Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

I grin. “Hell yeah I wanna see it. I eat a lot of grits. Like. A lot. But I have no clue how they’re made. And yours—Luke, your grits were the best I’ve ever had.”

Luke returns my grin, and for a second I feel like I could fly. “You know how much I love me some grits done right.”

Cannot.

Stop.

Grinning.

“What?” he says.

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. “Are you an overachiever in everything you do?”

He shrugs. Eyes lighting up with that cockiness I know so well.

“It’s not worth doin’ if it’s not done right,” he says.

He opens the building door and motions me inside.

“After you, Gracie girl.”

My heart flutters as I step inside the shadowy interior of the mill. Immediately I’m hit by a smell that’s both sweet and savory. My stomach grumbles in approval.

“What is that?” I say, inhaling.

The old wooden floor muffles Luke’s booted steps as he moves to turn on the lights. “That’s the corn. Smells good, don’t it?”

“It’s delicious.” I put a hand on my belly. “So delicious it’s making me hungry.”

I look around the building. It’s all one big room with a high, vaulted ceiling and clapboard walls. A complex-looking contraption, made of wood and what appears to be a stone wheel, dominates the space.

“That’s the mill. It’s where the magic happens.” Luke crosses the room to stand in front of it. “When I was lookin’ at properties, I knew I wanted something old. Whatever grits I was gonna make, I was gonna make ’em the old way—stone ground, between these two big stones here, you see?” He points to the round-shaped stones. “Stone ground grits are way more delicious than any of that processed crap big companies sell. They’re richer. More flavorful. The texture’s heartier and more satisfying. They’re better for you, too. Lots of fiber and protein. The grits I make here are made the same way grits were a hundred years ago.”

I look up at the mill, totally in awe. “They’re living history.”

“Exactly,” Luke says. “I wanted ’em to be as natural as possible. No preservatives. No fancy shit. Just good grits done the old way.”

I meet his eyes. “Grits that tell a story.”

“Yes!” Luke says. “So much of our history here in South Carolina is divisive and downright awful. But food—you know, food’s brought people together over the centuries. Same way it does today. It tells a story, yes. But it also creates community. It gets people interacting. Talkin’. Sharing. Shit that’s more important than ever right now.”

I feel like there are bubbles inside my chest. I’ve only ever seen Luke so excited about something once before—on the day we met, when he talked about how much he loved to grow things.

There’s an earnestness about his passion for this stuff that’s so bright and so honest I can’t help but be drawn to it.

To him.

I also can’t help but think that the goals I have for Holy City Roasters sound an awful lot like the ones he has for Rodgers’ Farms. I love how he’s talking about community. Interaction. Stories.

That shit is my jam.

“Mills like this one were always gatherin’ places,” Luke continues, lifting up his foot and resting it on the edge of the mill. “Farmers from all around would bring their grains to be ground and turned into flour and the like. Can’t make bread without havin’ flour first. A lot of the time, mills were built before anything else—churches, schools—because they were that important to the community. People need to eat.”

“Do people still come here?” I ask.

Luke meets my eyes. “Not in a long time. But I’d like to change that. I got big plans for Rodgers’ Farms. Starting with my grits. You know how much of a foodie town Charleston has turned into over the past decade or so.”

“Of course,” I say with a nod. “Eli’s restaurant is a case in point. People down here appreciate good food.”

“They appreciate good food done the right way. Inventive, unique. Made from locally sourced ingredients. Food that tells the story of the people who made it.”

“The people who grew it—the ingredients, I mean,” I say. “People like you.”

Luke lifts his foot off the mill, sliding a hand into his back pocket. Muscles in his back bunching as he moves.

“That’s my hope, anyway,” he replies. “I’m tryin’ to make a name for myself. E already has the Rodgers’ Farms name on his menu.”

“He showed me. Anytime he mentions grits, he mentions you. ‘Rodgers’ Farms Grits.’”

“Yup. So I’m thinking that when I scale up production, and I’m able to sell to more restaurants, I’ll pop up on more menus. People will start recognizin’ my name.” Luke glances up at the mill. “I’d like to get to the point where I package my grits and sell ’em all over. To restaurants in town, yes, but also to restaurants across the country. Sell ’em to retail, too, so people who have my grits at, say, The Pearl can go and buy some at the grocery store. Eventually I’d like to open up a market right here on the farm. Got that old barn back by the road that would make a great spot—sell my produce, grits, stuff from other farms in the area. Maybe do monthly dinners or brunches or something with my regulars and neighbors.”