Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel Page 3

  The whole place is chic and comfortable, and it clearly cost a fortune to construct and decorate.

  It’s a dream.

  If only I didn’t have a glowering beast of a man beside me, intent to take me out.

  I look at him. He looks back.

  No use beating around the bush. The guy is being a total jerk, but we need to work together. Time to smooth out the kinks.

  Chapter Three

  Samuel

  “You don’t want me here.” Emma crosses her arms. “I have a good idea why, but I want to hear it from you.”

  On the outside, this little scrap of a girl is buttoned up.

  She’s wearing a prim black suit and low, sensible heels. Even with some help, she barely comes up to my chest. Her dark blond hair is coiled in a tight bun at the crown of her head, and she wears no jewelry save for the pearl studs in her ears.

  But she’s got this raspy, smoky, phone sex voice that’s completely at odds with the bun and the pearls.

  Fuck me. This is exactly what I don’t need, a hate-boner for the sommelier I’m determined to kick to the curb. I know a threat when I see one. And Emma’s got that gleam in her eye. That hunger for more. For bigger and better.

  For knowledge.

  I’ll be damned if I let her know me.

  “I don’t want you here because I don’t need you. I’m really fucking good at my job. One of the best in the business, if that James Beard Award is any indication.”

  “That award was for your chef.”

  “One, Chef Katie is amazingly talented, but I’m the one who came up with the restaurant and food concept at The Barn Door. She takes my ideas and runs with them—she likes the challenge, and she always delivers. And two, what about the other awards? Bon Appetit? And the World’s Fifty Best List? Those were for the restaurant. You know, the one I conceptualized from soup to nuts and now run.”

  She crosses her arms, wearing a smug expression on her face.

  “You’re good at your job. So what? If you really loved the restaurant, and really believed that story y’all were telling me about family and food and hospitality, you’d welcome expertise like mine, not insult it. What are you afraid of?”

  I stare at her. I keep doing that, I just—Christ, I haven’t been around this kind of radical, balls-out honesty in a long time.

  No one questions me.

  No one digs the way she’s digging. I make it a point to be the ballbuster so people don’t have the chance to return the favor.

  But Miss Crawford? She beat me to the punch.

  I don’t want to like the curiosity in her eyes. Because curiosity means she’s going to keep digging.

  It means she cares. Makes the hollow inside my chest hurt.

  “I’ve worked my ass off to learn a whole new field after I retired,” I grind out. “I started from scratch and took a lot of lumps along the way. But I did it for my family, and I’m damn proud of what we’ve built here. I’m proud of my cellar, and I know if I give you an inch of it, you’ll take a mile.”

  “Our cellar. The resort’s. And I’ll take what I’m entitled to.”

  “It’s mine. I spent a decade building it, and I’m not about to turn over the keys to a stranger. We don’t need change. We need to keep doing what we’ve been doing—crushing it, in other words.”

  It’s not the whole truth. But it’s not a total lie, either.

  “Stranger? I’ve known Beau for years.”

  “A stranger to the family.”

  “Right. But that doesn’t explain why you keep working even though you seem to think the cellar is set. You obviously don’t need the money.” Her eyes flick to the watch on my wrist. “Why not ride off into the sunset and live on a yacht with Jennifer Lopez?”

  My brother Hank strolls into the room, Emma’s sensible black suitcases in hand.

  “Because he enjoys being a pain in all our asses too much,” he says with a smile. He sets down a suitcase and extends his hand. “I’m Hank, Beauregard brother number three. Welcome to Blue Mountain. I’ve heard so much about you—Beau’s seriously impressed with your grape juice skills.”

  Emma takes his hand and laughs. The ache in my chest tightens. What in the world?

  I’m just exhausted. Yeah. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. When you work night and day like I do, weird stuff can happen to your body.

  “Hank,” Emma says. “I like you already.”

  “I’m the best of the bunch.” Hank glances at me. “But it looks like I don’t need to tell you that.”

  “Thanks for bringing my luggage over.”

