Beau cuts me a look. “Y’all can handle it. And yeah, maybe I’m hoping it’ll show you how much easier your job will be with someone as excellent as Emma at your side.”
“I beg to differ.” I can just imagine how hoity-toity Emma will be about my ideas. No doubt she’ll shoot down everything. Take over, the way she’s already trying to take over Celeste and John’s wedding.
But Beau is the boss. He’s also my brother, and whatever he’s going through that he’s not telling me about is clearly taking a toll on him. I don’t want to add to that burden.
So I’ll do the boozy lunch with Emma. Grit my teeth and get through it. Hopefully, she’ll hate working with me so much she’ll quit before the weekend’s through.
“Fine. I’ll sit down with Emma this afternoon.” I take the frittata out of the oven and slice it four ways—I always make way too much damn food, and for once that’s a good thing—and plate it, dropping the plates on the island. “Now eat. No, Hank, I don’t give a damn if you already had breakfast, you’re gonna finish those eggs.”
He grins, putting a forkful into his mouth. “Yes, sir.”
Grabbing his plate, Beau stands beside me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Trust me, okay?”
I drop the skillet into the sink, creating an even louder clatter than the one before. “Everyone’s always asking me to trust them. Why the hell don’t y’all return the favor and trust me for once?”
Beau sighs. Again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, curling my hands around the lip of the sink. “I don’t mean to create a headache for you. I’ll get it done, all right? You don’t have to worry.”
“But I do.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I always worry about you, Samuel.”
Chapter Nine
Emma
Hank is the first to greet me when I arrive outside The Barn Door at quarter till eight.
“Morning, Emma,” he says. “I was hoping I’d get to witness your victory lap today.”
I grin. “I saw you peeking over Samuel’s shoulder last night.”
It’s a crisp spring morning, and the sun is already vibrant in the early gray-blue sky. Hank squints as he smiles at me, this big, unguarded thing that makes me think he and Samuel are in no way related. Hank’s also a lot smaller than his older brother.
He’s still ripped as all get-out. His biceps are on the verge of splitting the sleeves of his T-shirt, Hulk style.
From what I gather, all the Beauregard brothers are incredibly well-built. Must be their genes. It makes sense, considering their father was also a football great.
“Couldn’t help myself. Your mastery is a thing of beauty, Emma. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The wines you picked? And that thing you did with the champagne? I knew you were something special from the way Beau talked about you. But damn, girl, you know your shit, and you’re not afraid to use that knowledge as a weapon.”
Warmth blooms inside my chest. “Wow. Thanks for that. I’m worried I took it a little too far, but overall, I’d like to think I did well.”
“You dominated, no question. And let’s be real, it was fun to watch you put Samuel in his place. I’m sorry he’s been such a moody SOB. I promise he’s not usually like this.”
I scoff. “I’m glad you said that. I wish he could be a little more like you. You know, nice.”
“You think I’m nice?”
“I do, yeah. I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I say, “but what is Samuel’s deal? He seems to get along with everyone else. What sore spot am I hitting?”
“Fuck if I know.” Hank puts his hands in his pockets. “On the surface, Samuel can be a big bullshitter. But when it comes down to it, I think he has trouble trusting new people. Letting them in. Be patient.”
I nod. “I can do that.”
“Anything I can help with in the meantime? I’d be happy to show you around the resort. I’m sure I could finagle you an appointment at the spa if you’re into that stuff. We’ve got plenty of outdoor activities too. Just say the word and I’ll line it up, free of charge. I’ll tell Beau—I mean, my boss—that you’re doing ‘resort research.’”
I laugh. “Is that a real thing?”
“Nope. But I can make it one if you want.”
“Thanks.” I grin. “I appreciate the offer, really. I see why Beau put you in charge of guest relations. You’re good at making people feel at home here. Me included. Makes Blue Mountain Farm stand out.”
