Southern Gentleman (Charleston Heat 3)

My anger softens. He’s wiped. We both are.

“Sweetheart.” He glances at me. “I really am sorry. If there was any other way…you know I would’ve been there with you. Did y’all pick out some good stuff?”

I reach back for my seatbelt and look down to buckle it. “We did.”

“You all right?” he asks, putting a hand on my leg.

I look back up. “I understand you got stuck dealing with an emergency this morning. But I’m struggling with you, Grey. I feel like I’m doing the lion’s share of the work for this baby.”

“I’ve been doing work, too.” He takes my hand and runs his thumb across my knuckles. “Can I show you how?”

I give his hand a squeeze. “I’d like that.”

He tangles his fingers with mine as we make a right onto East Bay Street. We pass the famous Rainbow Row on the right, its colors vibrant against the grey February afternoon.

We continue on as East Bay Street turns into East Battery. Charleston Harbor stretches out to our left, the murky green water smooth as glass.

We don’t go far. Grey slows, pulling into a gravel driveway immediately off South Battery. There’s a For Sale sign on the wrought iron fence that encloses the property.

My heart begins to pound.

The drive winds under a canopy of palm trees. A gorgeous—and very large—house comes into view. It’s red brick with black shutters. Two stories, very classic Georgian design. It’s shiny and perfect. Too perfect. It’s brand new, as evidenced by the full dumpster by the garage and the barren landscaping. The yard is big but bare.

Grey puts the truck into park in front of the house. There’s a woman in a long skirt and sweater at the glossy front door. She smiles and waves.

I feel queasy all of a sudden.

“Grey,” I say, staring at the house. “What’s going on?”

He cuts the engine. Untangles our fingers and unbuckles his seat belt.

He’s grinning.

“You’ll see.”

I follow him to the door, where he introduces me to his real estate agent, Vanessa.

I swear my heart is going to beat its way through my chest.

A creeping realization comes over me.

Grey wants to buy this house. For us.

Our family.

I don’t say a word as Vanessa takes us on a tour of many thousands of square feet. The place smells new, like paint. More bedrooms and bathrooms than I can count, everything white and clean and trendy. The kitchen is enormous, with two islands and a scullery.

It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But it has no character. No story to tell.

I love properties that are a little rough around the edges, like Luke’s barn. Properties that I’m able to transform with my own touch, my own style.

When I flip through a sales brochure I find on the kitchen counter and see the asking price, my eyes almost pop out of my head.

It hits me.

This.

This is Grey’s way of being an equal partner. By spending obscene amounts of money on things I didn’t ask for. Things we certainly don’t need.

“So,” Vanessa says brightly. “What do y’all think?”

I look up to see Grey’s eyes glued to my face. They’ve got a hopeful gleam in them.

“Do you like it?” he asks. “I thought you’d appreciate the amazing architectural details. I know it’s new, but everything is top of the line, and the house is built with Charleston’s history and architecture in mind. The exterior, the wood doors, the brass hardware. The molding. I’ve been searching high and low for just the right house. A family place. You know, with a yard and stuff. Neither of our places have anywhere for the baby to play.”

“Grey,” I say. Heart breaking a little.

He’s trying to be sweet. Thoughtful.

But this is wrong.

This isn’t me. This house—this big, insanely perfect house—is not us. This is not the life I wanted or asked for.

It’s a poor substitute for what this baby and I really need—for Greyson to be around. Be present.

He’s Christian Grey-ing me again. Only not in a good way this time.

“Do you mind giving us a minute?” I ask Vanessa.

She smiles. “Sure. Y’all take your time.”

She heads out of the kitchen, leaving Grey and I alone.

“You don’t like it,” he says matter-of-factly.

I take a breath. Look away. Look back at him. Look down at the brochure.

“Don’t get me wrong, this is a dream house,” I say. “It’s—Jesus, Grey, it’s like something out of a magazine. Everything is new. The location is A-plus. It’s a huge lot for this part of town.”

He smiles. A tight thing.

“But.”

“For starters, it’s a whole comma out of my price range.”

“I’d take care of it.”

My pulse skips a beat.

“You don’t have to do that. In fact, I don’t want you to. I want to contribute at least something to a huge purchase like this.”

“What if I want to buy this house for you?”

“I appreciate the sentiment. And I see what you’re trying to do here. But when you said you wanted only the best for me and the baby—Grey, you don’t have to buy a house like this to prove that. You can just stick to ice cream and I’d be perfectly content.” I put a hand on my belly. “Same with Charlie Brown. I mean, I’ve been contemplating where she’d sleep. Like whether or not we’d need two cribs, one at my place and one at yours. Now you just want to up and buy a house without ever asking me if I want to move in with you?”