and you were using her to feel better?”

Shrugging, I intentionally release a cloud of smoke between us so Luke can’t see my face.

“One of the reasons, yeah. But it’s not like—it’s not like I don’t love her, Luke. Because I do. I am so fucking in love with her. Things were great between us. But then I found this engagement ring her ex had given her. This gorgeous ring that could’ve belonged to the fuckin’ Queen of England for how big the damn thing was.”

Luke’s eyebrows jump.

“Yup,” I say. “Point is, she said she was done with this guy—she turned down his proposal. But I didn’t believe her. Why wouldn’t she go back to a guy who gave her a ring like that? So I asked her to move in with me. You know, I made this grand, romantic gesture because that’s what you do when you’re in love.”

Luke’s eyebrows jump even higher. They’re practically on the back of his head now.

“I know what you’re thinking. And you wouldn’t be wrong. Seein’ that ring—it just made me feel so shitty about myself. If Olivia wants a ring like that, then I wanna be able to buy it for her. But I can’t right now. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to buy somethin’ like that again. Her ex, though? He can. And that—it really kills me, Luke.”

He claps me on the back. “Did you ask her if she even wanted a Queen-sized ring? She did turn the guy down.”

“No,” I say. “But I can’t imagine she hated the thing.”

“So you asked her to move in with you because if you couldn’t give her a ring like that, you still wanted to give her something. You wanted to know if she’d really choose you—a crazy talented, honest, hardworking man who treated her so well she told you she loved you after knowing you for all of three weeks—over the small dicked douchecanoe who needed to propose with a gaudy ring to get her to say yes. And even then she said no.”