Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

It’s delicious and satisfying in a way I can’t quite describe.

“You’re doing it again,” he says.

“Doing what?”

His gaze slips to my mouth. “Making noises while you eat.”

“I can’t help it. This is fucking insane, Greyson. Like, the best thing I’ve eaten since I found out I was pregnant.”

He scoffs, shoveling a huge forkful of rice into his mouth. “I wouldn’t go that far. But thank you.”

Thunder rumbles overhead.

“Seriously.” I nudge him with my elbow. “You’re clearly good at this—cooking.”

“You sound surprised.”

“Does it make me sound like a jerk if I am? I always took you for the kind of guy who lived off raw kale and the souls of innocent children.”

He shoots me a look, sipping his wine. “I mean, yeah, I devour plenty of that stuff, too. But I do like to cook. It’s actually what spurred my decision to get into the hospitality industry.”

I pull back. “Really?”

I’d always assumed Greyson did what he did for the money. The prestige. The excuse to wear thousand dollar suits.

But it’s apparent that I’m quickly becoming the poster child for that adage—the one about assuming making an ass out of you and me.

“Really. I started my career in investment banking. Knew it wasn’t for me, so I went back to business school. Ended up working at a venture capital firm in Silicon Valley after I graduated, which was cool. But it was focused on tech, an industry I wasn’t crazy about. And I always knew I wanted to end up back here in Charleston at some point. Be close to my family and everything. I also knew I loved food. Eating it, mostly, but making it, too. Talking about it, sharing it, doing interesting stuff with it. Those things I am crazy about. So I saved my pennies, worked on building a small stable of investors, and eventually took the leap with Ford to found the firm.”

My heart skips a beat.

So Greyson loves food and family.

Two things I never would’ve guessed. Although the pieces are starting to click together now. Him working with his brother. The pictures of his niece in the hall. His grandmother’s recipe.

Maybe that explains his dedication—often extreme and very often annoying—to his work.

Maybe it’s about family rather than fortune.

And that kind of changes everything, doesn’t it? Who he is.

How I feel about him.

I’m attracted to this man. Have been since we met. But now I’m really, really intrigued by him, too.

I want to know more. Maybe because we’re starting a family together—well, our version of it, anyway—and I am drawn to this idea that he’s a family man at heart.

Because I’m not sure I’m that kind of person?

Because I don’t have a family of my own anymore?

“You’re full of surprises.” I use the edge of my fork to cut my chicken. I feel like he could do the same to my heart right now. They’re both fall-off-the-bone tender. “Tell me more. About you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with an easy one. Favorite color.”

He looks at me. Eyes searching mine for a beat.

“Blue. You?”

“Purple. Favorite travel destination.”

“Anywhere with good food. Current favorite is Nashville. Honorable mention for New Orleans and Asheville. Guess I have a thing for the ’villes these days. But I have a feeling your favorite spot is more far-flung than my picks.”

“It is.” I nod. “I love London for the literary history, but Paris will always have my heart. What’s your favorite book?”

“Probably the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Or The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss.”

Rain is pelting against the windows now. The storm made it dark outside earlier than usual; I can see our reflection in the panes.

I raise a brow. “You’re a fantasy guy.”

“I am. Don’t have a ton of time to read for pleasure anymore, but when I do, yeah. It’s Potter or George R.R. Martin. Some horror, too. Big Stephen King fan.” He sets down his fork and puts a hand on his belly. “Whew.”

Nodding at his plate, I ask, “Are you gonna finish that?”

He grins. Nudges the plate toward me, his fingers brushing mine.

“All yours, Julia.” He watches, lips curled into that handsome as hell grin, as I clear his plate. “What about you? What’s your favorite romance?”

“Way too hard to pick.”

“If you had to. Gun to your head.”

I chew thoughtfully for a moment. “I love super feel-y romance. Books that give you that delicious ache in your chest, you know? For a historical—I’d say Private Arrangements by Sherry Thomas. So, so great. As far as contemporary, I’d say my current favorite is Landslide by Kathryn Nolan. Or The Kiss Quotient by Helen Hoang. Then there’s Kennedy Ryan’s stuff. It’s pretty damn incredible—I teach her books a lot in my classes. Tessa Bailey’s cop romances slay me in the best way. Oh! To go back to historicals, I adore Elizabeth Hoyt—she writes slinky, feely sex like no one else—and you know, our very own Olivia is working her way up the ranks, too. My Enemy the Earl will be a perennial favorite of mine. I love how that book explored themes of self-determination and choosing authenticity over expectation. Powerful stuff.”