Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

My heart has started to pound. I swallow to keep it from working its way into my throat.

“So Greyson was, like, the Prince William to Ford’s Prince Harry.”

“That’s it exactly,” Eliza replies, an easy smile breaking out on her face. “Ford wasn’t wild, but he was definitely more of a free spirit than Greyson. More sensitive, too. When Rebecca died, Greyson knew Ford needed time to heal. Time to acclimate to being a single parent. So he told Ford to focus on his family while Grey focused on the business. He’s been running Montgomery Partners single-handedly for a while now, supporting them both. I think that’s what motivates Greyson more than anything—growing the business so he has a way of giving back to our family. Sweet of him, but I worry he’s too hard on himself. He can be very intense about things, if you haven’t noticed.”

“I have,” I say with a scoff.

Eliza’s smile deepens. “Hard not to. He means well, Julia, even if it doesn’t seem like it at times. When Grey isn’t at work—not often, granted—he’s over at Ford’s. Bringing dinner. Hanging out with Bryce.”

“Teaching her about leadership and girl power.”

“He really does mean well.”

I swallow again. This time to keep from tearing up.

I guessed at it Friday night, when he told me how his love of food was what spurred his interest in venture capital, and that he was close with his family. But now I’m seeing the proof firsthand: this is why Greyson is so obsessed with turning a profit.

Not because he’s a greedy, egomaniacal asshole. But because he’s been supporting his widowed brother and three-year-old niece.

Because he wants to give back to the people he loves. Do right by them.

Show his love by working to build them a stable, happy future. While showing up in every way that he can.

That’s some kind of fierce love right there.

And such a beautiful idea that for a second I can’t breathe.

If I wasn’t falling for Grey before, I sure as hell am now.

My desire to know him, all of him, burns to need.

I get that Grey is the dutiful older brother, and I get that he takes said duty seriously. But I have this nagging feeling that maybe he’s atoning for something, too.

His divorce? I imagine a high-achieving, dutiful, firstborn son would rather die than disappoint his parents. Disappoint anyone, his ex included.

I look up at the sound of masculine laughter. Greyson is shouldering the back door open, an enormous tray of steaks in his hands.

He’s smiling, making the dimple in his chin really pop. When his eyes meet mine, they’re warm and happy and as different from the icy eyes I first saw at the barn as shadow from light.

“Steaks are done,” he says.

His mom claps her hands. “All right, y’all, let’s start fixin’ some plates.”

“Mind if I play a little music?” Grey asks, setting the tray on the counter beside me. His elbow brushes mine.

“Music?” Ford’s eyes go wide. “Since when do you like music?”

Grey shrugs, digging his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through what I can only assume is his music library. A second later, David Bowie starts to play on the speakers above our heads.

It’s “Young Americans.” One of my favorites.

“Ziggy Stardust?” Ford smiles. “Heck yeah.”

My heart—my stomach—my feelings—

They all bottom out. In the best way.

Grey catches me staring at him. He winks.

“Just in case the exorcist doesn’t show.”

“What’s an exorcist?” Bryce asks, trotting into the kitchen.

Ford picks her up, smoothing her shirt. “It’s what we’re going to need to make sure the kind alien life force that’s taken up residence in Uncle Grey’s body sticks around for a while longer.”

“Let’s eat,” Monty says. “By the way, is this song about what I think it is?”Chapter Twenty-TwoGreysonI can’t take my eyes off her.

Julia doesn’t know my family. Hardly knows Ford. I assume she doesn’t regularly dine with three-year-olds who somehow always manage to get food in their hair and/or vomit whenever they eat.

But she’s still fucking radiant at the table across from me. At ease. At home. Chatting with my dad. Charming my mom. Cleaning her plate and going back for seconds, and then thirds, of Mom’s famous collards.

Julia and Ford wig out over their shared love of eighties rock and some poet named Paul Neruda (or maybe it was Pablo? Damn it, now I wish I paid more attention in lit class). She laughs, eyes lighting up mischievously, when he tells the story of my Jonas Brother-style tuxedo pants.

“So are you going to pull a Patrick Swayze?” she asks me. “You know I like to dance.”

“Lordy do I love that man.” Mom sighs. “I’ll be his Baby anytime.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Dad says.

“Greyson hasn’t danced in years.” Ford looks at me, Bryce dangling from his knee. “Julia, you gonna help us change that?”