Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

My pulse slips out from under me. The way a plane slips around in bumpy air. Making my stomach dip.

I look up. See that the only light in the room is coming from a million flickering candles. They’re everywhere. On the floor in glass hurricane vases. On random ledges in the wall. There’s even a round chandelier of them hung from the ceiling.

It gives the room a warm, achingly romantic glow.

My heart is pounding. I can’t catch my breath.

I turn a little, and see that the barn is mostly empty, save for a round table in the middle of the room. It’s set with candles and flowers. Plates and bowls and mugs.

I smile when I see bottles of Bud Light set out next to the wine glasses.

The sweetness of it, the perfectness, pierces my heart.

Music starts to play. It’s classical—sounds like mostly strings—but something about it snags. I know this song. But from where?

I’m shaken by it all. The gown and the candles and the flowers.

I’m—

I turn, pulse cracking at the sound of footsteps.

Luke emerges from the shadows, candlelight flickering across his features as he pauses. Hands clasped behind his back.

Eyes on my face.

I devour him with my gaze, the breath leaving my lungs.

He’s dressed—oh, oh my God, he’s dressed in Regency gear. Complete with breeches that his baseball butt fills out real nice. Black knee-high boots, velvet jacket—how is he not dying in this heat right now? although damn does it make his shoulders look broad—and waistcoat. Cravat and quizzing glass.

Wig.

The guy is wearing a goddamn wig. From here, it looks like a curly mullet. The kind Luke sported when we first met a decade ago.

I’m crying.

How could I not be? Luke looks ridiculous and thrillingly period appropriate and so handsome it hurts.

He’s hurting me, just standing there. Eyes clear and steady as mine fill with tears.

Luke bows at the waist.

“My Lady. Thank you for coming. I may be a Duke, but I ain’t too proud to entertain you in my barn.”

Wow wow wow. I get it now. This is role play—he’s the Duke, I’m the bluestocking. Wow.

I want to curtsey. But I can’t move.

I can’t stop staring at him. Can’t stop feeling all the feelings because even now, even after everything that’s gone down, he’s still making my bucket list dreams come true. One line item at a time.

“The breeches are great,” I blurt.

Luke’s lips twitch. He turns to the side, allowing me a better view of his goods.

“I thought so, too.” His eyes move over my dress. Going soft. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Where’d you get all this?”

His eyes are squinty now. Smiley. “Easy. I’m a Duke. I can get anything I want.” He scratches his head. “Even a mullet wig.”

Laughing—crying—I say, “I like the wig.”

“Thought it might put you at ease. I know how intimidated Lady Jane can be by all of Max’s ducal shit.” He starts walking towards me, and my insides lurch. My God does he make Max’s ducal shit look good. “I owe you an apology. A big one.”

I nod. Swallowing, hard.

He comes to stand in front of me. I have to crane my neck to look up at him. That Ivory soap smell filling my head and turning me inside out.

It’s all I can do not to whimper.

I’ve missed that smell. The look and feel of his body near mine.

My knees have started to wobble.

“Tell me what happened,” I say.

“The night of your re-opening,” he begins, still keeping his hands clasped behind his back. Looking regal as all get out. “We were talking with your friends—Elle and Charlie. I saw everything he was doing for her. How he was providin’ meaningful help so she could grow her business. He was helping make her dreams come true. And in that moment, I didn’t see how I could possibly help you with yours. Not the way Charlie was helping Elle. Deep down I knew I was being an idiot. I tried to talk myself off the ledge. But then I saw you with Greyson—”

“He’s the worst.” I roll my eyes. “And sometimes the best.”

“—And y’all just looked so right together. Y’all live in the same world. Share the same interests. Want the same things.”

“But that’s not what I want—the fancy guy with the fancy job,” I reply. “He’s not the man I want.”

“You did want to open a coffee shop. And he helped you with that. You see why I was feelin’ insecure? ’Cause I knew I could never help you the way he did? I knew I could never look that good and that right on your arm.”

I run my tongue along my bottom lip. Brow furrowed.

“I do see. But I need you to recognize that Greyson only helped me because it was his job, Luke. Because of what’s in it for him, which is profit, pure and simple. He’s going to make money if—when—Holy City Roasters succeeds. He didn’t invest in the shop out of the goodness of his heart, or to be a white knight or whatever. He’s a businessman, and he funds companies like mine because that’s what venture capitalists do.” I meet Luke’s eyes. “You have to know I want you. Not Greyson.”