  “Thank you for being the brave guest who stays in Pinehill Cottage.”

  Emma furrows her brow.

  “It’s the cottage closest to Samuel’s house,” Hank explains. “You’re practically in Broody Batman’s backyard.”

  Emma’s eyes dart to my face. I run a hand over my scruff, averting my gaze.

  Enough. I’ve had enough of her questions and her curiosity. I should go.

  I need to go.

  But I find myself rooted to the spot, two feet from where she’s resting a stockinged knee on the arm of a chair. The image pops into my head and stays there: her slowly rolling her stockings down, revealing bare skin. I take that knee in my mouth. Bite down. She slaps me.

  I blink.

  Holy shit that’s a bad case of wires crossing. Probably because I haven’t stopped thinking about last night. I’m the first to admit I’m no angel. I like casual sex. Or used to, anyway. It’s just gotten a little boring lately. I haven’t liked the way it’s made me feel. It’s not guilt or shame that haunts me the morning after. It’s more…loneliness, I guess. There’s this voice in the back of my head that always wonders if a girl is coming home with me because she enjoys my company, or because she just wants to fuck an athlete.

  Maybe that’s why I haven’t hit it off with anyone recently. Or maybe I’m just a dick.

  Either way, I’m sick of never being alone but always feeling alone.

  “Would you get gone?” I snap at Hank, crossing my arms. I turn back to Emma. She’s taking too much pleasure in calling me out, and it’s pissing me off to no end. “One, Jennifer Lopez is married, and I don’t fuck married women. Although I did see her show in Vegas, and now I’m a big fan. Two, yachts are great. But their kitchens suck, and I like to cook.”

  Emma blinks. “You do?”

  “You know, first impressions can be deceiving. Just because I’ve got a—what did you call it? A big swinging dick?”

  I don’t miss the way her brown eyes flick to the front of my trousers. When they move back up to my face, they’re different. Sharper.

  “A big swinging dick wine list,” she corrects. “I said you had a BSD wine list.”

  “Implying, of course, that I’m compensating for a lack in other, more private areas.”

  Her lips twitch. “Private areas. Brain areas.”

  “Right. Just because I’ve got a list of robust wines at robust prices doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy life’s simpler pleasures, like making the world’s tastiest bourbon braised short ribs or the best, moistest cornbread you’ve ever put in your mouth.”

  “You used moist on purpose, didn’t you?” She spears me with a look. “Just to make me squirm.”

  “Yup,” Hank says.

  “What’s wrong with moist?” I ask.

  “You know what’s wrong with—ugh, I won’t say it again.”

  “I happen to think moist is a happy state of affairs. When it comes to cornbread and…well.”

  She tilts her head. “You like to put that in your mouth too?”

  I let out a bark of laughter. “I eat it all, yes.”

  “But can you taste it? Really, thoroughly taste it? Tease out its nuances, appreciate its texture, name its flavors?”

  What the fuck are we talking about now?

  Cornbread? Pussy? Both?

  I like both.

  I like ’em a lot.

  A tide of heat ris
es inside my skin. It gathers between my legs, morphing into this sweet, awful pressure, and my dick nudges against my zipper.

  I promised Beau I wouldn’t lay a finger on Emma, and I mean to honor that promise. But a little borderline-inappropriate banter never hurt anyone. Miss Crawford may look all uptight in her pencil skirt and pulled back hair, but clearly, there’s a dirty mind at work behind those wicked brown eyes.

  I want to know more. If only so I can maintain the upper hand in this game between us that’s clearly begun.

  “Would you like to find out?” I ask.

  She turns her head to look at me over her shoulder. “I would, actually. Tonight?”

  “Aren’t you going to at least buy me dinner first?”

  Her eyes rake down my body again. Then rake back up. This time, they flicker with appreciation.

  Aw, yeah. She likes the purple suit. She may be a stuck-up sommelier, but the girl appreciates a well-dressed man.

