Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  “Why?”

  “Because I won’t have you living off garbage protein bars when you’re on our farm.” I intentionally use the word our. Judging by the way Emma’s eyes flick up to meet mine, she notices. “I’d like to feed you proper food. I made short ribs in pecan-bourbon sauce, my mama’s collards with bacon and butter, and, because I know you’re curious, my famous cornbread.”

  Her lips twitch. I love it when they do that. “You make it extra you-know-what?”

  “For you? Always.”

  Rhett barks with laughter. “Who are you, and why don’t I know you yet?”

  “I’m Emma.” She extends her hand. “You must be Rhett.”

  “Yes, ma’am. So, about this cornbread—”

  “We should be going,” I say, cutting my brother a warning glance. “I don’t want to interrupt your plans for the evening, Emma. Everything here is warm and ready to eat.”

  We load up Emma’s arms. Rhett, actually being wise again, heads for the truck, leaving me alone with Emma on her porch.

  I don’t waste a second. Sliding my hands into the front pockets of my jeans, I say, “My turn to apologize. I am so fucking sorry about last night. I acted a fool, and I have no excuse. Baiting you like that, using your apology against you that way—it was wrong, stupid, and mean, and I feel horrible about hurting you. I’m sorry, Emma. Really, truly sorry.”

  Moving in the right direction feels like giving Emma time to absorb what I’m saying. Time to respond. So I let uncomfortable silence bloom between us, melting into a Wicked Witch of the West puddle inside while trying my damnedest to keep it together on the outside.

  She’s studying me with a thoughtful expression on her face, like she wants to ask me more probing questions. Deeper ones. Like why I acted the way I did.

  A part of me yearns for questions like that.

  Another part wants to run from them. What if I don’t like the answers? What if they push me up against something I’m only just now learning to let myself have?

  “You were awful,” she finally says. “That stunt you pulled was shitty in the extreme. And the things you said…”

  I reach out and take the collards back. All this shit is heavy, and she shouldn’t have to carry it alone while I beg for her forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t take them back, but I would if I could. You’re not annoying, and you’re not a pain in the ass. You’re just doing your job. Doing it really fucking well, might I add. After seeing you in action at the restaurant and at the Charleston Heat event…Emma, you’re remarkable.”

  She’s staring at me, eyes full. “Thanks. I appreciate you saying that.”

  “I understand if you can’t forgive me. I crossed so many lines.”

  “We. We crossed those lines. Yesterday—” She shakes her head, blinking against the way the light glints of the tin foil covering the collards in her hand. “None of that was supposed to happen, Samuel. The stuff on the smoking patio. And then at your house. I make it a point never to engage in personal relationships with coworkers. From my experience, it never ends well.” She looks up at me. “Can we agree to keep things professional going forward?”

  The fierceness of the disappointment that grips my heart and squeezes takes me off guard. She’s right.

  She’s calling me Samuel. Goddammit, I love her smile, and I love the sound of my name on her lips.

  See, this is where I get tripped up. Rationally, it makes perfect sense for us to maintain a strictly professional relationship. But if I’m being honest—I’m really trying hard to be honest here—I want more.

  Is it possible to have it bad for two people at once?

  Because now that I’m on Emma’s front step, her brown eyes on my face and her hair fluttering in the breeze, I realize just how right Rhett is. I do have it bad for Emma. But now more than ever, I need to keep my crush in check and my dick in my pants. Emma is right—relationships between fellow employees rarely work out.

  Emma can be my friend. Just a friend.

  I tell myself I’m okay with that.

  “Absolutely,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you happy and keep you around.”

  Her eyes flicker with surprise. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Yes. Emma, I want to try to work together as co-heads of Blue Mountain’s wine and food programs. Yesterday, you convinced me you really are a team player. Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

  “Wow.” She crosses an arm awkwardly over her chest. “You must feel really bad if you’re not only willing to give me a chance, but you’ve come to offer that chance in person. With a side of some pretty sweet food.”

