Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

I sigh, feeling a familiar pinch in my neck and shoulders. For so long I’ve been scary good at pushing aside the guilt and the hurt leftover from my divorce so I can take care of Ford. Bryce. Our business.

Pure, gun-to-my-head survival mode.

It’s served me well. But now—

Now I’m not so sure what my next move should be.

“I’m scared of failing again,” I say. “Of fucking up. Royally. The way I did with Cameron.”

Fucking up any relationship I might have with Julia. Fucking up this fatherhood thing.

“Grey. You fell out of love with someone. It happens.”

“I didn’t just fall out of love. I destroyed someone’s life. Cameron was ready to have kids, for Christ’s sake. We had everything.”

“And you were miserable. You knew you didn’t love her enough, you knew she deserved someone who was crazy about her. So you did what you thought was right. And it was the right call—leaving. Even if it didn’t feel like it at the time. She was a nice girl. But she wasn’t good for you.”

I press my thumbs more firmly against my closed eyes, making bursts of color break out against the backs of my eyelids.

“I’m a quitter, Ford. A liar. I made a promise, and I broke it. People like that don’t get another shot.”

I hear the ice in his whiskey clink against the glass. “So you think what? Karma is going to swoop in and cut you down if you allow yourself a little happiness? If you give yourself another shot at love?”

“I never said anything about love,” I growl. “I’m in lust with Julia. That’s it. And yeah. Yeah, what if that’s true? What if I get my heart ripped out because I ripped out Cameron’s? Or worse, what if the weight of my fuck up lands on the person I want? What if she gets hurt, or the baby does? I swear, Ford, I’m going to wreck myself or wreck her or wreck all three of us. I am the fucking drunk driver of relationships.”

Ford lets out a bark of laughter. “Strong metaphor there, Shakespeare. Your mind works in very weird ways.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ever consider that you’ve already had your heart ripped out? Slowly, over the course of your marriage? You fell out of love with Cameron. Which hurts. But she’s not blameless. Same as you’re not some trigger happy Tybalt, bound to destroy everything you touch.”

“Tybalt? What? Who are you?”

“The guy who paid attention in English class, dickface,” Ford replies crisply. “Arguably, Romeo and Juliet has no one true bad guy. But if there was, Tybalt would be a strong contender. The point I’m trying to make is maybe you’ve paid your dues. Maybe you’ve suffered enough. Hell, you signed the papers years ago, Grey. You’ve been punishing yourself for longer than that. That’s a lot of heaviness to carry around. Ever think it’s not fate that’s holding you hostage, but you? What if you’re the one holding the proverbial gun to your head? Not karma. Not destiny. You. You’ve punished yourself enough. Put the gun down, Grey.”

Tugging my thumbs over my eyelids, I straighten, blinking away the blur.

Don’t I wish I could put the gun down. Even if I could—even if I could forgive myself and let my past go and let people in—would Julia let me in? Do I even want her to?

We’re so different.

And it’s been so long since I’ve had any kind of real relationship, platonic or otherwise, with a woman outside of work. Would we be better co-parents as acquaintances rather than friends or fuck buddies? What if friends turns into something more? Our chemistry is hit-of-heroin level insane. Bad for you—so fucking bad—but so fucking good.

It’s just the more that gets me.

I don’t want to risk more for all the reasons I just told Ford.

But what would I be missing out on if I didn’t take that risk? What would I deprive my kid and her mother of by holding back? Would Julia consider more with me? She said point blank she’s a romantic at heart.

This is not a romantic start to a relationship, that’s for damn sure.

I finish my whiskey in a single gulp.

“Think about it, all right? Forgiving yourself,” Ford says, shooting me a meaningful glance.

I grunt in reply. “The baby news stays between us for now.”

“Of course. But you know Mom is going to shit a brick when she finds out. She’s going to be so excited. And so…surprised.”

Scoffing, I look out over Ford’s backyard, strewn with Little Tikes everything. I don’t have a yard at all. Where’s my kid going to play?

I make a mental note to call my realtor, Vanessa. Ask her to put out some feelers for a new place with enough space for a swing set and maybe a soccer net.

I can’t provide my kid with married parents. But I am able to provide in other ways. I’ve got money. Lots of it. Julia asked me to be invested in this baby’s upbringing. What better way to do that than raising him or her in a real home with a real backyard and space to grow?