Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

I shake those crazy ass thoughts from my head, busying myself with my dinner. “No. Although I wouldn’t mind licking your face again.”

“That was fun.”

“You havin’ fun now?” I ask. Nudging my knee against hers underneath the table.

She nudges back. Taking another sip of beer. “I am. Best date I’ve had in a while.”

“Really? Barbecue and beers while sweating your balls off is a good date?” I tease. “You need to have higher standards.”

Gracie is still smiling, but now her eyes are thoughtful. Soft.

“Luke, I’m starting to think you might be the standard.”

My heart skips a beat. “Are you just sayin’ that ’cause you want me to show you my tractor porn stash? I knew you were using me to get to that John Deere dick.”

She laughs. A real, throaty laugh that has her leaning toward me. Face lit up with interest and arousal. Lit up. Light of hers back and brighter than ever. The way she looks at me—

I mean, we’re that couple. The one that makes everyone in the restaurant simultaneously wistful and jealous and nauseous because we’re too damn cute.

She’s looking at me like I am the sweetest thing she’s ever seen.

Everyone should be looked at like this. At least once.

I just wish—

Just just just. So much of that word around Gracie. Around my feelings for her.

I like when she looks at me like this. I just wish I could ditch this feeling I got. The one where I’m losing her.

The one that won’t go away, no matter how many times she assures me otherwise.

I just wish she lived in the same universe I did.

Or maybe I don’t. ’Cause it’s the things that set her above and apart from me that draw me to her at the same time. Her ambition. Refinement. Intelligence.

It’s torture.

The most beautiful fucking torture.

I wanna hate her for it.

I hand her another napkin instead.

“Thanks,” she says, tugging it over her fingers. She looks at me. “But I mean it. Everything you do—I don’t know if it’s because we know each other, or we’ve been really open and honest this whole time, or because you’re ridiculously generous and kind and wonderful, or what. But you’ve given me what I asked for and then some, Luke. I’ve never…” She turns her head away from me, shaking it. “No one has ever made me feel like you do. Our connection—the way you want me just for being me—Jesus, it’s intense.”

My pulse is moving at about five hundred beats per minute. She gonna leave me? Tell me to take a hike?

Or is Gracie Jackson going to put her heart on the line, same as I’ve been doing this whole time?

“Can’t help it,” I reply. “I’m tryin’ to keep my feelings in check—”

“But I asked for it. Intense.”

I nod. Not daring to breathe. “And?”

She meets my eyes. “And asking for what I want—not being afraid—and getting it? Luke, it’s been so great I feel like I’m getting away with something.”

“You’re not,” I say. “You’re just getting what you want. Why is that such a big deal? Why do you feel like you don’t deserve to be adored for just being you?”

Gracie rolls her lips between her teeth. A beat passes. Then another.

“I was never anyone’s someone,” she says at last, reaching for her beer. “I wanted to be. But I kept getting left behind. Left for somebody else. After a while, I started to think that there was something wrong with me. Like I was missing something. Like who I was wasn’t enough. Not pretty enough, or cool enough. Too loud, too quiet. Too slutty. Not adventurous enough. I realize how ridiculous the whole thing sounds—but in my mind, if I just tried harder, and was a little closer to perfect, my chances of being the one might get a little better.”

I feel a stab inside my chest. “You wanted to be loved that bad.”

“I wanted to be loved that bad,” she says. “So I tried to be perfect. I tried really hard, Luke.”

“But.”

“But it didn’t work out how I thought it would. I thought I had so much to gain. I had no clue how much I would lose.”

“You lost yourself,” I say. Feeling another stab.

Gracie carefully sets down her beer on the table. Eyes flick to mine. “And then you came along. Promising to help me with my list. You do help me with that, obviously. But along the way—along the way, I’ve been able to pick up pieces of myself I lost while shedding pieces that weren’t at all me. I’ve put myself back together in a way. And you seem to really like that person. Me. You don’t like me perfect. You just like me.”

“I like you messy. I like you real.” Now or never. Now now now. “I like your bucket list. I like you, Gracie.”