He grins too, handsome and glowing and clearly proud. “I appreciate the kind words. A lot of what I do is kinda invisible work, you know? It’s not as sexy as, say, one of Milly’s weddings, or Samuel’s Tony Stark wine cellar.”
“Did he actually have the cellar built in Iron Man style?”
“Yup.”
“Of course he did.” I roll my eyes, and Hank laughs. “But yeah, I see what you mean. You’re the glue that holds it all together. The food, the weddings, the activities, the accommodations—I’ve worked in hospitality long enough to know it all only runs smoothly if there’s a shit ton of work that happens behind the scenes.”
Hank’s gaze meets mine. “I like you, Emma.”
“I like you, too, Hank.”
“So, hey.” He rocks back on his heels, and at that moment, I see a teddy bear, not a mountain man. Really, why can’t Samuel have Hank’s personality? It would certainly make my life a lot easier. “I know you’re super busy, but if you ever have time for another tasting, I’d love to do one with you.”
“Anytime. But you have to promise not to freak out the way Samuel did if I outmaneuver you.”
His smile broadens. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
* * *
Samuel walks into the restaurant at eight o’clock on the dot. He smiles at the restaurant’s manager, Raquel, and nods at one of the dishwashers heading into the kitchen.
His greeting isn’t exactly warm or personal. But it gets the job done. The hum of activity surrounding us is a testament to the respect Samuel’s employees have for him. So are The Barn Door’s stats: turnover is very, very low—much of the kitchen and waitstaff has been with the Beauregards since the resort opened a few years ago—and employees consistently give him the highest rating on Blue Mountain’s biannual performance reviews.
He’s not wearing a suit this morning. Instead, he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white thermal. His white and neon orange sneakers would look ridiculous on anyone else. But on Samuel, they’re sexy. Probably because he wears them with I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think swagger.
Guy’s got balls of steel, I’ll give him that.
His eyes lock on mine and despite my best efforts to remain calm, cool, and steady—this is not your first rodeo, Em—my stomach somersaults.
The image of his bare ass immediately flashes across my thoughts. Did I really trespass on Samuel’s property last night to peep him in his pool?
Thinking about your co-head’s naked, perfectly pert ass is not the best way to start your third day on the job.
As if he can read my dirty mind, Samuel’s smile disappears.
“Emma,” he says.
I clear my throat. “Morning, Beauregard.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Have a moment?”
“Of course.”
“My office.”
Notebook and pen in hand, I follow him up to the suite of offices on the second floor. His is surprisingly cozy, tidy too, with the same reclaimed wood walls and beamed ceilings as downstairs. Samuel takes a seat behind the massive desk in the center of the room.
He does not invite me to sit.
“Elijah Jackson is coming to the resort this weekend.” He opens a drawer, takes out a leather folio, and tosses it onto the desk. “Beau wants us to put together a lunch-tasting combo for him and his guests on Saturday.”
I smile, excitement fluttering inside my chest. Okay, working with Samuel has not been awesome. But the clientele Blue Mountain Farm attracts most certainly is. So is the idea of introducing one of m
y favorite chefs of all time to my favorite wines.
“The Eli Jackson?”
“Yup.” Rummaging through the folio, his gaze flicks up to meet mine. “You a fan?”
“Love him. His breakfast bowls? And the fact that he fell in love with his wife by making her food while she wrote her first romance novel? I mean, he’s an icon in every sense of the word.”
Samuel grunts. “So you read that Garden and Gun profile too.”
“I read everything food and wine related that I can get my hands on. The profile was a good one, right?”
Samuel’s eyes flick to mine. They’re intensely, almost supernaturally blue in the strident morning light. “Don’t sound so surprised that I read. I know you think I’m just a dumb jock—”
“I never said that.”
“That gleam in your eye last night when you showed me the label on that bottle of Dom? Yeah, that definitely said ‘you’re dumb.’”
