Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

“Hey,” I tease, holding out my arms. “I do look delicious. Don’t I, Olivia?”

Olivia laughs, even as a blush spreads across her cheeks when her eyes sweep over my torso. She looks back down at Billy and rubs his neck.

“—I’m taken. Even if I wasn’t, I’d never, ever date this guy. Meaning no offense.”

Ducking my lips, I nod. “None taken.”

“I’ll let y’all get to it.” Naomi slides her phone into her back pocket. She looks at me. “See you tomorrow, chef. Olivia, it was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Olivia calls after Naomi as she heads out the door.

Then it’s just me and Olivia in the kitchen. She straightens, smoothing her dress over her thighs. She looks anywhere but at my chest.

I bite back a smile.

“Take a seat. Breakfast is almost ready.” I wink at her when she finally meets my eyes. “Girl, I’m gonna blow your mind.”Chapter FourEliOlivia scoffs as she settles onto Naomi’s stool. Billy follows her. Lays down with a thump at her feet.

Apparently I’m not the only guy in the room who noticed how good Olivia smells.

How pretty she is.

“Are all southern guys so cocky?” she asks.

“Some of us, yeah.” I face the stove and stir a splash of vinegar into a pot of simmering water. Then I turn down the burner. “But I’m one of the few who can back it up. Ever had grits?”

“Nope.”

“Aw yeah. You’re really in for it then.”

Olivia laughs. A small, contained sound. “I take it you don’t get many Yankee grits virgins in your kitchen.”

“You’d be surprised.” I toss her a grin over my shoulder. “So you are a Yankee.”

“What? Did my accent give me away?”

Now Olivia is grinning, too. She blinks. Like the expression is unfamiliar.

“Among other things.” I grab two bowls from the counter and start to plate breakfast. Big ole scoop of creamy grits goes in first. I top that with the succotash, then crumble some bacon over it. The smell—smoky bacon, buttery beans and corn, starchy grits—is divine. I set the bowls back on the counter. Turning to the stove, I carefully crack an egg into the simmering water. “Where you from?”

“New York.”

“Where in New York?”

A pause. Just long enough to let me know she’s thinking about her answer.

“Upstate,” she says at last.

I watch the white of the egg form a neat little ball. A couple more heartbeats and it’ll be ready. I’ve poached a million eggs in my lifetime. Not afraid to say I know how to make ’em just right.

“Are all Yankee girls so coy?”

“Some of us, yeah.”

I smile at that.

Egg is ready. I scoop it out of the pot with a slotted spoon and settle it right in the middle of the first bowl. Now my stomach is grumbling. I’m excited to share a home cooked meal with someone. Been too damn long.

Grabbing a fork, a knife, and a napkin, I reach across the island and set it all, along with the bowl, in front of Olivia. Those big baby blues of hers get even bigger when they fall on the food.

“Wow,” she says. “Eli, this looks incredible. Even though I have no idea what any of it is.”

My chest swells a little at the compliment. I live for this shit.

Feeding people good food.

Blowing pretty girls’ minds by filling their bellies.

The Jam, bankruptcy, bad reviews—they feel about a million miles away right now.

“It’s a breakfast grits bowl. You cut open the egg,” I say, gesturing to her bowl with one hand while I wipe the other on the towel at my shoulder. “Let the yolk run all over everything. Brings it all together—Mama’s grits and the succotash and the bacon.”

Olivia’s eyes flick to meet mine. They’re blazing with…

Hunger?

My heart skips a beat.

Damn if I don’t want to know more about the strange mix of vibes she’s giving off. Her handshake was confident. Her laugh contained.

But then there’s this wild, uncertain longing in her eyes.

On the outside, she’s calm and confident and beautifully put together. Minus the just fucked hair, of course.

On the inside, though, I get the feeling she’s burning.

“Wow,” she says again, her gaze flicking over my chest before returning to the food. “Thank you. So much. Usually I just have coffee and, like, half a protein bar for breakfast. This is a treat.”

I cross my arms. “Sitting down to breakfast is one of life’s best little pleasures. Eat.”

Olivia does as I tell her. She carefully slices the egg open. Smiles when she gathers a little of everything on her fork—yolk and bacon and butter beans and grits—and puts it in her mouth.

A mouth I suddenly can’t stop looking at.

Blinking, I watch her eyes roll to the back of her head before she closes them. She lets out a little moan of appreciation as she chews.

“So?” I say, clearing my throat.

Olivia opens her eyes and meets mine. “So I don’t think there are words to accurately describe just how incredibly, insanely delicious this is.”