Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

“My place,” I say without thinking. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Right now.”

Gracie draws a breath. Lets it out.

“Tomorrow night works for me.”

“I’ll bring the beer. You bring your list.”* * *I walk Gracie back to Holy City Roasters on unsteady legs.

She’s quiet. Thoughtful. Same as she was on the way over.

I’m dying to know what she’s thinking. I got a pretty good idea. I mean, I totally threw her for a loop with the whole relationship idea. She’s uncomfortable with it. Which I get. Surprised. Which I also get.

I ain’t exactly got a reputation as a Steady Betty. But that don’t mean I’m not a good bet. When I commit to something, I commit one hundred percent. Unlike those fuckheads who disappointed her.

I want to commit to Gracie if she’ll have me.

I open the door to Holy City Roasters for her, and she offers me a flash of brown eyes as she steps inside. I follow, sliding my hands into my pockets.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “I got deliveries in the afternoon, but after—”

“Pardon! I am very sorry, Madame, but I have quick question for the oven. On the oven. About the oven? Pardon!”

Gracie smiles at the woman in a white chef’s jacket who appears at her elbow. She’s got wide eyes and a very thick accent of some kind. French, maybe?

“Pas de problème. Donnez-moi quelques minutes et je viendrai vous aider,” Gracie replies in what sounds like smooth, rapid-fire French. Not missing a beat. Doesn’t even have to think about it.

I blink. Gracie speaks French? Fluently?

The woman smiles, too. Responds to Gracie with equal smoothness. Which Gracie then responds to again, cracking some kind of joke because they two of them burst out laughing.

I got no clue what the hell they’re saying. But whatever language this is, Gracie clearly has a good grasp of it.

She sounds so refined when she speaks it. Confident.

And here I am, struggling not to say “ain’t” all the damn time. I barely speak one language.

Gracie speaks several. Clearly. And she speaks them very well.

Makes me feel a lot of things. Turned on, ’cause I love her intelligence. Also makes me feel a little left out. Embarrassed, even. This—the hipster-y people in this shop, the French—it’s not my usual MO. I step through Holy City Roasters’ front door and into a different world. One I’m not entirely sure I belong in.

“Luke, this is Marie, one of our new pâtissiers here at Holy City.”

“Luke! How very nice to meet you it is,” Marie says, eagerly taking my hand.

“Nice to meet you, too. A patiss-yay, huh?” I say. Feeling dumb as a rock.

But Gracie just smiles, the skin around her eyes crinkling. “Fancy word for pastry chef. She’ll be working her magic in our new kitchen to create all kinds of deliciousness.”

Marie grins. “Deliciousness, oui! But I must go, the pastry does not wait.”

Gracie calls after Marie in French as she scurries underneath the plastic sheet.

“You speak French?” I ask. “Fluently?”

“I do,” Gracie says. “I majored in it.”

I wrinkle my brow. “But I thought you majored in Economics.”

“I majored in that, too.”

I look at her, feeling a tug in my chest. I knew Gracie was accomplished. But I didn’t realize just how accomplished she is.

How cultured. Sophisticated.

I didn’t major in anything. I dropped out of college my sophomore year to pursue my baseball career. Never looked back.

Not until now. ’Cause there’s this thought in my head all of a sudden. That Gracie and I are more different than I thought. This world of hers—it sure as hell doesn’t look or sound much like mine.

Gracie nudges me with her elbow. Grins up at me. “Hey. Penny for your thoughts. Or a ride on your tractor.”

Despite my apprehension, I can’t help but grin back.

Gracie may be educated and sophisticated as hell. But she still appreciates a pervy sense of humor and a man who works with his hands.

“Just admirin’ how sophisticated your world is, city girl.”

“We may be from different worlds,” she says, eyes flashing just the way that I like, “but I’m hoping we’re the same where it counts.”

“In our hearts?”

She laughs. “There. And in the bedroom.”

“Tomorrow,” I blurt. “I’m free after five.”

“I should be able to get out of here by seven.”

“Works for me.”

She bites her lip. Grin fading as a flicker of heat unfurls in her eyes.

Aw, yeah.

It’s on.Chapter SevenGracieJane was finishing her lesson when the girls—ten of them, ranging in age from seven to sixteen—began to titter.

Looking up from her book, Jane was startled to find none other than His Grace the Duke standing in the doorway. Arms crossed, leg cocked. A saucy smile on his lips.

Damn him, why did he have to be so handsome? Jane had half a mind to titter herself.

She somehow managed to finish the lesson. Only addressing Max when the girls were filing out of the room, breaking out into fits of shy giggles as they passed him.