His eyes are still locked on mine.

“Julia Lassiter. No fancy business name to show off. But I’m here to design Luke’s new storefront.”

Greyson’s grip is firm, too. Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to make my pulse jump.

The fact that he’s ridiculously good looking isn’t helping matters. He’s tall, dark, and handsome personified. Brown hair neatly parted and combed. Scruff just as neat, trimmed close to his square jaw. Striking eyes and Superman shoulders that strain against his crisply tailored suit jacket.

Greyson is dressed in what I call the Southern man’s power suit. Gucci loafers. Custom collared shirt and Ferragamo tie. Shiny alligator belt, the sterling silver buckle monogrammed with his initials. Not much different from those arrogant banking types I knew in New York.

Meanwhile, I’m in platform clogs and a long, floral-patterned prairie dress. Hair a frizzy, wild, wavy mess on the account of Charleston’s ever-present humidity. A stack of mismatched bangles on one arm, and a tote bag printed with the cover of A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf hanging from the other.

Greyson is still looking at me.

What is this, some kind of staring contest?

My lips twitch. I’m game.

“So you’re the designer who went $15K over budget on the Holy City Roasters project,” he says. “Won’t be happening here. I’ll personally be overseeing every detail, down to the last square foot of countertop and gallon of paint. Understood?”

I don’t know whether to laugh or deliver a smart, stinging reply.

I go with the stinging reply.

“You mean the project that’s been featured in local and national publications? The one that won a major design award? That pops up on social media so often, and led to such a boom in business, that Gracie Jackson is contemplating opening up a second Holy City Roasters location? You talking about that project, Greyson?”

I hate his name. Very private school prepster.

But for some reason I like saying it.

He tilts his head. The ice in his eyes sparking with curiosity. Heat.

Like I’ve piqued his interest and pissed him off, all at once.

“That’s the one, Julia.”

His words lilt with a gentlemanly Southern accent. Ju-ya. Electricity zips up my spine. Apparently I like it when he says my name, too. Voice rumbly and deep.

“Then you’ve seen firsthand why quality craftsmanship and timeless materials matter. It’s important we preserve the history of places like this”—I gesture to the musty interior of the barn around us—“so that we preserve their stories, too.”

Greyson finally drops my hand.

“It’s important we turn a profit. Period. No one’s going to pay any mind to those stories of yours if this business is in the red before it even opens. We have a budget, and you’ll be sticking to it. I want to see Rodgers’ Farms succeed just as much as you do, Julia.”

His eyes flash. Humor? Almost like he knows how much I like it when says my name.