“Hey. Really good socarrat is a great way to enhance sobre mesa. Which, coincidentally, happens to be my favorite thing in life. Well”—I smirk—“my second favorite, but you get the idea.”
She arches a brow. “Damn, Beauregard, bringing out the big guns today.”
“Told you I’m good at this.”
“You’re the best.” She meets my eyes. “Same as I’m the best at wine. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t sobre mesa the art of conversation over a meal? The way people connect and talk and, yeah, basically touch the divine while lingering over dinner?”
“It’s a lost art here in the States, and one I’d love to bring back.”
She pauses. The heat of her gaze coats my entire left side in this buzzy, prickly warmth. I’ve had women stare at me. A lot. Nothing new here. Except—
Except Emma’s attention gives me sense of pride. I’ve worked hard to get where I am today, just like I worked hard on the field. But right now, I’m being acknowledged for my work in this world, at this event.
It’s pretty fucking great.
“You do know that staring is rude, right?” I manage. When what I really want to ask is Will you let me make you a meal so I can show you how nourishing real food can be?
Speaking of getting crushed. A voice in my head screams no over and over again.
I listen. For now.
“You’re full of surprises, Beauregard.” I hear her smile in her voice. “And you know what the essential requirement for a solid sobre mesa is, right?”
“A pack of cheap French cigarettes. Obviously.”
She’s struggling with the wine tool again now that her thumb is tender. Wordlessly I take the tool and the bottle, the fingers of her gloved hand touching mine as she lets me take over. I curse the glove for being there because I want her skin. Her alive-ness, if that’s even a word, because I’m suddenly feeling achingly alive myself.
“Well, obviously that, yes. But honesty too. A willingness to dig deep and bare your soul.”
Pulling out a cork, I nod at the table. “Go see what seven wants to do about a refill. His glass is empty.”
“On it.”
She pours. I feed. Halfway through the next course she’s beside me again. Before I can move to get out of the way, she’s ducking underneath my arms again and shooting me a saucy, happy, satisfied grin. When the decanter I’m pouring from is empty, she’s at my side with a full one ready to go.
I thank her, and she shimmies.
The girl fucking shimmies, a barely-there shake of her hips that’s as playful as it is effortless.
No way putting myself out there is making her feel giddy too?
No fucking way.
Still, I can’t help thinking that Emma could easily edge me out. Elbow me aside, roll her eyes, grab things out of my hand.
Instead, she’s literally dancing while helping me out. Encouraging me. Injecting this heady sense of joy in what would otherwise be a routine luncheon at Blue Mountain Farm.
I suddenly feel like the world’s biggest asshat for behaving the way I have this week.
Someone else who’s a complete asshat? The guy at fourteen. From the gleam of thirst in his eyes, he witnessed Emma’s shimmy, and he very much enjoyed the view.
Emma notices him noticing. Her mirth fades. My grip on the decanter tightens. Hers is empty. I run for a full one and hand it to her. She moves to take it, but I keep my hold on it firm.
“I’ll ask him to leave,” I murmur.
She shakes her head. “Don’t. The meal is almost over. Hopefully, his friends will take him home and let him sleep it off. No need to cause a scene.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “He’s the one who’s making a scene.”
“I don’t disagree. But we’re almost at the finish line, and I really want this event to be a home run for everybody. If he becomes a real problem, I’ll let you know, all right? I’ll pull on my ear or something. I don’t need you playing Batman on my behalf.”
“I’m more of an Iron Man.”
“So I’ve been told. I got this.”
Without waiting for a reply, she dives back in. I make up some bullshit about letting the wine in my decanter breathe for an extra minute, giving me the excuse to stand watch over the table.
But the only person I watch is Emma.
I may be protective, but I never get protective over girls I’ve just met, and I definitely don’t get possessive.
But I feel a surge of both as I watch Emma approach the guy. She expertly trades her decanter for a pitcher of water from a passing server. Holding her body away from him, she tops off his water glass. He turns his head to look at her, and my pulse kicks up a notch when he lifts his empty wineglass, asking for more Rioja.
Emma politely but firmly refuses the request, suggesting a coffee instead.
That’s when shit hits the fan. The guy digs a dollar bill out of his wallet, and he tucks it into Emma’s lapel.
Somehow my spidey senses kick in, and I’m able to hear him say, “For your services. Because that’s how much they’re worth. A wine expert? What a joke. You may wear your little Lois Lane suit, but I think we all know what your real job is here. Which, yeah”—his gaze rakes over her curves—“I’ll pay more than a dollar for that.”
She stiffens, her cheeks burning pink.
But I see red. Is no one else catching this? The rest of the table is absorbed in other conversations. Every so often, Eli will shoot the guy a warning glance, but then someone tugs on his sleeve or calls his name, and he gets distracted.
I stare at Emma, silently begging her to look at me, to give me permission to suit up and kick some bad-guy ass. But she asked me not to intervene unless she gave me the signal. She’s been so considerate today—all week—and returning that favor is the least I can do.
It goes against my every impulse, though. I set down the decanter I’m holding because I’m squeezing it so hard I’m worried it’ll shatter. Emma steps back so that she’s out of fourteen’s reach. His hand falls and so does his face.
