Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Makes me kind of feel like a jerk. What does it say about me that I didn’t ask sooner about my mother’s cooking?

But Mom, being the awesome human being she is, just smiles. “I’d love to show you two. Alex, be a dear and grab a box of chicken stock. Eva, if you wouldn’t mind getting the butter, the half and half, and that block of cheddar—I think I have a block of cheddar, anyway—from the fridge.”

As Alex measures, I chop, and Mom stirs, the three of us chatting companionably about how terrible the heat is and how much we hate to love the Kardashians, I start to feel glimmers of that inspiration Ford assured me I would find.

I didn’t believe him last night. But now—hell, now I’m starting to think he might actually be right.

This is so…nice.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the intensity of tending to a smoker or a pit. But there’s something to be said for working in a kitchen alongside the people you love. Making recipes that aren’t groundbreaking or revolutionary, but that are comforting. Crowd pleasers.

As Mom whisks a lot of butter into a simmering pot of grits, the savory smell literally making my mouth water, I feel like I’m being wrapped in a big old hug. Cheesy as that sounds.

Speaking of cheese. I drop several cups’ worth of freshly grated white cheddar into the pot. The three of us ooh and ahh while we watch the grits thicken with the cheese and the butter and the splash of half and half I drop in to finish it all off.

Alex dips a spoon into the pot for a quick taste. “My God, I think I just came a little.”

“Alex.”

“Sorry, sorry. I told you, I’m hanging around the grump too much.”

“I think it’s time you found a nice man,” mom replies.

Alex sighs, and for the first time I glimpse a sense of angst in her. She’s usually so upbeat. So happy-go-lucky. This moodiness is new.

“If only I liked the nice ones,” she murmurs.

Before I can ask her what that means, Mom is requesting the rectangular baking dish I greased earlier. Alex helps her spread the grits in an even layer on the bottom using a spatula. I top it with crumbled cooked sausage, some chopped yellow and orange peppers, and then more cheese because it’s the weekend and why not.

“I have it on 350,” I say, popping the baking dish into the oven. “Half an hour? Forty-five minutes?”

“Probably closer to forty-five, I think. We want that cheese to form a nice bubbly crust on top,” mom says.

“Hell yes to bubbly cheese crusts,” Alex says.

Closing the oven, I high-five her. “Agreed.”

Half an hour later, I’m reaching for the coffee pot to refill our mugs when my phone rings. My stomach drops.

Immediately my mind goes to one name. One person.

Ford.

“Who’s calling you so early on a Saturday?” Alex asks, settling onto a stool at the counter.

I hustle over to the dining room table to grab my phone. “None of your beeswax.”

“Mom, Eva’s talking to a boy.”

“I am not.” I grab my phone. Yep, it’s Ford. I may or may not have saved his number last night before going to bed. Just in case.

My heart pops around in my throat as I look at his name lighting up my screen. I wish I could say I didn’t feel as giddy as I did the first time he called me how many years ago.

But I do. I feel giddy. Giggly, even.

Which is a big freaking problem.

Lust. I tell myself it’s just lust. It’s just a phone call. No need to get all existential.

Although the fact that he’s calling me the morning after we hung out—that he’s wasting no time, not playing any games—

I don’t know. Maybe he really is the gentleman he claims to be. All signs are pointing in that direction.

“Well?” Mom is asking, a small smile on her lips as she lifts her steaming mug to her mouth. “Are you going to answer it?”Chapter NineEvaMy thumb trembles as I glide it across the screen. Too much coffee. That’s all. Alex always makes it strong.

“Hi,” I say. I resist the urge to wince at the naked excitement in my voice. Across the kitchen, Alex grins.

“Morning, Eva.” Ford’s voice sounds even sexier over the phone. Grumbly, gruff. “How are you feeling? Please tell me I’m not the only one who’s hungover today.”

Crossing an arm over my chest, I look away from my family’s curious gazes and smile at the front door. “Nope. I am definitely feeling it this morning. Can’t party like we used to, huh?”

“Not by a long shot,” he replies with a chuckle. “To add insult to injury, I may or may not have pulled a hamstring. When Lil’ Jon asked us to get low, I think I got a little too low. Rookie move, I know, but it’s been a while.”