Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

Right now, it’s all about getting through to the other side.

The other side of what—this trimester? This pregnancy? All the unknowns in my life?—I couldn’t say.

I can say I was not at all prepared for how difficult the experience has been. Isolating, too. I’m waiting to hit that all-important 12 week mark to tell people about the baby, as that’s when the chance of miscarriage decreases significantly. Until then, I’m kind of forced to suffer in nauseated silence.

It’s Thursday, and my classes don’t wrap up until after five. I’m scheduled to have a meeting with Luke and our contractor at Rodgers’ Farms this evening—countertops, backsplashes, and plumbing fixtures all went in late last week, and I need to check on progress—but I am beyond wiped. My mood took a nosedive at lunch and never really recovered. And no matter what I munch on, the simmering roil in my stomach won’t go away.

I know if I attempt the forty minute drive out to Wadmalaw Island, especially at rush hour, I’ll fall asleep at the wheel and/or throw up all over myself.

I may not always be on time, but I never back out last minute. I feel terrible as I call our contractor and Luke to tell them I won’t be by. Gracie immediately calls back, asking if I need anything.

“Do you have any experience with mercy killings?” I say. “You know, Old Yeller style?”

I can hear the smile in her voice when she replies. “Hang in there, friend. Luke’s been growing a few varieties of mint here on the farm. I’ll put it in my favorite tea blend and drop it off in the morning. Maybe it’ll help soothe your stomach.”

Just when I think I’m off the hook, my phone starts to ring again.

My gut clenches when I see Greyson Montgomery’s name on the screen.

Just my luck. No doubt he was planning to be at tonight’s meeting. And no doubt he’s going to ream me out for cancelling it.

Just like the dick he is.

A surge of anger moves through me. Yeah, he was sorta-kinda sweet when I told him about the pregnancy. The lemon tree was thoughtful, too. But he’s been the same old Greyson at work. Abrupt. Aloof. Growly.

I slide my thumb across the screen, stiffening my spine in preparation for battle.

“This is Julia,” I say.

“Hey.” His voice is gruff. “How the hell—”

“Don’t you dare,” I say, my throat thickening. I wish I didn’t cry when I get angry, but I usually do. My haywire hormones certainly aren’t helping. “Don’t you dare do this right now. You have no idea how terrible I feel about cancelling the meeting, but this pregnancy is kicking my ass. I can’t sleep, so I’m a barely functioning narcoleptic during the day. And the fact that they call it morning sickness is a joke. I have it all day, every day, and I spend most of my time offering to sell my soul to whoever’ll take it just so I can keep down what I eat. And did I mention the depression? That’s been a fun little cherry on top of this shit sundae. I’m dealing with all of that, plus teaching a full course load while also juggling the Rodgers’ Farms project. I am trying my best, Greyson. I really am. But I just don’t feel well enough to drive all the way out to the farm tonight. I had no idea I’d be this sick or this tired. But I rescheduled the meeting with Ken and Luke for first thing Monday morning, and I had Gracie send me some pictures of the progress to make sure there were no glaring issues that needed to be addressed. I have it under control. Just like I always do. So back the fuck off.”

A pause.

Hot, rage-y tears leak out of my eyes left and right.

“I was calling to ask how the hell you’re feeling,” he says at last. “I know you wouldn’t cancel a meeting unless something was seriously wrong. I called because I’m worried about you, Julia.”

My stomach dips. Hard.

Hard enough for me to jump to my feet and scurry to the sink, afraid I’m going to puke.

Greyson called not to be a dick, but to check in on me?

To make sure I’m okay?

The idea makes my eyes fill with tears all over again.

A different kind.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he continues. “About the depression? And the sickness? I had no fucking idea.”

It’s my turn to pause.

“Because. You haven’t asked. And because we decided we’d be co-parents. We said nothing about being friends. Or confidants. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d care.”

He growls, but this one is different. Anguished, almost.

“Of course I care. I…”

I blink.

“Where are you now?” he asks, letting out a breath.

I blink again. “What?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at home. Why?”

“Have you eaten?”

Another stomach dip.

“I haven’t,” I say carefully.