She removes the dollar bill from her lapel and slides it onto the table beside his plate.
“Trust me when I say you need that coffee now, sir,” Emma replies steadily. I watch, pulse pounding, as Emma turns and heads to the back of the pavilion. She sets down the pitcher at the service station and slips out of the side entrance, which leads to the smoking patio.
My stomach drops. I may only have known the woman for a week, but I can already tell tucking tail and running isn’t like her.
Fourteen’s clearly hit on a soft spot.
My feet move before my mind does. I don’t know what I’m going to do or how I’m going to fix this or even if me following Emma outside is the right move. What if she just wants to be left alone?
But I do know I can’t let some dickhead make her feel like an idiot for being real.
For being herself. Because now I understand the kind of bravery that takes.
Chapter Thirteen
Emma
I know better than to let that douchebag get under my skin.
I’m thirty-one years old, for crying out loud. I’ve been in this business for almost a decade. Drunk assholes poking fun at who I am and what I do is nothing new. Usually, I can let their comments, their looks, roll right off my back. I’m good at my job. I’m passionate about it and proud of what I’ve accomplished.
But today’s barbs are sticking. Maybe because something is going down between Samuel and me, something good and real and important, and it’s got me feeling soft and mushy. He’s opening up in a way he hasn’t before, and it’s incredibly satisfying to see how the Charleston Heat guests are connecting with that.
His vulnerability is making my own that much more poignant. That much softer. And since I’m so soft, this guy’s jabs land hard.
What if this profession is a joke?
What if I never make it because finding success as a sommelier only happens for a chosen few?
What
if I’m trying too hard?
Eyes burning, I make a beeline for the smoking patio.
A forest of nearby oak and pine trees cast the patio in shadow. The patio itself is set into a hill, bordered on one side with a tall retaining wall made of stone. Rocking chairs and upholstered benches face the unbelievable view. The cocktail tables between them are set with brass ashtrays and matching cigar cutters.
It’s chilly, but the air feels good against my skin. Putting my hands on my face, I feel the literal burn of embarrassment. I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath, loosening the knot in my throat ever so slightly.
There’s no crying in the wine expert world. In theory, at least. It’s unprofessional, and it does nothing except embarrass whoever’s doing it.
I haven’t cried at work since I failed phase two of the Master Sommelier certification test five years ago. Once I passed on the second try and landed the enviable possession of head sommelier at one of Asheville’s top restaurants, I thought I was finally past the hysterics-in-the-bathroom-during-break phase.
Guess I was wrong.
“He’s wrong.” The rumble of Samuel’s voice makes my nipples harden. I look up and there he is, crowding out the late afternoon sky.
Is he reading my mind?
His voice is rough, but his eyes are soft.
“Clearly, I’m a fan of a well-tailored suit.” He gives his lapels a tug. “While yours are not as awesome as mine, I happen to think they’re less Lois Lane and more Sex and the City Samantha.”
My lips twitch, and my throat loosens some more. “You watch Sex and the City?”
“Fuck yeah, I do. Samantha happens to be my favorite.”
“Mine too.”
“Go figure. Probably why you dress like the lovechild of her and a…librarian.”
I laugh. Samuel’s eyes smile as they search mine, and my heart does this lovely fluttering thing inside my chest.
“Point being, you’re not ridiculous. That guy was. You put on one hell of a show today.”
My thoughts scatter. Samuel is actually complimenting me. With actual words he’s actually speaking out loud.
My hand rests against my thigh, and I pinch myself there, just to make sure this isn’t some kind of stress-induced hallucination. Today’s been wildly, unbelievably great. So great that my natural optimism is threaded with a strand of bright red doubt.
When, exactly, is the other shoe going to drop?
“What I do is not a show,” I manage. “It’s a job.”
He holds up his hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I blink. Too startled to say anything else, I reply, “Thanks.”
He shoots his cuffs. Picks at an invisible speck of lint on his sleeve, averting his gaze. “And while I’m being all confessional and shit, I happen to think it’s a job you fucking annihilated. You know it, I know it, even that dickbag knows it. He acted a fool because he’s not used to your kind of greatness.”
I arch a brow, even as that fluttering inside my chest intensifies. “Sounds familiar.”
“Hey. We’re here to talk about you, not—”
Samuel twists at the sound of a voice behind us. Peeking around the bulk of his body, I see said dickbag spilling out of the pavilion. His eyes lock on me, and his gaze lights up with something sharp and lewd.
It lodges an ice pick of fear inside my breastbone.
Not thinking, I grab Samuel’s arm. A charge rips through me—longing? embarrassment?—and I quickly pull back my hand.
I square my shoulders, not daring to look at Samuel, and scramble to give myself a pep talk so I stand tall in front of this jerk. I won’t allow myself to cower.
But before I even open my mouth, Samuel reaches back and puts his hand on my right hip. My body ignites at the contact, fire mingling with the fear in my veins. When he gently guides me to stand behind the shield of his body, my heart turns over.
That is definitely not embarrassment.
