Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel Read online

A beat of uncomfortable silence blooms between the three of us, along with the scent of rosemary. The herb borders the path in pretty blue-green swaths, along with a riot of azaleas and a gigantic magnolia tree. From the service to the grounds, everything about Blue Mountain Farm is impeccable.

  Doesn’t hurt that it’s a beautiful spring day. It’s another warm afternoon in what’s been a remarkably mild winter. We never got the usual snowstorm or two we’ve come to expect, which makes me think we’re due for a thumper at some point.

  “Okay then.” Beau claps his hands together. “Emma, you up for a quick behind-the-scenes tour of The Barn Door? Then we’ll get you checked into your cottage.”

  “That would be great. I can’t wait to see this wine cellar I keep hearing about.”

  “My cellar. Stocked with my bottles.” Samuel sends a meaningful glance in his brother’s direction. “The ones I began collecting long before I was Blue Mountain’s food and wine director.”

  Ah. So he wants my job and he doesn’t think the resort needs me.

  Great.

  Rolling his eyes, Beau opens the door for me. “Excuse my brother. He’s still warming up to the idea of accepting much-needed help with our expanding programs. I promise he’ll see the light.”

  I move through the doorway. “By the way, I appreciate that not-so-little perk of y’all putting me up in a cottage. I won’t lie, I’m really excited about staying here for a couple of weeks. Beau, your resort is stunning.”

  “Of course. I wanted you to experience the farm as a guest so you can get a feel for the experience we’re trying to create. I’ll admit it’s also part of my shameless ploy to get you to stay, well, forever.”

  As a part of my signing package, Beau offered me the chance to stay in one of Blue Mountain Farm’s insanely luxurious cottages for a few weeks. Considering they go for north of two grand a night, I would’ve never been able to afford to stay here otherwise. As much as I love my loft back in Asheville, a twenty or so minute drive from here, I’m excited about the change of scenery. Especially when that scenery is some of the best in the Smokies.

  I take in the quiet of The Barn Door restaurant. It’s midafternoon on a Friday, and while a handful of diners linger over a late lunch, the place has the buzzy feel of a party about to begin. A small army of staff patrols the floor—front servers, busboys, a pair of hostesses.

  The impeccable décor is beautifully designed without being stiff or overstuffed. A pair of enormous fireplaces anchor each end of the space, and antique beams that look to be as old—and weathered—as the structure itself cover the soaring ceiling. Leather booths curl around tables covered in pristine white tablecloths with artfully mismatched flatware and broken-in wooden chairs. The sign at the resort’s entrance told me the farm has been here since the 1750s.

  The restaurant is a study in contrasts. The fine crystal glassware against the bohemian arrangements of purple and yellow wildflowers set out on each table. The smell of a smoker, something you’d find at a barbecue joint, against the briny, wet slate smell of a dozen oysters passing by on a server’s tray. The five-hundred-dollar bottle of California Cabernet on a table where a man and a woman are chowing down on fried chicken sandwiches.

  This is not my first time inside these hallowed walls. As one of Asheville’s many resident foodies, I couldn’t resist the siren call of Chef Katie Gates’s high-low combination of Southern classics with a decidedly down-home twist.

  But it is the first time I’m appreciating it as a project. A living, breathing entity whose story I get to help shape.

  A zippy little chill darts along my spine, lighting up my chest like an exclamation point.

  Yeah, I want this job. And I’m not going to let an entitled jackass like Samuel Beauregard keep me from getting it. Who knows? Maybe if I stick around long enough and dig my heels in deep enough, Samuel will call it quits and go live that cushy, pro-athlete retirement life. I imagine he’s got millions socked away.

  I just have to outlast him.

  Outsmart him.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I say. “Seriously, one of the most romantic and beautiful restaurants I’ve seen. Ever.”

  “Samuel,” Beau says, a note of warning in his tone. “Why don’t you give Emma the inside scoop on how The Barn Door came to be?”

  Samuel lets out an annoyed sigh. I glance to my right to see him standing on the other side of Beau. As far away from me as he can get.

