Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

Exactly how deep am I in here?

How much power do I really have to choose what happens next?

Julia’s making me want something other than hurt.

But do I really believe I can heal? Do I really think I deserve to?

Just because you’re a villain in one story doesn’t mean you can’t be a hero in another.

I take one last drag. Sneak another. My hand shakes as I stub it out.

But I do it. I put the fucking thing out.

I duck back inside before I change my mind.* * *JuliaI wake up in a bed that’s not mine.

The sheets are silky cool. Cotton percale, Egyptian if I had to guess.

And the pillow smells like bergamot.

It smells like Greyson.

A rush of heat floods my core. I blink open my eyes and suck in a breath. I’m swimming in the middle of an enormous bed, the covers tucked tightly around me.

I’m a burrito. In Greyson Montgomery’s bed.

Last night comes back to me in a rush. The sonogram, The Sopranos, Greyson’s grandmother’s chicken and rice and a half shot of Pinot.

My God, that chicken. And that rice.

And the way he looked in those tight joggers and tighter henley.

I remember him carrying me up the stairs, Callum-the-angry-Scot style. The way he held me was so careful. Grip firm but touch gentle.

He made me feel safe.

Never in a million years would I have thought I’d feel safe with this man. Egomaniac boss. Instigator of fights. Slayer of vaginas.

But here I am. Tucked sweetly into his clean, cavernous bed. Still full from the amazing meal he made from scratch to celebrate Charlie Brown’s first ultrasound.

My stomach flips when I think about Greyson sleeping next to me. We didn’t have sex—that much I know—but maybe we slept together. Literally. For the first time ever.

I turn my head. Feel a pinch of disappointment when I see the other half of the king bed is neatly made. Where did he sleep, I wonder? Sofa? Guest bedroom?

Why didn’t he sleep with me? The shock of waking up next to him is almost too delicious to contemplate.

An ache fills me.

I miss the smell of his skin and the weight of his body. The feel of his mouth on my neck. The things he’d do with those big, knowledgeable hands of his.

I’m so drawn to his confidence.

Last night, that confidence faltered when we were talking about taking risks and second chances. But I’m drawn to that, too—the crack in his facade, the glimpse of real human vulnerability.

As much as I want to know what his story is, he’s got to be ready to tell it.

I’ll wait patiently in the meantime.

My heart stumbles around my chest as I pad to the bathroom, already punch drunk at the prospect of seeing a scruffy, sleep-rumpled Greyson first thing in the morning.

I find him passed out cold on the sofa downstairs. He’s got one arm bent behind his head. Snoring softly.

I smile and pull the thin blanket a little higher over his chest. He may run hot—his skin was always scalding to the touch—but it’s freezing in here.

The scent of last night’s meal lingers in the air. My stomach grumbles. I glance at the kitchen. I may not cook, but I know some people who do.

I wonder how Greyson takes his coffee. Does he even drink it?

Only one way to find out.

Half an hour later, there’s a soft knock at the front door.

Gracie stands on the stoop, a tray of coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“So y’all needed some nourishment after working up an appetite last night, huh?” she says with a grin, holding out the goodies. “This should do the trick. Two bacon-egg-and-cheeses on Marie’s croissants. I threw in a pumpkin scone, too. Good for that quick sugar energy if y’all, I don’t know, decide to go for another round or whatever.”

I press a kiss to her cheek, and pass her a few bills as she hands me the coffees and food. “I already told you that this sleepover is as innocent as it gets. Please note my hoodie and pregnancy pooch. But thank you for bringing all this over. Greyson made dinner last night, so I figured breakfast was the least I can do.”

“Are y’all, like, ‘hanging out’ now?” she says, bending her fingers in air quotes.

“No.” I play with the lid on my iced coffee. “Maybe. I don’t know. I think…Grace, I think have a little crush on him. More than a crush.”

She arches a brow. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Me neither. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. He was so awful for so long. But now that I’m getting to know him—”

“He’s actually turning out to be a good guy?”

I scoff. “I wouldn’t say good. Interesting, maybe. Layered. Complex. A little fucked up.”

“You’re in trouble,” Gracie says, still grinning.