He keeps protecting me, and I don’t know what the hell to make of it.
His fingers remain on my hip as I breathe in the breadth of him. I have never felt so small.
I’ve also never felt so safe. I resist the urge to put my hands on the small of his back and melt into his body. How good would it feel, to touch another human being and be touched in return? It’s been so damn long.
His skin. I can smell it. Clean. A hint of spice, probably from the soap he uses.
The tiny space between my front and his back comes alive. My nose is an inch from his spine. My hips brush his backside with every breath I take. I could step back. I should step back.
Instead, I stand very still, caught in his gravity. The determined throb inside my skin coexists with the softness in my core. It’s bewildering.
It’s also somehow…affirming? The fear pounding through me fades. I don’t need to be protected. But having someone on my side definitely helps me feel less afraid.
It makes me feel emboldened.
Samuel tilts his head to one side, then the other, making the sinews in his neck pop against the skin.
It’s a fuck off signal if I ever saw one.
“Can I help you?” Samuel clips.
The guy draws up short. He eyes us, debating what his next move should be.
“Sir?” Samuel says. “I’m happy to escort you back to your room.”
“No,” he replies. “No, I’m good. I was coming out here to smoke.” He pats the front of his pants. “Shit, I’m out of cigarettes. Never mind then.”
I move to stand next to Samuel. His hand is still on my hip, arm extended across my torso.
I glance up at him. His eyes meet mine, and he dips his head in a barely perceptible nod. Go for it.
He wants me to take the lead. The idea that he’s bending, that he’s trusting me, sends a bolt of arousal through my center, as bright and fast as lightning.
“You know what’s a joke?” I ask, turning back to fourteen. “Smoking. You may think what I do is ridiculous, but at least it doesn’t kill me.”
The guy has the balls to narrow his eyes at me.
“Whatever,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets.
I stare him down. “No, not ‘whatever.’ You insulted me this afternoon, and you made our other guests uncomfortable. Continue this behavior and I won’t hesitate to ask you to leave the resort. Understood?”
A flush of embarrassment spreads across his cheeks. He looks away.
Looks downright sheepish. I bite back a grin.
“I’m done here,” he says at last.
“You should’ve been done hours ago,” I reply. “Good evening.”
Samuel and I watch fourteen make his way around the pavilion toward the main house.
And then he’s gone.
Without thinking I drop my head against Samuel’s shoulder, the fabric of his suit jacket silky smooth against my skin. I take a long, deep breath, closing my eyes as I try to gather myself.
He smells so damn good.
My knee joints liquify. My heart hammers. My body is hollowed out and hungry.
Hungry for more of this. Touch. Electricity. Safety.
“I know David only likes babies,” I manage. “But maybe Eddie has a thing for dickheads.”
Samuel’s massive shoulders shake as he laughs. I lift my head to find him looking at me.
Our eyes lock, and a beat of very real heat passes between us.
He holds up his free hand, the first two fingers crossed. “Let’s hope so. You okay?”
“I am. You?”
“I’ll be better when he’s gone for good.”
His fingers flex against my hip. I feel them around my heart. Squeezing. Probing.
I look down. Samuel is still touching me.
And somehow my hand is on his forearm, the heat of his body seeping into my own.
His eyes go hazy, and he turns around to face me.
He’s standing close. Really close.
The fantasy blooms to life
inside my head. I imagine him stepping into me, bold and unhurried, using the bulk of his body to plaster mine against the retaining wall. The feel of the stones bite into my back through my silk shirt. He puts one hand on the wall beside my head. The other he curls around my waist, just underneath my bra, and holds me against him, everything from my navel to my knees melting into his groin.
Heaviness gathers between my legs.
I imagine he ducks his head and puts his mouth on my neck. My head falls to the side, my breath coming in hot pants, as that heaviness throbs.
Yes.
My God, yes.
His teeth nick my skin, sharp and slow and arousing as fuck. He soothes the spot with his tongue, then his lips. His scruff is scratchy, but I like the sound it makes against my throat as he moves. He’s not hard, not yet, but I still wonder what it would feel like. The crown of his erection thrust just where I want it, teasing my clit through our clothes.
I blink and the fantasy dissipates.
The arousal between my legs does not.
For the first time, I wonder if I bit off more than I can chew by coming up here.
Maybe this job—this man and this place—are more than I can handle.
“What are you thinking about when that happens?” Samuel asks. His voice is rougher than before.
“When what happens?”
“Your eyes.” He searches them, his own alive with interest. “They’re different. They…I don’t know, darken or some shit. Makes me think—”
Think what?
I have to get out of here. Now.
“Thank you,” I say, ignoring his question. “For the assist.”
He pauses. For a horrible second, I think he’s going to press me to answer. But then he smooths his expression and says, “You were the one with the killer lines and the determination. I just provided the muscle. Between your wine know-how and your smart mouth, I think it’s fair to say you were the one who saved the day.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “Does that make you the damsel?”
“I guess it does, yeah. Or maybe I was the damsel, but you were both the knight and the one in distress. The knight in distress.” His eyes bore into mine. I get the feeling he hasn’t finished that thought.
Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel Page 11