  “I’m giving you a chance because you deserve it.”

  She eyes me. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  The idea pops into my head, and it feels right. I’m sick of feeling like the bad guy, so I go with it. “Let me prove it to you. Come to Sunday supper. My family gets together at the same time every week to catch up. We talk a little shop, but more than that, we talk shit about each other. Since you’ll hopefully be staying at the farm for a while, join the gossip fest. That way you can really get to know everyone. I’m running the risk they’ll scare you off, but”—I shrug—“sometimes my family can be cool. Sometimes.”

  Emma smiles.

  A real smile that lights up her eyes and rearranges the soft parts inside my chest.

  God, she’s gorgeous when she’s relaxed.

  “Your family is something else. I’d love to,” she replies. She holds up the cornbread. “Should I bring the food back to your place then?”

  I wave her away. “Nah, I always make enough to feed an army. Keep that stuff for the rest of the week. So help me God, if I hear about you eating another protein bar, we’ll be having words, you hear?”

  She bites her lip, and I have to shove my hand back in my pocket to keep from reaching for her. “I’ll consider it, yes.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “All right,” I say.

  “Okay,” she replies.

  “Five o’clock at Beau’s place. It’s the brown house a little ways up the hill—can’t miss it. I’ve gotta go grab everything from my house, but I can give you a ride if you want?”

  “I’ll walk, thanks. And yes, I’ll watch out for your favorite bears, David and Eddie.”

  I turn and find Rhett practically hanging out the truck’s open window with wide eyes and a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Shut up,” I say, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  He holds up his hands. “I didn’t say a damn thing.”

  “Yeah, well, I know what you’re thinking.”

  “How’d you know what I’m thinking?”

  “Because I’m thinking it too.” I turn the key in the ignition and the car roars to life. “But she requested that we keep things professional—”

  “Bummer.”

  “So my official line is that I invited her to supper so she can get to know the family she’ll be working with a little better.”

  Rhett raises his brows. “And you’re okay with that?”

  “Doesn’t matter if I’m okay with it or not. It is what it is.”

  “God, I hate that expression.”

  “Me too.” I put the truck in park. “Remind me to bring the bourbon. I’m gonna need it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emma

  I’d equate the decibel level inside Beau’s house to a live Van Halen show.

  Granted, I’m too young to have ever actually been to a Van Halen show. But this is exactly what I’d imagine it would sound like in a stadium circa 1986.

  There’s a high-pitched scream coming from the back of the house. Someone in the dining room to my right is calling someone else a stupid shithead.

  The homey smell of a meal in the oven is everywhere. My stomach rumbles. I’m hungry.

  Per Samuel’s request, I’ve let myself into Beau’s house. Bottle of wine in ha
nd—I brought the Riesling that knocked Samuel on his ass—I make my way inside.

  The scream gets louder. There’s a bang. A shout.

  I smooth back my hair and wonder for the eightieth time if this was a bad idea. I need to see Samuel outside work like I need a hole in my head. But how could I say no when he showed up at my door with a feast in his hands and this contrition in his eyes that was so sheepish and shy it had to be genuine?

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m still mad as hell at him for what he did. I’m still hurt by the things he said. But I snuck a taste of the short ribs and cornbread, and let me just say his apology is definitely on the right track.

  I also really do want to get to know the Beauregards. I hope they’ll be my employers for a long time to come, so getting in a little face time can’t hurt.

  “Emma!” Milly rounds a corner and wraps me in a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. When Samuel told us he invited you—”

  “We all nearly shit a brick because we were so surprised,” Hank adds, appearing at his sister’s side. “Hey, Emma. We’re really, really glad you came. I’ll take your jacket.”

  An older woman with Samuel’s blue eyes hands me a rocks glass. “And I’ll give you a cocktail, just because. It’s Samuel’s whiskey sour. Welcome, Emma. I’m June Beauregard. You wouldn’t know it from their dirty mouths and less-than-stellar manners, but these are my children. I tried, I really did.”

