“And you have me.”

“And now we have a kid. When did that happen?”

I laugh. “I don’t know. But I’m glad it did.”

I mean that.

I do.

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Flip the page for an exclusive excerpt from the next book in the Charleston Heat series, SOUTHERN HEARTBREAKER. This is Eva and Ford’s sexy single dad, second chance story.

Southern Heartbreaker Excerpt

Ford

Eva slows her steps. The night and all its sights and sounds comes back full force. I look up at sound of a bass line’s heavy thud. The sticky sweet smell of chocolate.

We’re standing outside a multi-story brick building right on the market. It’s a touristy part of town, the bar and its blinking lights wedged between a t-shirt shop and place that sells forty flavors of fudge.

I recognize the bar, its name lit up in green halogen lights.

“Jacob’s?” I say. “Eva, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The mischief is back in her smile and her eyes. “Don’t tell me that suit’s made you too proud to go to Jacob’s. It’s a Charleston institution.”

“No it’s not,” I say. “It’s a place where underage college kids go to do Jäger bombs. You do know they have that on tap, right? Jägermeister? On principle, I do not go to places that encourage imbibing that sludge of death. It’s just…wrong.”

“Wrong in all the right ways, you mean.” Eva reaches for my hand and tugs me toward the door. “C’mon. First round of Jäger bombs is on me. And yes, you are letting me pay this time.”

“We’ll see about that,” I growl, sending my dick a silent plea to behave after the sudden shock of feeling her fingers thread through mine. Her hand feels warm.

Right.

I swear, some moments it really does feel like we’re picking up right where we left off more than a decade ago.

The bouncer barely glances at our IDs before waving us in—“yeah, y’all are definitely over twenty-one”—and then Eva is tugging me up one flight of stairs, then another. It smells like stale beer inside, undercut with a hint of fried bar food.

Lovely.

The thump of the bass gets louder the higher we climb. At last we come out onto an open air patio that leads onto a bar-slash-dance floor. There are people everywhere, bobbing their heads in time to the song the DJ is playing.

I recognize it. Even though the soles of my new Gucci oxfords are sticking to the floor—good Lord, what is that?—I feel my entire face breaking out in a smile.

The song is “What’s Your Fantasy” by Ludacris.

Only the song Eva and I memorized spring semester junior year as a way of procrastinating while attempting to study for our exams. She’d do the girl parts. I’d do the guy. Occasionally we’d switch just to show each other up, acting out the lyrics with enthusiastic abandon.