Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

“While we’re on the theme of terrible food puns—honey, you look good enough to eat.”

Boom.

The tremors start.

Luke burrows his brow. “You all right? You’re shakin’.”

This is exactly what I didn’t want. All this emotional stuff mixing in with the physical. This is just supposed to be about sex. A straightforward fuck-buddy situation.

But looking at Luke, that same voice in my head tells me it could never be just sex. Not with him. He comes with baggage.

Good baggage. But baggage I’m nonetheless not prepared for.

My God, what the hell am I doing?

Why the hell can’t I stop looking at him? Wanting him, even though we don’t want the same thing?

Why can’t I stop shaking, excitement and anxiety coursing through my body in equal measure?

I am a fucking mess of contradictory feelings. And I cannot help it.

I came this far. I’d be a coward to turn back now.

“Beer,” I say. “I’d like one. Please.”

His hand curls around my nape.

“Already asking for what you want,” he murmurs. “Good girl. And Gracie?”

“Yeah?”

His eyes bounce between mine. “Remember who you’re with.”

“You,” I say.

He nods. One dip of his head.

“Just me.” He gives my nape a squeeze. “The guy who may or may not have had a mullet when you met him. Who likes pervy tractor jokes and Trisha Yearwood cassette tapes.”

I smile.

“The mullet,” I say. “How could I forget that fine example of a Kentucky waterfall?”

Luke makes a mullet-shaped motion behind his head. “Smooth like a mountain stream.”

I laugh.

And the shaking—it stops.Chapter EightGracieLuke gives me a quick tour of his house on the way in. The interior is just as beautiful and carefully restored as the outside. Original wood floors, simple layout, clean, crisp color palette. It’s beautifully furnished, too. None of the usual man-child staples: not a mattress on the floor in sight. No crusty, heinous, science-experiment bathrooms.

A real man lives here. One who knows what he likes and takes good care of his shit.

We end up in the pretty kitchen, lined with white cabinets and dark soapstone countertops. It’s true farmhouse style, right down to the enormous vintage sink and blown glass pendants above the island, and it works.

“What’s that?” Luke says, nodding at the box I slide onto the counter.

I watch as he grabs two bottles from the fridge, popping the tops off with quick, steady movements.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the beer he holds out to me. I’m feeling better. Less unsteady. A beer will help keep me there. “And those are cupcakes Marie made with your sweet potatoes and rhubarb. I may have plundered your delivery to The Pearl yesterday.”

He smiles, his brows flicking together. “Really? Thank you, Gracie. That’s so thoughtful. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Technically I didn’t do it,” I say. “I wanted to. But then I remembered I had a pastry chef who makes delicious things for a living, so I asked her to whip up something on my behalf. But my intentions were good. I didn’t want to show up empty handed—had to bring something.”

Taking a pull from his bottle, he holds the beer in his mouth. Swallows. “I thought you were bringin’ your bucket list.”

I look at him. Now is the time I put the focus on sex and keep it there. Maybe once we start getting physical, the other stuff—this tug I keep feeling—will go away. Or at least fade a little.

I led three meetings today. I can do this.

I got this. I am going to make sense of this and keep this simple if it kills me.

“I have the list,” I say. “Want me to tell you?”

He shakes his head. “I want you to show me. Is it in your bag?”

I blink. Luke thinks I have an actual, physical list.

“Wait. Wait—Luke, I’ve never, like, written it down or anything.”

His brows come together again. This time in consternation.

“So you don’t have a bucket list, then.”

“It wasn’t a bucket list until you called it that.”

“You need to write that shit down. Why haven’t you?”

I think about that for a minute. Sip at my beer.

My heart has started to pound again. Why does he have to make everything so complicated? I ask him to fuck me, and he wants more. I bring him my fantasies, and right away he wants to make them real.

Because writing down my list would make this whole thing—my desires, my wants, my goal of taking back my sex life—real. There would be no going back. No opportunity to hide or fudge or deny.

I was afraid to make it real with Nick.

I promised myself I wasn’t going to be afraid with Luke.

I run through my reasons in my head. I have nothing to lose. If I scare him off, no biggie. There are other fish in the sea. Other dicks to be had downtown. I can’t keep smothering myself like this. Can’t keep trying to fit that square peg in a round hole.