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Stepping back, he tucks his hands into the front pockets of his faded jeans and nods proudly. “Thank you. Gracie and I’ve been workin’ real hard to get it in shape.”
My skin prickles with a strange, warm awareness.
The heat of the other man’s gaze, I realize.
Turning my head, I find a pair of icy blue eyes, rimmed with long, dark lashes, locked on my face.
“Y’all know each other, right?” Luke is saying. “Julia, this is Greyson Montgomery.”
“We’ve exchanged emails,” I reply. “But we’ve never actually met.”
Greyson and his brother Ford are the founding members of a venture capital firm here in Charleston. They raise private money to invest in the city’s booming hospitality scene. Restaurants, bars, shops like Gracie’s, markets, hotels—you name it, Montgomery Partners is involved.
I’ve worked with the firm before, when they helped Gracie realize her dream of expanding Holy City Roasters. Ford was my point person for that project; I never saw Greyson in person.
“Greyson Montgomery,” the man says, holding out a hand. “Montgomery Partners.”
I take it, giving it a firm shake. It’s huge and warm and engulfs my own.
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.
Okay. This guy is pompous, sure. But apparently he’s smart too.
Wickedly smart.
Electricity thrums between us as I hold his gaze. He towers over me, at least a foot taller and twice as broad.
“They’re not my stories,” I say. “They belong to everyone. And this business is going to go under if we don’t differentiate it from others in the area. Which we do by creating not just a farmer’s market, but a destination that has a real sense of place. A real respect for history.”
“Profit,” he says, crossing his massive arms.
“Preservation.” I cross my arms, too, just to fuck with him. “The extra time and money is always worth it in the long run.”
His gaze moves to my arms. “When was the last time you looked at a P&L statement?”
“When was the last time your greed didn’t suck the life out of a priceless historical structure?”
