Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

“Right. Sounds good. Okay. Thanks.” He hangs up and tosses his phone onto the dashboard. Blows out a breath. “Sorry. So sorry I’m late. Got stuck at lunch with one of our biggest investors. Then I got stuck on that fucking call for an hour. We’re partnering with a local sommelier to open a champagne bar in NoMo, and the whole thing is turning out to be the biggest pain in the ass ever.”

I look at the clock on the dash. Look at him. “You’re half an hour late, Greyson.”

“I know, I know, and I’m really fucking sorry.” He brings his brows together. “Julia, I mean that. It won’t happen again.”

“It never happens for work-related things, does it? You being late.”

He adjusts his grip on the wheel. “I’m trying here, Julia. This juggle is new to me.”

“It’s new to me too,” I say, remembering how cool he was about me cancelling that meeting with our contractor the other night. “But this a big appointment. I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I’m going to be really upset if we have to reschedule because we’re late.”

“I’ll be upset, too. Look.” He accelerates the truck. “I’m putting the pedal to the metal. I’ll bribe the doctor if I have to so she’ll see us. We’ll get these pictures taken, come hell or high water. I promise.”

I arch a brow. “And you don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He cuts me a look. “Exactly. We’ll make it, Julia.”

Letting out a breath, I fall back in my seat.

“Fine. Just try to be on time next time, okay?”

“Of course.” He glances at my massive work tote, stopping at a light. “Got everything you need?”

“I think so.”

I turn to set the bag in the backseat, but Greyson lifts it out of my hands and sets it back there himself. The fabric of his button down stretches across his massive chest as he twists. I can see his nipple, hard enough to poke through his undershirt.

My mouth waters. The stress over being late all but forgotten. He looks so good today.

So good. Crisp button up—this one is light blue, making his eyes really pop. Rolled up sleeves, square jaw, full lips.

A dimple in his chin I’ve never noticed before.

I miss that. The nipples. The poking.

Focus. I have to focus. Not on nipples but on prenatal appointment stuff.

“Still feeling good?” he asks, turning back around. “You said you were ‘pretty fucking fabulous’ this morning.”

“Pretty good, yeah. Just lots of ups and downs lately. One minute, I’m feeling good. The next I feel like shit—yesterday my back was killing me. One minute I’m totally convinced that keeping this baby is the right decision. The next, not so much.” I swallow. “It’s a lot to handle. But you seem to be handling it okay. The baby. Minus the whole being-thirty-minutes-late-to-our-first-ultrasound thing.”

He cuts me another look. Brows furrowed just enough to make the slanted creases between them appear.

“What?” I ask.

He looked at me this way when he came over for dinner. Like he doesn’t know what to make of me.

“You’re honest to a fault, aren’t you?”

“Try to be. I already told you—I really can’t stand people who are full of shit.”

He turns, focusing his attention on the road.

His hand moves as he tightens his grip on the wheel.

“I didn’t realize how many of those people there were in the world,” he replies gruffly. “My world.”

“Kind of shocking, isn’t it? Not only the amount of bullshit-y people, but also the people who buy their own bullshit. Like they genuinely believe the lies they tell the world and themselves about how perfect their lives are.”

“Yes!” he says. “Exactly. It blows my mind. Like appearances are the most important thing. Warping your entire existence to fit that perfect mold.”

I arch a brow. “Sounds like you have some personal experience with that mold.”

A shadow moves over his features, dampening the excitement of seconds before.

“It’s easy for me to feel certain. About the baby, I mean,” he says, and I fight a sense of whiplash at the sudden change of subject. I struck a nerve. I want to know why. “You’re the one who’s pregnant. This baby is affecting you a lot more than it’s affecting me. I don’t feel like ass all the time. I don’t have to give up booze and cigarettes. It’s unfair. If I could be pregnant for you, I would.”

I scoff. “You’d really be a werewolf then. Biting everyone’s heads off because you’d want a cigarette so bad.”

“I’d end up in jail.”

“Oh, yeah, no question about that.”

One side of his mouth curls into a smile so handsome I feel it inside my skin.

“You’re handling this with much more grace than I ever would, that’s for damn sure,” he says.

“Grace? Please. I bitch and moan constantly. I’m still waiting on that ‘glow’ all pregnant women are supposed to get. And I’ve offered my soul to David Bowie more times than I can count in exchange for everything from a very large glass of wine to a good night’s sleep. A paragon of happy motherhood I am not.”