  I smile, a rush of warmth flaring to life in my cheeks even as the chill of the glass seeps through my palm. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Beauregard. Thanks for the cocktail, and for having me. Judging by the work your kids have done on Blue Mountain Farm, I’d say you did a pretty solid job raising them.”

  “We’ll see if you feel that way after supper.” She tilts her head. “Come on back to the porch. Everyone’s here. And please, call me June.”

  It’s all I can do not to gawk at Beau’s house as we pass through it. It’s just as impressive as Samuel’s, only on a smaller scale. It’s tastefully rustic and beautifully furnished with shiplap walls, beamed ceilings, and a curated collection of art that had to have cost more than what I’ve made in the past decade.

  I’ve been around wealth before. But the Beauregards are a whole new level of loaded.

  It’s the view that’s the real star of Beau’s house. When I step out onto the massive back porch, the breath leaves my lungs. The house is set on top of a ridge, affording it a sweeping view of the mountains beyond. Purple peaks and green valleys undulate against a backdrop of fiery sunset. The sky is spotless and the air is crisp, and I take it all in, reminding myself that while life may be a bit of a clusterfuck right now, at least I have this.

  This is where I get to come to work every day.

  The porch spans the length of the house. A fire crackles merrily in the gigantic fireplace at one end, the scent of burning logs about as cozy as it gets. I scan the faces of the people who sit by the fire in rocking chairs and on a sleek sectional sofa. My heart falls when I don’t see Samuel.

  I say hello to Rhett. He’s got the Beauregard blue eyes and biceps, and he’s got Samuel’s swagger.

  I shouldn’t like that about him. But I do.

  “Emma!” Beau smiles when he sees me and gets up from his seat. A tiny baby is nestled in the cradle of his arm. “Not gonna lie, I half expected you to be on your way back to Asheville by now. I’m glad—and relieved, so damn relieved—you’ve stayed.”

  “I’m glad too.” I grin at the baby. “And how is Miss Maisie doing today?”

  Annabel sidles up to Beau, resting her head on his shoulder. He turns his head and presses a kiss to her temple. “She slept nine hours last night, so we’re all happy campers today. It’s great to see you, Emma. Work going okay?”

  I met Annabel and Maisie when they recently dined at the restaurant. I know she and Beau call each other friends, but judging by the way Beau’s looking at her, hearts practically popping out of his eyes, I’m guessing they’re more than that.

  My grin tightens. “Work is going well, thanks. Samuel and I had our first event together yesterday, and I’m really proud of how it turned out.”

  Beau taps his glass to mine. “As you should be. I ran into Eli Jackson this morning, and he said it was hands down the best meal he’s had all year. Y’all absolutely killed it. Now if the two of us can just refrain from actually killing my brother, we just might have a win on our hands.”

  “Y’all talking shit about me again?”

  Samuel appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He’s wearing the same jeans and ivory sweater as before.

  And just like before, he looks really fucking good.

  As I take him in, my stomach bottoms out. He fills out the sweater to perfection, looking like an especially beefy Ralph Lauren model. Because I’m clearly a pervert with no self-control, my eyes flick to the fly of his jeans. I remember the shape and size of his dick in my hand. How he growled when I tugged the velvety skin back and forth, his eyes going hazy.

  At that moment, I had him. He was mine. I felt powerful and beautiful and in control.

  “Hey, Emma,” he says.

  Honestly, why do my nipples get hard every time he says my name?

  I cross my arms. Samuel watches me do it, his eyes flashing darkly.

  “If you didn’t want us to talk shit about you,” I say, “then you should behave yourself.”

  “Good luck,” June says, taking the baby from Beau. “I’ve been trying to get him to behave for thirty-five years.”

  The number catches inside my head. Samuel and Blue are the same age. Go figure. Maybe the fact that they were born under the same star or something explains why I’m insanely attracted to both of them.