  “Yes, actually. I’ve got meetings with the finance team this afternoon, and then I’ll be in the kitchen tonight with Chef and her staff. What about tomorrow? Eight PM-ish? I’ll arrange a tasting of my current favorite wines. We could do it blind—see exactly what you can do to my…cornbread.”

  “Y’all,” Hank says. “For the love of God, the explicit food metaphors have got to stop.”

  I don’t know my way around blind tastings very well. But I do know I want to show this chick who she’s dealing with. I may be a pro athlete, and yes, I may be wearing a purple suit (that I am clearly rocking). But that doesn’t mean I’m not capable of crushing this little competition she wants to put together. I’ve been collecting wine for over a decade. I’ve tasted shit that was in Thomas Jefferson’s cellar. Trophy vintages of Chateau Lafite Rothschild, the best Chilean Carménère ever produced, and Screaming Eagle’s highest rated bottles.

  And I’ll admit the fact that Emma is willing to go toe to toe with me has piqued my interest. When was the last time someone challenged me?

  Why, I want to ask her. Why the fuck do you care so much?

  I’m gonna find out. And then I’m gonna get her ass fired. This is my restaurant. My resort.

  My family.

  “I’m in,” I say, making a mental note to set my alarm for quarter till ten tomorrow. “We won’t have much choice when it comes to the food at such short notice.”

  “I’ll get in touch with Chef Katie and work with what she’s got,” Emma says, waving me away with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

  Anger punches me square in the gut. “I’m the food guy.”

  “I’m the wine woman. And I need the courses to complement my selections. The food and the wine have to speak to each other. You can’t serve duck with Riesling, or an arugula salad with a big, fruity Amarone.”

  I’m going to fucking hate this, I can already tell.

  “Whatever.” I turn to Hank. “We all set here?”

  “Yup.”

  Emma takes her knee off the chair. “Can I make a quick suggestion?”

  “What?”

  “Skip the cologne tomorrow. It’ll mess with your tongue.”

  A pulse of anger screams up my center. Or maybe it’s embarrassment.

  The girl practically radiates her desire to dominate, which makes me think my “co-head” will eventually push me out. What if the wine and beverage program isn’t enough for her? What if she wants the food too? Where would that leave me?

  Out of a job and up shit creek without a paddle, that’s where. I’ve been pushed out by an ambitious upstart before. There may be fewer headlines this time around, but the sting would be the same.

  The shame would be the fucking same.

  I hate to be the guy who’s threatened by an ambitious woman. Usually ambition turns me on. I like a girl who’s got something cooking. But when those ambitions threaten me and my future and my place in my family—well, that’s a different scenario, isn’t it?

  My brothers and sister and mama are Blue Mountain Farm, and they’re my life. I think it shocked us all how much we enjoy working together. How well we work together. I love the idea of continuing my parents’ legacy and of keeping Daddy’s memory alive through a spirit of generosity.

  I am not being generous right now.

  But I was serious about the yacht. I had my fun. Blew off steam when things went south in my pro career. Now, though, I’m done with that shit. I like my life here. I want to keep it exactly as is. Change has never been kind to me.

  And now Emma is here to shake things up.

  Over my dead body. I’ve already reinvented myself once. I know how painful and long the process can be. And if there’s one thing I’ve always known about myself, it’s that I like to stay busy. As Daddy used to say, idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Don’t get me wrong, I am fucking great at enjoying my leisure time. But I also like to hustle. If I’m not hustling, trying to make my family’s resort the best it can possibly be, if I’m not working my ass off to ensure the people and the heritage I love so much have a future, then I’d have no purpose.

  And that seems like the worst outcome of all.

  Chapter Four

  Samuel

  I spend a few hours in my office above the restaurant, twitchy as hell as I listen to Emma getting settled in the room next door.

  A hard workout always clears my head. When I have a rare break later that afternoon, I head home and hit the gym in my basement for a quick sweat session.

  On my way downstairs, I pass my trophy case. At twenty feet long and ten feet high, it takes up the length of an entire wall. Some of my own shit is in there. Two Super Bowl MVP awards, NFC Championship trophy, an ESPY for Best Dressed Athlete.

