Greyson’s eyes meet mine. Even in the dim twilight, their color is striking. Forward. Bold. Just like the man they belong to.

The scent of his aftershave, smoke and something else, fills my head.

He is enormous. Broad enough to fill the entire doorway.

I put a hand on the jamb to steady myself.

For half a heartbeat, his gaze moves over my body. A muscle in his jaw twitches. The look in his eyes when he glances back up—it’s hard. Heated. Like he’s pissed off. A handsome Hulk about to blow.

Do my yoga pants really offend him that much?

My spine stiffens again. Nipples harden to points. Okay, that hurts now.

If he’s going to be a jerk again—

“I got you the best grits in town. And a double cut pork chop.” He holds up a brown paper bag. “Made sure it’s well done. Eli bitched about it, but whatever. Google told me pregnant women are only supposed to eat well done meat.”

I can only stare at him.

He went to The Pearl. Elijah Jackson’s restaurant. Arguably the best in town. Best grits for sure, considering they’re milled by Luke and cooked by Eli.

The Pearl also happens to be the hardest reservation to get in Charleston. They book months in advance. And as far as I know, they don’t do takeout.

Except, apparently, for Greyson Montgomery.

He got me grits. And made sure my pork chop was well done.

I’m clinging to the jamb for dear life.

“You okay?” He looks over my shoulder. “Exorcism go wrong? David Bowie not show?”

A smile tugs at my mouth despite the riot of things going on inside my torso. My head.

“I was waiting for you.” I step aside. “Come in.”

Chapter Nine

Greyson

Do not look at her ass.

Don’t.

Yoga pants, sweet Jesus—

“You can set the food on the table.” Julia nods at the round table beside the kitchen. Pretty and impeccably styled, just like the rest of the place. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Cocktail?”

“I have the beverages taken care of.” I pluck two bottles of Topo Chico from a plastic bag and hold them up. “Just need a bottle opener.”

Her eyes move from the bottles to me and back again. She hesitates. For a horrible second, I think she’s going to cry.

See? I am not good at this nice thing.

But then Julia is blinking, clearing her throat as she opens a drawer and tosses a heavy brass corkscrew my way.

“You remembered,” she says.

I catch it. Let out a silent sigh of relief. Pop one bottle, then the other.

“The carbonation help with your nausea?”

“Little bit, yeah. Plus it gets kinda boring drinking plain water all day, so it’s nice to change it up. Although that stuff”—she nods at the bottles—“is hard to find.”

“I know. Had to go to a few spots before I found it at a bodega up in Elliotborough of all places,” I say, bringing the bottle to my mouth.