  “What is there to explain?” Samuel rolls back his shoulders. “I came up with the concept, I executed it, and now I run it. Pretty fucking well too. Isn’t that right, Xavier?”

  The passing server offers us a smile, despite the fact that his tray is weighed down by a sizable beverage order. “It’s an honor to work at The Barn Door, sir.”

  I study Xavier’s face. It’s not that the server’s smile is fake, necessarily. It’s that it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Interesting.

  “What Samuel means to say”—Beau cuts his brother another look—“is that our family has lived on Blue Mountain for generations. We were known for many things—some of them great, some of them not so much—but one thing that always stood out was our Beauregard hospitality. Whoever visited the farm could count on a warm welcome and a square meal that stuck to your ribs. We’re biased, but our mama is the best cook in these parts, hands down. Daddy wasn’t so bad at breakfast, either. I inherited their good looks—”

  Samuel lets out a scoff.

  “While Samuel here inherited their love of sharing good food with good friends and family. So when the farm passed to us, we knew we wanted to continue that tradition.”

  “And so The Barn Door was born,” I say, glancing up at the beamed ceiling. “For y’all’s first restaurant, I have to say you absolutely killed it.”

  “Chef Katie’s killing it,” Beau replies. “As is our staff. We’re just along for the ride.”

  I like Beau. He’s got fame, and he’s got money, but he’s still humble. He’s not afraid to give praise where praise is due. He’s clearly a smart guy who’s surrounded himself with smart people.

  But Samuel doesn’t say a word. Just stands there in his lavender suit looking like a pissed-off, albeit finely sculpted, block of stone.

  “How about the wine list?” I say. “Let’s take a look at that.”

  Chapter Two

  Emma

  Beau looks at his brother. “Samuel?”

  With a heavy sigh, Samuel heads for the hostess stand. He comes back with a binder, its brown leather cover fashionably scuffed up like a well-loved pair of hunting boots.

  “Quite the bible y’all have.” I hold up the binder. The pages inside are a combined two, maybe two-and-a-half inches thick. I glance at Samuel before opening the cover. “So. What’s your gospel?”

  “My gospel?”

  “What’s your story? Why this wine”—I poke my finger into a page of pinot noir—“for this restaurant? The food you serve is second to none. It’s interesting, it’s innovative, and it’s got a great story to tell. How does this wine enhance that story? How does it deepen the meaning of a shared meal at a place like The Barn Door?”

  Samuel’s expression goes blank. Pink smudges appear on his cheekbones.

  I allow myself a small smile. I imagine not many people challenge him. He’s used to having his way, and he’s used to not having to explain why.

  I look forward to disabusing him of that habit.

  “The farm is and always has been a family place,” Samuel says, slipping his hands inside the front pockets of his trousers. “Our hospitality is the best of the best. I wanted our cellar to reflect that.”

  I keep flipping. Page after page of big name, big-ticket wines. “Best of the best. Right. I can definitely see you went that direction.”

  “You don’t sound impressed,” Beau says.

  “To be honest?” I glance up from the binder. “I’m not.”

  “That’s the biggest and best collection in the state,
if not the South. If you don’t get that it’s special, then you don’t get wine.” Samuel’s reply is cold. But his eyes are suddenly hot.

  “Bigger doesn’t always equal better,” I say.

  I shouldn’t take pleasure in pissing off the guy who has the power to make or break my future. Samuel is not only Blue Mountain’s food director but he’s also got a large ownership stake in the resort itself.

  All six members of the Beauregard family own and operate Blue Mountain Farm, a five-star resort in the Great Smoky Mountains. The brainchild of Beau, the oldest Beauregard brother who retired several years ago from a successful pro football career, the resort has been developed over the past five or so years to encompass luxurious guest accommodations, a spa, stables, a smokehouse, gardens, outdoor entertaining spaces, and the South’s most awarded new restaurant, The Barn Door.

