Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

“I’m in. Name the date and time.”

“Thinking we can start researching now. Pick everything out when we—fingers crossed—make it to the second trimester.”

He nods. “Sounds like a plan. Could be fun, too. I imagine it will really start to feel real then.”

Looking away, I fight a grin. Not quite sure why I fight it, exactly. Maybe because I don’t want to count my chickens before they’re hatched. But the idea of browsing the aisles of Hello Baby with Greyson by my side is kind of really, really appealing.

When I first got pregnant and decided to keep the baby, I assumed I’d be doing that stuff without a partner. Without Grey.

Fills me with happy tingles to know I will have a partner, and that Greyson and I will tackle that task together. Seems a lot less daunting—and, if I’m being honest, a lot more exciting—now that I’ll have his help.

His parents live in an elegant brick townhouse on a quiet, leafy street in Ansonborough, one of Charleston’s oldest and prettiest neighborhoods. Climbing the curved staircase to the second floor entrance, Grey’s palm on the small of my back, I notice how the light in the windows glows warmly against the approaching darkness.

A spark of excitement catches in my chest. I’m getting that good feeling again—the one I got on Friday night when I went over to Grey’s house for the first time.

We stop at the door. Grey turns to look at me.

“I’m glad you came, Julia.”

“Me too,” I say.

He opens the door and holds it, nodding for me to step in first.

“Helloooo,” he calls.

A woman appears in a doorway straight ahead of us. She’s wearing a snazzy pair of tortoiseshell glasses and a roll-neck cream sweater and matching jeans.

She’s also wearing an enormous smile, her eyes lighting up when they land on me.

“Welcome, y’all! I’m so glad you could make it. Grey, baby, give your mama some sugar, would you?”

She pulls Grey into a hug. There’s no awkwardness. No hesitation. There’s a warmth and a familiarity about their embrace that makes me melt a little.

This is not the coldhearted Greyson Montgomery I met at the barn how many months back.

His mom has the same Southern drawl that Grey does. A little thicker, little slower. There’s something about her mannerisms, her gentle, easy warmth, that almost reminds me of a Southern Meryl Streep.

“Mom, I’d like you to meet Julia Lassiter,” he says when they pull back, turning to me. “Please don’t scare her off.”

Tucking the chardonnay into the crook of my arm, I hold out my hand. “Mrs. Montgomery, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much—”

“Honey, please call me Eliza. And don’t be silly, you’re getting a hug,” she says. And then she pulls me into her arms. “We are so very glad you could join us tonight.”

I meet Grey’s eyes over Eliza’s shoulder. He’s smiling.

So am I.

“Very glad indeed! Hey y’all!”

We turn at the sound of another voice in the doorway, and I nearly start. The handsome man standing there looks exactly like Greyson, just with a few more wrinkles and salt and pepper hair. But the blue eyes, square jaw, and dimpled chin are the same.

Jesus, those genes are strong. I can’t help but wonder whether Charlie Brown—if he’s a boy—will inherit them.

Something about the idea makes my heart skip a beat.

“I’m Greyson senior, but everyone calls me Monty,” he says, extending a hand.

I turn to Grey. “So you’re a junior?”

“I’m actually a third,” he says, glancing at his dad. “Dad here is the junior.”

Monty claps his hands and rubs them together. “What can I get you to drink, Julia?”

Eliza’s eyes drift to my chardonnay. “Some white wine? I’ve already got a bottle open. Monty can also whip up whatever cocktail you’d like. I’ve got tea, too, sweet of course, and some sparkling water…”

“Tea would be great, thank you. And these are for y’all.” I hold out the wine and the book.

“Well, doesn’t this look inviting,” Eliza says, taking the book. “I do like a man in a kilt. Have you watched that show Outlander?”

“Love it,” I reply with a grin. “Did you read the books? I think the casting in the show is A-plus.”

“I’ve read them all. Twice. Good Lord, is that Jamie Frasier a tall glass of water or what? I’ve half a mind to travel back to the eighteenth century to find him myself.”

“And that’s our cue to keep moving. Let’s head inside.” Greyson puts his hand on my back and guides me into the kitchen at the back of the house. It’s open to a living room that’s beautifully furnished and strewn with toys. Dolls, books, a red and blue tricycle.

No one seems to bat an eye at the mess. In fact, Eliza beams at the little girl in leggings who sits in the center of the toy hurricane. When the girl sees Greyson, she immediately leaps to her feet and heads our way, face lighting up.