Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

No, it’s not my break up that’s bumming me out. It’s that I can’t seem to find that kind of love, no matter how hard I try. And I try hard. I tried again after Nick, when I briefly dated another guy. But all he gave me was a hickey and a lingering sense of disappointment.

Real love is probably the biggest line item on my list of things I thought would’ve lined up by now but haven’t—the soul mate, the home we’d make together, maybe even the family we’d start someday.

Hard not to feel like I’m falling short when I see my friends and family enjoying that kind of perfect future. Granted, I see a lot of that perfection through the distorted lens of social media.

Still, I want to get there. I’ve made my professional dreams come true, and now I’d like to start making my personal ones come true, too. But I can’t seem to make it happen, and I’m kind of at a loss for what I should do about it.

Eli always says, “you’ll feel better with a full belly.” So I turn right onto the bustle of East Bay Street and head his way. Thumbing one strap of my bag off my shoulder, I look down and open it to drop my ear buds inside.

I look back up.

My gaze lands on a pickup truck pulled to the curb just outside Unity Alley—the Pearl’s address. The pickup is old—not quite vintage—but in impeccable shape. The chrome grill shines, not a smudge in sight. Tires are new. The candy apple red paint is spotless. Clean. Unmarred by dents or dirt.

My heart skips a beat when I glimpse the guy moving behind it. The truck is big, and so is he. He’s tall and…brawny sounds cheesy, but that’s exactly what he is. All brawn and broadness, with shoulders that go on for a hundred miles and a whiskey barrel for a chest. Not quite linebacker big. But there’s something about the way he’s thickly muscled that gives the impression of athleticism. His movements speak to a sport-related grace.

I feel a tug inside my head. Recognition. I slow my steps, tilting my head to get a better look.

The guy shoves what looks to be an empty crate onto the bed of the truck. His fitted grey t-shirt rides up as he moves, revealing a slice of tanned, well-muscled stomach. And an especially hairy, dark blond happy trail that arrows down the taut plane of his lower abdomen, disappearing into his faded jeans.

Jeans that fit like a glove. Bruce Springsteen-circa-1984 style.

A drop of sweat lands in my eye. I blink it away.

Clutching the bill of his beat up baseball cap in his hand, the guy tugs it off his head, revealing a sweaty mess of slightly curly, thick, dark blond hair—same shade as the happy trail. He runs a hand through it. Sets the cap back on his head, backwards this time. I can really see his scruff now. Just long enough to qualify as a beard.

His movements are strong. Steady. Slow.

His eyes catch on mine, and my stomach takes a nosedive. They’re a startling shade of blue.

They’re wide open. A little wild in their frankness.

These are the eyes of a man who knows what he wants.

I’d know them anywhere.

They belong to Luke Rodgers.

My brother’s best friend, and the guy I’ve been nursing a crush on—the ridiculous, teenage kind of crush that calls to mind Dashboard Confessional songs and vampire-human-wereshifter love triangles—since we met more than a decade ago.

How the fuck did I not recognize him sooner? I blame it on existential angst and the hot fictional Dukes I have on the brain. To be fair, we haven’t been seeing much of each other lately. I think the last time I talked to Luke was at Olivia’s birthday party a few weeks ago.

“Gracie Jackson!” he says, a brilliant smile breaking out on his face as he slams the tailgate shut. “I know you been kickin’ ass and takin’ over the world, but that doesn’t mean you can forget about us little people, you hear? I haven’t seen you in forever. How the hell’ve you been, girl?”

I smile so hard and so big I feel like my lips are pulled back all the way to my ears.

Damn this sparkly vampire crush. It’s fun.

“I’m hanging in there. It’s so great to see you, Luke.”

“Glad I was late makin’ my delivery to The Pearl today. Wouldn’t have run into you otherwise.”

Luke rounds the truck, and then he’s in front of me, six-three and sweaty but somehow still smelling like clean laundry. Without thinking I open my arms, going up on my toes.

“I’m sweatin’ like a hooker in church,” he warns. “You don’t wanna hug me.”

“Yeah I do,” I say, and wrap my arms around his neck. “I’ve missed you. How’re things?”