  Unsurprisingly, Beau’s got plans to expand the resort even further. He hopes to build additional rooms, a sports complex, and another restaurant on the twenty acres of untouched land to the resort’s east. Meaning I could one day be wine director of not one top-notch, James Beard Award-winning restaurant, but two.

  Still, I can’t help engaging in a little sharp banter with Samuel. Could be the fact that I’m still a little keyed up from the exceptional cybersex I had with Blue last night. I thought he might just be another internet creeper with zero personality and even less imagination. But he was a pleasant surprise. Considering how lame my non-internet love and sex lives have been, the timing of our meeting couldn’t be more perfect. Blue gave me a much-needed dash of hope—hope that not every guy I meet, virtually or otherwise, will make me feel ridiculous for being who I am and liking what I like.

  I want more. I can’t wait for tomorrow night.

  A flicker of a smile moves over Samuel’s lips. They’re full and very pink against his dark reddish-brown scruff. “Course not. But when it’s big, and you know what you’re doing with it, it can be fucking magical.”

  If only he knew how far from the truth that misnomer is.

  I want to take his dirty pun and run with it. Show him I can be just as dirty, if not more so. Quicker and wittier too.

  But considering this is my first day on the job, I decide to rein in that impulse. I often think about what my hugely successful older sister, Lindsey, would do. Right now, she’d definitely continue being the consummate professional she is.

  “You know what’s magical? When you can blow a guest’s mind with a wine they’ve never heard of at a price point that doesn’t bankrupt them. When you tell them about the woman who grew the grapes and the four-year-old daughter who’s following in her footsteps, and the footsteps of her grandmother, and her great-grandfather. When you serve just the right bottle to just the right table and make it a night they’ll remember forever. Not because the wine cost so much, or because they get to brag about the label to their friends the next day at brunch, but because it made them think. It made them remember. Hope. Appreciate. It made them feel something.”

  Beau smiles. “She’s good.”

  Samuel just stares at me. I can’t read his eyes now. The weight of his undivided attention is intense and uncomfortable, but I stand my ground. If I’ve mastered one thing besides wine over the past decade, it’s resilience.

  I hold up the binder. “I think this list needs to say something other than ‘rich people eat here.’ Let’s tell a story. Let’s honor small producers, the winemakers who are taking risks and doing the hard work of making interesting wines. Let’s make wine approachable for everyone by taking the snobbery out of it. Let’s make people think, talk, and linger the way Chef Katie’s food does. Let’s do the hard work, Samuel.”

  Samuel is still staring. A muscle in his jaw tics.

  His intensity finally gets to be too much, and I look away. Glancing at Beau, I find the vote of confidence I need in his big, genuinely gleeful smile.

  “I love it,” he says.

  “I don’t,” Samuel growls.

  “I’m not saying you don’t have something special here,” I reply. “Or the beginnings of it, anyway. I’m just saying you’ve got a binder full of boring, unapproachable BSD wines.”

  He arches a brow. “BSD?”

  “Big swinging dick. Trophy wines.”

  Beau lets out a bark of laughter. “If that doesn’t describe you to a T, brother…”

  Samuel, however, doesn’t think it’s very funny. In fact, he looks downright murderous.

  “I’m outta here,” Samuel says.

  Beau slams the flat of his clipboard into his brother’s chest. “No, you’re not. You’re going to show Emma to her cottage, remember? Maybe give her a tour of the grounds on your way there. Emma, follow Samuel to the main house in your car. A valet will park it there for the remainder of your stay. Every residence has a golf cart, as they’re a more convenient way of getting around the resort.”

  Samuel glances at me. Glances at his brother.

  “No tour. I don’t have time,” he says at last. “Let’s go, Miss Crawford.”

  * * *

  I thought The Barn Door was peak magical-and-romantic-setting-straight-out-of-a-movie, but I was wrong.

  As I climb out of Samuel’s golf cart, my breath catches. A beautifully carved wooden gate with lush green vines crowding the stone posts on either end marks the beginning of a meandering pebbled pathway. At the end of the pathway is a storybook “cottage”—really, a decent-sized house—with cedar shake siding painted a smart shade of gray-black. Smoke curls from one of the massive stone chimneys (yes, there are several), and I can just glimpse an A-frame screened-in porch at the back of the house.

