Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

Julia smiles. The kind that makes the skin around her eyes crinkle. “The gentleman Satanist loves his family? I almost don’t believe it.”

“They’re the only thing that’s kept me going since—” I clear my throat for what feels like the hundredth time. We are so not going there right now. Or ever. “Suffice it to say I’d be much growlier without them.”

Julia’s brows go up. “That’s saying something. Any growlier and you’d be a werewolf. Not the sexy Twilight kind, either.”

“Please.” I furrow my brow in mock consternation. “I’d make the best werewolf. And the sexiest.”

“Because you’d make biting peoples’ heads off look good?”

“Because I’d make a great bad guy. I am one in real life.”

Julia turns back to face me. Her gaze moves over the food on the table before landing on mine. She looks at me for a full beat. Eyes narrowed with a question I do not want to answer.

Sweat breaks out along the back of my collar.

“You’re not all bad.” Her voice is kind. “Just mostly.”

“Bad enough,” I say gruffly.

I get back to my plate. Wolf down (pun intended) what’s left of my collards and finish off my steak.

“You done?” she asks.

I stand, reaching for her plate. “I’ll clean up.”

“I got it.”

“Don’t make me growl, Julia. Sit.”

Julia smiles and stands, gently removing her plate from my hands. “Growl all you want. Cleaning up was always my job. How about you clear the table and I do the dishes?”

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“After that meal? Absolutely. If Elijah’s grits and pimiento cheese don’t revive you, then you’re past saving.”

Julia gets to work at the sink while I refill the take-out bag with our empty boxes. Gathering our silverware and glasses, I turn to the kitchen to see Julia shimmying her hips. Little, barely noticeable movements that are perfectly in time to the beat of the song that’s playing—“Rebel Rebel.”

An anthem for Julia if there ever was one.

For half a heartbeat I just stand there. Pure creeper style. Transfixed by the easy sway of her pert little ass. She’s murmuring the words now, scrubbing and shimmying and generally being cute as fuck.

My thoughts swirl and shift as I watch her. She’s had a shitty time of it. The morning sickness, the depression. Never mind the lingering shock of an unexpected pregnancy. Her dad died, she has no family around, and she’s struggling to find joy in the stuff she’s usually very passionate about.

But she’s still singing.

Still dancing to Bowie like a bomb didn’t take out life as she knew it.

There’s a lesson here. The one about dancing in the rain or despite the rain or some shit like that.

But beyond the country song platitudes—her dancing makes me feel something.

Turned on, yeah. That’s a fucking given.

But there’s something else. Something I can’t put my finger on.

Maybe it’s just feeling anything at all that’s got me sidling up beside her. Wanting to put my hands beside hers on the lip of the sink and melt my cock into the sweet curve of her ass, even though I shouldn’t.

Wanting to stay. Dance. Fuck. Feed her.

I hate the thought of her being alone.

And it’s not lost on me that I didn’t think once about work while I’ve been here.

I didn’t think about my past, either.

I was here. Fully, sometimes painfully, present.

Julia calling me to account, as usual. Calling me on my bullshit without even knowing it.

And yeah. Now that I’ve caught a glimpse of who Julia is, beyond the designer who loves to bust budgets and my balls, I admit I’m curious.

Really fucking curious about who she is. What she likes.

Where she comes from. That picture of her at Hogwarts—did she go to school at Oxford? Cambridge?

And what about the travel? Who does she jet around the world with now that her dad is gone?

What are her favorite places to visit? Where would she like to go?

What about historical romance does she find so comforting?

Did she get her love of design from her dad?

Underwear—does she wear it with those yoga pants? Or does she go commando?

I blink. Can’t remember the last time a woman made me curious like this.

It’s dangerous.

Jesus, I really am going to turn into a werewolf if I don’t get out of here. Right now.

I nudge her with my hip and set everything I’m carrying in the sink. “I got the rest.”

I don’t realize how close I’m standing until she looks up, our gazes locking. My stomach takes a nosedive.

I’m continually struck by how pretty she is. Face flushed from the heat of the water running from the faucet, wisps of her hair escaping the messy knot at the crown of her head.

Blue eyes bright. Happy.

Did I really do that?

I shove the idea from my head. Makes me feel too warm and squishy inside.

I do not do warm, and I especially don’t do squishy. Unless Bryce is in the room. Then all bets are off.