Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

Not okay. Excited. Relieved.

Terrified.

Yeah, I’d say mostly terrified.

“I’m all right. What about you? Sorry to be a bother.”

“You’re never a bother. Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.” I clear my throat. “That chicken and rice recipe you make. You know, with the sausage and onions and celery and everything? Tell me about it. I’ve made it before, but it’s been a while.”

“Chicken Bog. Your grandmother’s recipe,” Mom replies. “It’s a keeper. Lots of work, but that’s never stopped you. Having some company over this weekend? Someone special, maybe?”

My heart clenches. Mom sounds hopeful.

Guarded.

But hopeful nonetheless.

Unlike Ford, my parents have never explicitly encouraged me to start dating again. They’ve never been pushy. Never forced an agenda on me. One of the five thousand things I love and admire about them.

I know they want me to be happy again. And even though they don’t say it, I can tell they’d love more grandchildren.

That, I can help with. The happiness bit—

Not so much.

“A friend. Julia.” I take a sharp breath. I don’t know why I just shared her name. It’s almost like I want my mother to ask me about her. “She hasn’t—uh—been feeling so great, so I thought I’d make her some comfort food. Your specialty.”

Mom pauses. I can see her in my head: eyes and smile lighting up with curiosity.

“Bless your heart. That’s very sweet of you. I can’t remember the last time you had a friend over for dinner.”

I swallow. Hard. “So, the meat. I remember you said to have the butcher cut up a whole fryer chicken—split the breasts so the pieces are all the same size and cook evenly.”

“This Julia—do y’all work together? How did y’all meet?”

“Yes, at work. And it’s andouille sausage, right? I’ll go borrow some from Elijah. Maybe he’s got some homemade stock I can get in on, too.”

“I’ve got a couple quarts in my freezer with your name on them. Has Ford met Julia yet?”

Oh, Jesus. This was a stupid idea. The last thing I want is to get Mom’s hopes up. I crushed her before. I won’t do it again.

But Lordy, do I want to talk to her about Julia. Tell her how she’s got me in knots. That she’s interesting and accomplished and likes to dance. How she makes me want to dance.

I do not dance. Not to Bowie. Not to anyone or any song.

I miss it, though. Having fun. Letting go. Taking chances that don’t involve balance sheets or business plans.

“He’s worked with her, too, yeah,” I say.

“Well I’m happy for you, Grey. You deserve some excitement and happiness in your life. Is Julia from Charleston?”

“Mom,” I groan. “She’s just a friend, all right? And as far as happiness and excitement are concerned—”

“You deserve them, just like everybody else. You work hard, baby. You’re a good brother and a good son. A good boss, if the tiniest bit demanding. Let yourself have some fun. It’s long overdue.”

I let out a breath, feeling a slight thickening in my throat.

Sometimes I wish my family wasn’t so awesome. The knowledge that I disappointed them would be easier to swallow. But instead, they readily forgive me for things I don’t know if I can forgive myself for. And offer me homemade chicken stock to boot.

How the fuck am I supposed to turn that down?

What if I accept Mom’s stock and her forgiveness too?

I still don’t feel like I deserve either. But now, out of the blue, I want it. The forgiveness. The happiness and excitement.

I want to put this guilt down. I just don’t know if I can. Carrying it has become second nature. It’s my why, my how. My life.

Who am I if I’m not the workhorse? What do I do if I’m not punishing myself?

Am I really allowed to just…I don’t know, let this go and be free? Julia’s kind of free.

Am I the one who gets to decide?

If not me, who?

If not now, when?

I don’t have answers. But I do have dinner to make. Wine to pick and pour.

So I finish my meetings, swing by Mom’s house for instructions and stock and grab some andouille from Elijah. Pick up the rest of what I need at the grocery store.

I take a quick smoke break on my balcony before the rain starts. And then I put on my stretchy pants, roll up my sleeves, and get to fixing Julia dinner.Chapter ThirteenJuliaBack at home, my mood dips after the high of the appointment wears off. I’m learning this is the new normal as I hit the end of my first trimester and inch toward my second. Just when you think you’ve turned a corner, your body screams “psych!” and you’re back in the throes of first trimester trauma: a vicious bout of nausea, depression, or fatigue.

Right now, I’m feeling all three. So on my walk over to Greyson’s, I put in my earbuds and listen to My Romp With the Rogue. It’s the third time I’m listening to the book. Nothing like some broody-hero-castle sex to lift one’s spirits.