  But Dad’s trophies are the real stars. They’re displayed front and center; his Super Bowl ring is probably my most prized possession.

  That, and his cast-iron skillet.

  I slow my steps, eyes raking over the massive ring in its black velvet box. That hollow ache returns, taking root in the center of my chest.

  All I ever wanted was to make the man proud.

  I don’t think he’d be proud of me right now.

  Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders. I’m not proud of acting like a jackass, either. But it’s a means to an end. I’m defending my place.

  Family always came first in Daddy’s book, and I know he’d like to see me follow his lead in that regard.

  I just wish he were here to tell me what to do. He was a good man who gave good advice. Before he got sick, anyway. He was also an honest man, and one of the few I implicitly trusted. With him in my corner, I never felt lost.

  I never felt alone, the way I do now.

  Daddy passed from early-onset dementia almost fifteen years ago, but I still miss him every damn day. He and I were thick as thieves, probably because we’re so much alike. We have the same build. Same love of feeding our people. We played the same position, and we even wore the same number, 4, on our jerseys.

  But missing him ain’t gonna make shit any better. I’ve made my call, and I’m sticking to it. I’ve tried being the good guy before, and look how that went—I lost my job, my team, and my career all in one fell swoop.

  And really, I’m doing Emma a favor. She’s a smart girl. She’ll find a position that’s better suited to her talents. One that allows her to soar, the way I want to soar on my own at Blue Mountain Farm.

  * * *

  The cellar is my happy place.

  Ducking my head as I step through the door, I inhale a deep lungful of that familiar smell: oak, fruit, alcohol. All undercut by this smoky dampness I can only describe as history.

  The history of the barn, which dates back to the late 1700s.

  The history of the wine itself.

  And my own history—from my first sip of the good stuff at a team dinner at Del Frisco’s Philadelphia to buying my first bottle at auction to this. A world-class collection that’s a draw in and of itself. I’ve had dozens of guests return to the resort j
ust for the wine. A fact I’m pretty fucking proud of.

  Immediately, the ache in my chest loosens. I have no clue why Emma put it there, or why it lingered well into the evening.

  No surprise, though, that my cellar would be the thing to shake it.

  We had the state-of-the-art space constructed in the barn’s basement. It’s a cavernous cellar, equal parts rustic and slickly modern, with a vaulted stone ceiling and walls paneled in reclaimed wood. Enormous tempered glass boxes, illuminated from the floor, hold the actual wine racks. Each box is carefully organized with particular varietals. Makes it easy for our waitstaff to navigate our enormous list quickly and efficiently.

  Also makes the cellar look sexy as hell. When I met with the architect, I told him I wanted to build Tony Stark’s wine cellar if Tony were the secret lovechild of Daenerys Stormborn and Drake.

  And that’s exactly the cellar I got.

  The lighting is low and soft, giving the space a moody, sexy vibe, and the temperature is set at a perfect fifty-five degrees. There’s a massive antique table in the center, which we use for private parties and tastings. I keep a few of my really special bottles—a Nebuchadnezzar of Ace of Spades champagne, a magnum of my favorite Napa Cab—on a shelf that runs the length of one wall, which we covered in antiqued mirror to reflect the light. We spared no expense. Same as I spared no expense on this collection.

  I’ve got three thousand bottles down here. Everything from Silver Oak to hundred-year-old Burgundy. Opening the glass door to my favorite box—big, meaty California Cabernets—I mentally catalogue each bottle’s characteristics: alcohol, acidity, body. It’s been a while since I did a blind tasting, and my vocabulary is a little rusty. I used to do them with my teammates back in the day. A friendly competition where the dollar price of the bottles we brought mattered more than our acumen in identifying them.

  I wonder what Emma will pick. She mentioned she liked small producers. Not my specialty. Not my preference, either.

  Grabbing a bottle by its neck, I pull it out. Opus One. I vaguely remember this vintage. I drank it with…that chick from HGTV? Maybe in Palm Springs? Or was it Palm Beach? God, I’m tired.