  “If I behaved, I’d be boring, and y’all would like that even less.”

  “I’d take boring over boorish.”

  “I’d take bossy over boring,” he replies steadily, “but you already know that.”

  A tingly, almost glittery rush fills my skin. He’s being honest, and it’s so damn hot. As hot as the fact that he really does like to be bossed around. The kind of bossing I like to do.

  But so does Blue. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Just because he’s out of sight doesn’t mean he has to be out of mind.

  It’s just hard to think about someone I’ve never met when Samuel Beauregard’s eyes are on my face.

  I try to remember what a jerk he was last night. The things he said and how awful they made me feel.

  Annabel looks between Samuel and me, a knowing grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You two seem to be equally matched. Conversationally speaking, anyway. Which makes you very fun to watch.”

  “We’re here for your enjoyment.” Samuel keeps his eyes on me. “I’d love your help with the wine, Emma. I brought a few options and I can’t decide what would work best with the short ribs. I was thinking a Merlot, but then I just got this Amarone—”

  “I love Amarone!”

  He grins. “Thought you might, you grape weirdo. C’mon, let’s give it a try.”

  I follow him inside, the tingles growing stronger as my eyes rove over the expanse of his back. Heaven above, the way the muscles there press against his sweater, how they move—

  I close my eyes.

  Remember he was a jerk.

  Remember you made him promise to keep it professional.

  If only my body would get the memo. But that’s difficult when this man has given me, hands down, the best orgasm of my life not by my own hand. I had no idea I could come so hard with someone else.

  Ugh, can’t go there. I’m at Sunday supper. There will be absolutely no thoughts of orgasms or penises in hand or fucking gorgeous bodies.

  None. Zero. Zilch.

  We head into the kitchen as I try to get a grip on my raging libido. I pause on the threshold, heart beginning to pound as I take it all in.

  The island is covered in cutting boards and casseroles. The skins of onions, c
arrot peels, and a freshly grated mound of cheddar cheese crowd a large cutting board. Something bubbles in a pot on the stove; the oven lights are on, and I can just glimpse an enormous cast-iron pot through the door.

  The smell is insane. Butter and braised meat and the starchy-sweet smell of roasted vegetables.

  Samuel navigates the fray effortlessly. Pointing me toward the case of wine set on the far countertop, he lifts the lid on the pot and gives whatever’s bubbling a whisk. Then he grabs the knife on the cutting board and gives a bunch of parsley a quick, expert chop, the muscles in his massive forearm flexing as he moves.

  “You always cook for Sunday supper?” I ask.

  “Yup. Everyone pitches in, but I don’t mind doing the heavy lifting. It’s fun cooking for a crowd. It’s also relaxing. After brunch service on Sundays, I go home, throw on some jeans and a playlist, pour a glass of something good, and then get to work.”

  I decant the Amarone in a daze, stuck on the way his hands look as they gather the cheese mountain and dump it in the pot.

  “What’s that?” I ask, nearly losing an eye in my effort to uncork a second bottle. I pour myself a taste. Amarone is an Italian grape known for its raisin, candied fruit deliciousness. It’s been around for a while but has only appeared on menus here in the States in the past couple of years.

  This one delivers in a big way.

  “The cheesiest, butteriest, most decadent grits you’re ever gonna have in your life. That guy Luke at yesterday’s luncheon, he brought a whole truck’s worth of his grits up with him. Eli gave me some pointers on how to cook ’em.” He whisks in the cheese. “Also, Annabel’s nursing the baby, which apparently makes her really hungry. I thought some old-fashioned, stick-to-your-ribs grits would be good for her. For you too. When you’re on your feet all day like we are, you gotta eat. It’s a good way to start the week. Plus, grits’ll go real nice with the gravy from the short ribs. I put a little brown sugar in the gravy to make it the tiniest bit sweet. That sweet and savory combo—or, should I say, that Albariño and ham croqueta combo—well, it’s fuckin’ ridiculous.”