Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

Still. No one was rude—not that I could tell. And it is my crowd. Well, one of them, anyway. I have my fingers in a lot of pies here in town.

Those people mean something to me. If I’m real about potentially giving a relationship with Luke a shot, I would’ve had to introduce him to everyone at some point. It’s important my friends get to know my significant other. That they like him, and he likes them.

But I’m not so sure Luke liked many people at the party. Which is a bummer.

It also makes me feel like a schmuck. Because he’s a good guy. A nice guy. He gets along with everyone.

Except, maybe, people who are pretentious—inadvertently or otherwise.

No one is at fault here. Except maybe me. I should’ve told him exactly what kind of cocktail party it was. But I was so…excited, I guess, when I asked him last night that I completely spaced on mentioning it.

I turn my head a little. My heart clenches again at Luke’s handsomeness. His hair is neatly combed and parted, clearly tamed into submission by some kind of product. Scruff trimmed short enough that I can see the gleam of his jawbone when the light of a nearby lamp catches on it. And his lips—they’re full, even when pulled into a thoughtful frown.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so dressed up before. He’s going for the whole athelete-doing-a-casual-yet-classy-post-game-press-conference look, and it is working for him.

Lord, is it working.

His subtly patterned blazer makes his arms look like cannons. He’s unbuttoned the top few buttons of his perfectly pressed light pink shirt, allowing that ridiculous chest hair of his to peek out. I happen to prefer those Bruce Springsteen jeans of his—the ones he wore that day I ran into him outside The Pearl—but the ones he’s wearing now look pretty damn good, too. I like how they mold to the tree trunks of his thighs.

And that ass—

My God, that assssssss. I could make a meal of that thing.

Luke catches me checking him out. I wait for him to crack a joke. Something about butt stuff, maybe, or pantalettes.

Instead, he slides his hands into his pockets. Offers me a tight smile.

It guts me.

“Hey.” I slip my fingers around his arm, slowing him down. “Hey, Luke. Talk to me. I can tell you’re upset.”

He looks away. Still walking but slower now. I curl my hand around his arm, and he pulls it against his side. Keeping me close.

The night is warm and soft around us. Luke is warmer. Harder.

I want all of him. A quiet, wild kind of want that fills me to the point of drowning.

“I meant it when I said I was glad you invited me.” His eyes flick to meet mine. “I liked being the guy on your arm in there. I guess I was just taken off guard by how…ah, successful your friends are, I guess? That’s a whole different world, Gracie. One I definitely don’t belong in.”

I blink, startled. “You mean the guy who played major league baseball for three seasons and is now milling his own goddamn grits on a farm he completely rebuilt doesn’t belong with other successful people? Jesus, Luke, you were the most accomplished guy there. By far.”

This makes him smile. A real smile. The kind that touches his eyes and makes my stomach flip.

Be careful.

Oh, God, but aren’t we past that now?

How the fuck did that happen?

And why am I not more alarmed by it?

“Well, when you put it like that…” he teases. “But really. Being around your friends—made me realize how different we are. You said yourself we come from different worlds.”

“Doesn’t mean we’re intrinsically different,” I say. “Deep down, I mean. How do you think we’re different?”

He lifts one massive shoulder. “You’re bein’ asked to run for president of the Columbia business school alumni association. I’m plantin’ corn. I know that’s an oversimplification, but you see what I’m getting at.”

I run a hand through my hair. Funny how the tables have turned. How, when I first asked Luke to hook up with me, he was the one trying to win me over with optimism. Now I’m the one asking him to look on the bright side.

Makes me think about what Dylan said the other morning. You’re back.

I decide to try her tactic. Turn Luke’s assumption on its head. Look at it from a different angle.

I know that whatever comes out of my mouth, I’m saying it as much to Luke as I am to myself.

“I do see,” I say. “I do acknowledge that our résumés look different. We’ve taken different paths, and we’re passionate about…well, kind of random things.”

“Yes,” he replies. “Pretty much what I’m thinking.”

Be brave.

“But we’re both—think about it, Luke. Even though our passions are different, we’re still abnormally, ridiculously into what we’re doing. We both have big dreams, and we’re going after them with everything we’ve got. We’ve learned to trust ourselves and take chances. I guess my point is—the stuff that goes on our résumés may not look compatible. But the stuff we’re made of? The shit we value? I think that’s the same. And aren’t those the things that really matter?”