“No.” I cross my arms. “It said ‘I want to open your mind, but since you’re so hell-bent on thwarting me at every turn, this is the only way I know how.’”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I reserved the Stag Pavilion from eleven till three. Eli’s bringing his guy friends, fifteen guests total. Goes without saying we need to pull out all the stops.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. This is my chance to show him that I really am a team player.
My chance to prove I’m trustworthy.
I take a seat in one of the chairs facing Samuel’s desk and cross my legs, settling my notebook on my lap.
“Absolutely.” I click my pen and start writing. “It’ll be something fabulous. Something different. Because he’s well versed in southern classics, I say we stay away from that kind of thing. No one does grits quite like him—”
“You have yet to taste my grits.”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “So why try to top his mastery? It’d almost be an insult.”
Samuel’s eyes flick over my stockinged legs. That muscle in his jaw tics.
“I thought the same thing.” We meet eyes, and my pulse kicks up another notch. “I gave Chef Katie a call this morning and floated the idea of doing a Spanish-style meal. I’ve always been a big fan of paella—”
“Me too,” I say, my pen flying as ideas begin to take shape. “And you’ve got some pretty sweet wines from Spain in the cellar, so the pairings will be a breeze.”
Samuel smirks, cocky and knowing and…actually kinda cute? “Exactly. And it just so happens our rice supplier is Luke Rodgers of Rodgers’ Farms in South Carolina. He’ll be at the lunch on Saturday. So not only do we get to do a southern riff on the dish with locally sourced ingredients, but we’ll also be giving a guest a nod of appreciation.”
“Perfect. I know Chef just harvested her first crop of peas from the garden, and a big-ass paella is the perfect place to show off our produce.” When Samuel raises a brow, I grin. “Yes, I called Chef this morning too. I wanted to go over any changes to today’s menu so I’ll know which wines to recommend with each course.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you always so thorough?”
“Yes. The paella—what are you thinking? Seafood? Chicken? Chorizo? All of the above?”
Samuel blinks, like he’s surprised by my questions. I bet the jerk expected me to run roughshod over him.
I allow my grin to deepen, meeting his gaze head-on. See? Team player.
I only run roughshod over men in the bedroom. Looking at Samuel, I wonder if he’d like that. Sometimes the guys who are as alpha as he is are secret submissives behind closed doors.
“You’re the food guy.” I hold out my hands, pen laced between my fingers. “Tell me what you want, and we’ll make it happen.”
“Chicken,” he says automatically. “Chicken and chorizo.”
I scribble in my notepad. “Love it. Classic combo that will be a total crowd pleaser. What about adding a crema to it? One of the best paellas I’ve had was at this place out in Santa Barbara. They paired theirs with this cool, tangy white sauce that was out of this world.”
“The chorizo and chicken paella at Bonita?” Samuel is blinking again, brow furrowed.
“Yeah.” I pull back, surprised myself. “You’ve been?”
“Probably my favorite restaurant on the West Coast.”
I’m smiling now. “It’s that good.”
“It is that good. The gin and tonics? Christ.”
“Oh yeah—love that one they do with the rosemary and cucumber. And the tapas? Insane. On my last trip out there, I may have emptied my bank account eating at that place four nights in a row. By the last night, all the bartenders were looking at me funny, but I was too drunk on gin and high on albóndigas to care.”
He’s doing that thing where he cocks his brow. Makes him look a little less angry, a little more approachable. “You got high on meatballs?”
“I’m only going to answer that question if you promise not to turn it into another gross food pun.”
“Unfortunately I’m unable to make any such promise.” He leans back in his chair and rests his clasped hands on his flat stomach.
“Then the conversation about meat and balls ends there. Such a shame, because those were some pretty delicious ones.”
It’s an entirely inappropriate conversation to have at work. We’re flirting with a line we probably shouldn’t cross.