  The cozy smells of burning wood and pine trees hang heavy in the air.

  Not to mention the 360-degree views of the Blue Ridge mountains. It’s a clear day, so I can see for miles in every direction: swaths of bright green mountains beneath a flawless Carolina blue sky. The colors are so vibrant and the light so ardent, it makes my eyes water to take it all in.

  My heart twists with longing. This is it. Or could be, anyway.

  The good life.

  The life I was told over and over again didn’t exist for someone like me. An artist (of sorts), making a good living off her passion. Her art.

  How wonderful it would be to prove the world wrong.

  While my career path may be somewhat unconventional, my hopes and dreams aren’t. I want to own a home. I want to work at a job I love that also provides the stability I crave: a good salary, benefits that include health insurance and a retirement plan, and hours that aren’t insane. I began my career as a cellar rat at twenty-one, and I’ve been working restaurant hours (at an hourly wage) in the ten years since. The combination of seventy-hour weeks and night and weekend shifts has left me burned to a crisp.

  Never thought I’d say this, but I’d love a regular old nine-to-five job. And being director of Blue Mountain’s wine and beverage program affords me exactly that. Not at first, granted. I have to learn the ropes here at the restaurant, which means I’ll be on the floor more often than not. But Beau promised I’d eventually get that sweet eight-or-nine-hour workday.

  Climbing out of the golf cart, Samuel glances up the hill and lets out one of his aggrieved sighs.

  “What is it now?” I ask, meeting his eyes over the roof of the cart. “I had some pointers for your wine list. But I’m legit blown away by your resort. Y’all are clearly the experts there.”

  He grabs my tote bag and jacket from the back seat. “It’s nothing,” he grumbles, and starts walking toward the cottage.

  “I can carry that.” I scurry to catch up to him, our footsteps crunching on the pea gravel.

  “I got it,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on his feet.

  “Really, I—”

  “I said I got it.”

  I roll my lips between my teeth. “Thanks.”

  I put the key into the lock on the front door—no key cards at Blue Mountain; they use old-fashioned brass ones with g
orgeous silk tassels attached to them—and Samuel and I reach for the knob at the same time. The back of my hand collides with his palm, and we immediately pull back, like we’ve singed each other.

  “Sorry,” we blurt in tandem.

  “You always in the habit of not letting people help you?” he asks.

  “It’s not that I don’t let anyone help. It’s that I don’t expect it. Or need it.”

  He’s looking at me like that again—like he doesn’t know what to make of me.

  This time, I let him open the door for me. Samuel may be a jackass, but apparently he’s a jackass with manners. I’d say the combination intrigued me, but that seems like a bad precedent to set.

  I devour things that intrigue me. Wine. Books. Men.

  Samuel isn’t available for me to devour. Not in the naked sense, anyway.

  Still, my nipples prick to life as Samuel’s gaze follows me inside. The heat of it pins a circle to my back as warmth seeps through my blazer and into my skin.

  A target.

  Angling my body away from him, I gape at the impeccably furnished room that opens up just off the cottage’s entrance.

  It’s a large open-concept kitchen/breakfast nook/family room combination with high ceilings clad in reclaimed wood. A fire blazes in the fireplace on the farthest wall. Cozy sofas and armchairs surround a leather ottoman nearby while an antique metal lantern holds court just above a TV hidden in a painted bookshelf. A big wooden dining table, presumably for those family meals Beau was talking about, is set in front of the kitchen island.

  The kitchen. I don’t have time to cook, but if I did, I’d want to do it in there.

  An industrial-style range, complete with six burners, a griddle, and two ovens, is set into a wall of gleaming white tile. Copper pots of every shape and size hang from strips of brass set into the tile. Cushy upholstered barstools line one side of the island.

  Through a doorway to my right, I glimpse a massive four-poster king-sized bed. It’s made up with crisp white linens, a fluffy duvet, and a small mountain of even fluffier pillows.