Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Eva winces. “I’m sorry I missed pizza night.”

I wave her away. “Don’t be. Just talk to me, E. Please.”

She looks at me. Eyes wet again. Uncertain. She smooths her palms down the slope of her thighs.

“You were right,” she says. “I took things way too far trying to be the perfect stepmom to Bryce and the perfect girlfriend for you. I talked to my own mom, and I realized—I guess I saw that it’s not parenthood that I can’t handle. It’s trying to be a perfect parent and partner that I can’t do.”

I nod, sipping my whiskey. Nudge her leg with my knee. Immediately my body warms, heat beginning to prickle in familiar places. “I was guilty of trying to be the same. Do the same. Whatever. I just wanted us—this—to work so badly, E. I thought if I tried my absolute best, and made everything as close to perfect as possible, I could prove you made the right call giving Bryce and I a chance. I could show you that having a kid wasn’t the trap you always thought it was. I hate the thought of disappointing you, sweetheart. And that’s exactly what I was hoping to avoid by busting my ass. When really I was exhausting myself.”

Her expression softens. She reaches for my hand and threads her fingers through mine, making my skin light up with awareness.

Fuck I’ve missed this.

“You’re the sweetheart, Ford. And I think that is exactly our problem—we care so damn much that we end up running ourselves ragged trying to be the superheroes we believe the people we love deserve. Let’s stop that.”

I duck my head in a nod. “That stops right now.”

“I’m going to quit the coaching position for starters—”

“Thank the good Lord above.”

“And those frozen pizzas in there?” She tilts her head toward the ovens. “That’s going to be our Friday pizza night fare from now on.”

“Good thing my inner stoned college kid loves frozen pizza.” I lean down and run my lips over her knuckles. “I’m going to do my best to take my foot off the gas pedal, too. Greyson coming back to work should help with that. So will making some of our date nights a little more low key.”

Eva grins. “Dude. With everything we have going on right now, a chill date night sounds wonderful. I still think it’s important we get out every once in a while, just you and me—”

“Of course.”

“But on a regular basis? I am totally happy to just hang. Maybe go to bed early.”

“God, how much do you love being asleep by ten?”

“Ten?” Eva’s grin grows. “Try nine. Love nothing more these days. We could really write the book on dating in your thirties, couldn’t we?”

“Instructions for a successful relationship at thirty-two: step one, frozen pizza. Step two, sex on the couch. Step three: bed by eight-thirty.”

“Bliss.”

“Heaven.”

“God we’re lame.”

Eva shakes her head. “No we’re not. We’re just doing the adult thing—the family thing—on our own terms.”

I look at her. The soft parts inside my chest and head vibrating with delight. “I like the sound of that.”

“Ford, let’s make our own family. Let’s do it our own way. Being with you—I’ve learned that the family I create can be totally different from the one I grew up in. I’ve learned to adopt the good stuff my parents taught me and leave behind the bad. Now I see that together, we can create something different and the same. That’s our choice to make. We get to choose what stays and what goes. And I say what goes is our need to be these two perfect people living this perfect life. Because being perfect doesn’t lead to happy endings. But being myself? Giving ourselves the time and space we need to make our dreams come true? I think that will.”

“I don’t want your perfect,” I say. “I just want you. Happy. Fulfilled. I want to chase down your dreams with you, E.”

Sparks ignite in her eyes. “I just want you, too. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And then she leans in and kisses me. Hand gliding onto my face, tongue gliding into my mouth. I groan at the deliciousness of her taste, the familiarity of it.

She pulls back, touching her forehead to mine. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t in my right mind—not that that is an excuse—but I’m sorry for putting you through the wringer like that. I really regret it, and I promise never to confront you when I have a 102-degree fever again.”

“I’m sorry too,” I say. “For the shouting. The things I said. That was totally out of line. I was also being kind of a hypocrite—”

“Kind of?” She arches a brow.

I scoff. “Just know I’m fully aware I’m guilty of the same shit I accused you of. I get it. And I’ll try my best to fix it.”