We’re flirting, period. And that’s a line we definitely shouldn’t cross. But we’ve got some good energy going right now. Plus, it’s fun trading banter with Samuel. He’s quick and bold, and when we’re exchanging bad puns, it means we’re not exchanging barbs.
Which gives him the chance to actually listen to what I’m saying.
It’s obvious Samuel likes what he’s hearing.
For the first time, we’re on the same page. Not only that—he’s engaging me in meaningful (albeit slightly pervy) conversation about my love of food and wine and travel. I can’t tell you how many people have made me feel like a joke for being passionate about things like gin and paella. Like I’m ridiculous for loving the things I do.
But right now, Samuel Beauregard of all people is smiling as we chat about those very things.
The man actually smiles, a cocky flash of white teeth and gleaming blue eyes that seems to melt the ice between us so quickly it’s as if it was never there to begin with.
“I’m struggling not to make a crack about your cornbread,” he replies. “So let’s keep talking about the menu. How about we add balls—pardon, albóndigas—as an appetizer?”
“Throw in some manchego croquetas and I think we have a solid start to what’s going to be an epic meal.”
Samuel runs a hand across his scruff. “Manchego. That shit is so good. Should we add some tasso ham? Just because we can? Our butcher smokes a mean ham.”
“Done. I love that we have our own butcher on-site. I’m thinking we pair the croquetas with…hmm…”
I look up. He looks at me.
“Albariño,” we say at the same moment.
“The acidity will complement the cheese really nicely,” I say.
“The lemon-lime note will make a fried dish like that feel less heavy. I was thinking the—”
“Juan Luis?”
Samuel nods. “Great little wine. I discovered it years ago and have had it on the menu ever since.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, smiling so hard my face hurts. “Although I have to say I was surprised to see it pop up in your bible. It’s a sleeper—not many people know about it. And it’s cheap. Relatively speaking, anyway.”
His lips twitch as he surveys me across his desk. “And you thought you had me pegged.”
Chapter Ten
Samuel
“All right,” Emma says, uncrossing and crossing her legs. “Since we’re doing something light and different for the tapas, let’s go BSD for the paella pairing. You have some really nice Riojas that would work beautifully. Which one is your favorite?”<
br />
Sweet savior in heaven, why does she gotta have those legs?
I also wanna know why she can’t be easier to hate today. Yesterday she made me look like a humongous idiot, so wanting her gone was easy. But today she’s playing by every freaking rule. She’s full of good ideas and better energy, and she’s not only asking for my input, she’s also excited about what I have to say.
For the first time, I feel like we’re real partners doing really great work.
I never felt that sense of camaraderie with Olly and Coach Kravinsky. Granted, after my injury I spent the better part of a season either in bed or at physical therapy, so I wasn’t with the team for months on end.
But still. This chemistry I have with Emma is something I didn’t experience with my coach or my backup, ever. Which means—
Well, it means what, exactly? I know better than to trust Emma.
But what choice do I have? Beau is forcing me to trust her by working together on this event.
Those legs. Must. Stop. Looking. Or I’m gonna get hard. Who gets a stiffy at a work meeting?
Guys who don’t have jobs, that’s who.
I have V for that shit. Just gonna have to chat with her more often.
Tearing my gaze from Emma’s body, I pretend to write something on my notepad. “The, uh, Canción de Sangre.”
“Oooh, song of blood. Sounds dangerous. I like it.” She jots down a note. “I assume it’s big and meaty?”
I slap my hand down on my desk. Emma startles, those pretty brown eyes going wide in genuine shock.
Shit, did I scare her?
“I swear to God I didn’t say that to be gross.” She holds up her hands. “It just came out. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“It’s good,” I manage. “The wine is very…good. Spice and, uh, stuff.”
Fuck me, this girl’s turned me into a blabbering idiot.
It’s her third day on the job. How mushy will my brain be after a week? A month?
A goddamn year?
“Hey, y’all! Can I come in?”
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