Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

I’m clinging to the jamb for dear life.

“You okay?” He looks over my shoulder. “Exorcism go wrong? David Bowie not show?”

A smile tugs at my mouth despite the riot of things going on inside my torso. My head.

“I was waiting for you.” I step aside. “Come in.”Chapter NineGreysonDo not look at her ass.

Don’t.

Yoga pants, sweet Jesus—

“You can set the food on the table.” Julia nods at the round table beside the kitchen. Pretty and impeccably styled, just like the rest of the place. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Cocktail?”

“I have the beverages taken care of.” I pluck two bottles of Topo Chico from a plastic bag and hold them up. “Just need a bottle opener.”

Her eyes move from the bottles to me and back again. She hesitates. For a horrible second, I think she’s going to cry.

See? I am not good at this nice thing.

But then Julia is blinking, clearing her throat as she opens a drawer and tosses a heavy brass corkscrew my way.

“You remembered,” she says.

I catch it. Let out a silent sigh of relief. Pop one bottle, then the other.

“The carbonation help with your nausea?”

“Little bit, yeah. Plus it gets kinda boring drinking plain water all day, so it’s nice to change it up. Although that stuff”—she nods at the bottles—“is hard to find.”

“I know. Had to go to a few spots before I found it at a bodega up in Elliotborough of all places,” I say, bringing the bottle to my mouth.

Julia raises a brow. “Wow. You really go the extra mile for the women you knock up.”

My lips twitch against the mouth of the bottle. She’s always been sharp. But I didn’t know she could be funny, too.

“Least I can do.”

“What a gentleman.”

“But I thought I was a Satanist?”

“That, too. They’re not mutually exclusive concepts, you know. Being a gentleman and a devil worshipper.”

“Or just a devil.”

“Right, in your case.”

I take a sip of the Topo Chico. I prefer flavors simple. Unadulterated. Why I drink my bourbon neat and never fuck with mixers.

The sparkling water is very simple but very good. The carbonation is different. More subtle than what I’m used to.

“This is pretty delicious,” I say. “Refreshing.”

She glances at me over her shoulder as she opens a cabinet. Pulls a face, like she isn’t quite sure what to make of me.

To be honest, I’m not sure what to make of me either. I agreed to co-parent. Nothing more. Which, in my mind, meant I could keep Julia at arm’s length while still showing up for the baby. I could be a good dad without getting emotionally involved with my kid’s mother.

But then Julia broke down on the phone. Ford warned me she’d be going through a rough patch during the first trimester. But being the idiot member of the male species I am, I had no concept of just how rough it’d be for her until she laid it all out in explicit terms.

I felt like such a shithead in that moment. A stupid, helpless shithead.

I do not like feeling helpless. Control is my drug. I’m a do-er. A man of action and competence.

So I offered to bring Julia dinner. I couldn’t not offer to help her feel better, even just for a little while. I may be heartless, but I’m not neglectful. The Satanist accusations notwithstanding. I also have a rare night free of calls, meetings, or emails.

Doesn’t hurt I love to eat.

Mom still talks about what a happy baby I was as long as I was fed. She adored what a good eater I was. And still am. No one cleans up her chicken and dumplings like me.

Well. Bryce is giving me a run for my money these days. God she’s cute.

Turning back to the cabinet, Julia reaches for some plates. Her shirt rides up, revealing a slice of smooth, pale belly.

My skin prickles to life.

Don’t.

I came here to comfort Julia. Not to yank those fucking pants down and make her come.

Would coming make her feel better, I wonder?

I shove the thought from my head and busy myself with the food. Eli packaged everything in brown paper containers, and I open them one by one to see what’s inside.

Julia’s pork chop. My flank steak. Eli’s pimento cheese with house made seed crackers. Sides of collards and grits—the “bad for you kind” that Eli is famous for, made with plenty of stock, salt and half and half.

Julia’s stomach rumbles audibly as she sets plates and silverware on the table.

She hands me a napkin. A real one, white cloth, monogrammed. Looks like some kind of heirloom.

“Smells so good,” she says.

I grab a chair and pull it out. “Sit. I’ll fix you a plate.”

She hesitates. Gives me that funny look again.

“What?”

“You’re being nice.”

“And?”

“You’re not nice. Ever. To anyone.”

I manage a smirk, even as something in my chest contracts. “Doesn’t mean I can’t feed a woman who’s had the day from hell. Sit.”