Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

Maybe he does.

He’s the kind of guy who fits right into her world. Because it’s the same world he lives in, too.

The kind of guy who knows numbers and people.

I feel my control over my thoughts and feelings start to slip again.

Fuck.

“Here you go,” Eli says, and I turn to see him holding out a glass of champagne.

I take it, turning back to look at Gracie and Alligator Belt Asshole.

“Who is he?” I ask. I don’t need to point to the guy for Eli to know who I’m talking about.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s a dickhead.”

“Who is he?” I repeat.

Eli sighs. “Jealousy ain’t a good look on you.”

I turn my head. Glare at him.

“Greyson Montgomery,” he says. “Venture capital guy. He invests in restaurants and bars and shit—focuses on hospitality. His firm gave Gracie money to fund the expansion.”

A pulse of ice-cold dread lands in my stomach. Seeps into my blood and moves through my skin.

Do not do not do not do this.

Oh, but I do it. Because Gracie’s turned me into a masochist, remember?

I don’t need to think about the ways Greyson could make Gracie’s dreams soar. Because he’s already done that.

He’s already proved my point.

I’m holding Gracie back. When a guy like him could push her forward.

Gracie likes to be pushed.

“Luke. Talk to me,” Eli is saying. “You’re turnin’ red.”

Stop.

I still got control. Which means I can stop this train of thought in its tracks.

But it’s true. The idea that Greyson is better for Gracie than I am is true.

Taking a breath, I look at E.

“Remember everything I told you.” He keeps his voice low. “Decent and big-hearted. That’s what Gracie deserves. That is what you are, Luke.”

Also true.

But decent and big-hearted don’t add up to all that much in a world like Gracie’s. She’s so much more than that.

She deserves so much more than that.

I’m determined to make a last ditch effort anyway. Give myself the benefit of the doubt. I got no idea what this guy is really like. No clue what they’re talking about. Like I told Gracie, assuming makes an ass out of you and me.

So I roll back my shoulders. Tilt my head. Same song and dance I’d do before going up to bat.

“You sure you don’t need a minute?” Eli says.

I need a lot of things. A minute isn’t one of them.

Beer and champagne in hand, I head back into the fray. At the same moment, Lilly—the woman who hosted that alumni party thing—appears at Gracie’s elbow.

Fuck.

I take a breath through my nose. Let it out. Try to get a grip on my nerves here. I remember what Gracie said. That I was the most accomplished man at that party. That I deserved to be among people like Greyson and Lilly.

I’m going to prove her right.

“From my cellar,” Greyson is saying, nodding at the bottle he gave Gracie. “I don’t typically buy champagne—I’m more of a Cab guy—but this vintage was too stellar to pass up.”

Lilly nods. “George and I were just in Champagne last summer. I think we sent home eight cases. Eight! Everyone said the winery tours weren’t as good as the ones you get in Napa, but I liked how authentic they felt.”

My heart blares painfully inside my chest. Like it’s breaking through sinew and bone. Bleeding everywhere.

I got nothing to say here. Nothing to add. But I still gotta try.

I elbow my way into the small circle, handing Gracie her champagne.

“Thanks,” she says.

I greet Lilly, who gives me a kiss on the cheek. A cloud of her perfume trailing in her wake.

Then I turn to Greyson and hold out my hand. “Luke Rodgers. I’m Gracie’s boyfriend.”

The word sounds ridiculous. Like I’m a fifteen year old kid, sheepishly telling the adults that Gracie and I held hands at the movies or some shit.

I can tell by the way his lips twitch that Greyson agrees with me.

“Greyson Montgomery. I’m Gracie’s…money, I guess?” He turns to her. “What would you call me?”

What would I call you after I tear off that stupid belt and use it to beat you silly?

A bloody pulp, that’s what.

“I’d call you an investor,” Gracie says, sipping her champagne. Totally unaware that I am a tenth of a second from putting this guy in a half nelson. “You know, I’d eventually like to serve wine at the shop. I’ve had a lot of requests from the evening crowd for it.”

“I think that’d be a great idea,” Greyson replies, sliding his hands into the pockets of his perfectly pressed slacks. “You’ll have to come down to my cellar sometime. We can do a tasting. Decide on the menu. I know a guy who imports some of the best old world reds I’ve ever had—I’d be happy to put y’all in touch.”

My heart is caught in a fist.

I am trying.

I am losing.