Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel Read online

  “Oh? And what kind of book am I?”

  The gleam in her eyes darkens. “I’m not sure yet.”

  Her eyes keep flicking to my fingers. The ones wrapped around the elegant stem of my wineglass.

  I gently glide them up the stem. Then I pick up the glass and bring it to my lips.

  Time to get down to business.

  Closing my eyes, I do my best to ignore the heaviness in my groin and focus on the wine instead.

  I inhale. My nostrils sting at the immediate hit of alcohol. Behind that, I smell burnt sugar, an almost sticky strawberry note that brings to mind the kind of old, gooey candy you’d get at Grandma’s house.

  Emma sips, taking the lead, and I follow. Bubbles wash over my tongue. I wrinkle my nose. Oh, yeah, that sticky sweetness is there, and it is gross. Gotta be something young and cheap.

  “You’re smiling,” Emma says, swallowing. “You know this one?”

  “I’m smiling because your pick is downright awful. Reminds me of the crap I’d duct tape to my hands in college.”

  Emma cocks a brow. “You duct taped bottles of sparkling wine to your hands in college?”

  “You’ve clearly never played Edward Forty Hands. It was forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor, actually, but it tasted the same.”

  “Right.” She digs her teeth into her bottom lip, still smiling. Like she knows something I don’t. “How about you save all your answers for the end? Make a note on your phone about what you think each wine is. Varietal, vintage, and location.”

  No need. I make a mental note—gotta be Prosecco, two or three years old, Italy—and raise my hand for the next round.

  Emma’s arm shoots out. She grabs my forearm, the heat of her touch seeping through the sleeve of my jacket, and guides it back down to the table.

  Her grip is firm. Confident. So is her voice when she says, “This is my tasting, Beauregard. I call the shots.”

  My cock stands at attention as my vision goes red.

  Who the hell does Emma think she is?

  And since when does she call me Beauregard?

  “Keep it moving,” I grunt, slugging what’s left of the sparkling.

  Emma’s paired it with a winter kale, Manchego, and chili dusted pecan salad. We eat while we wait for the next pour. I can’t help but notice how she eats like a European, fork in her left hand, knife in her right, and every time she takes a bite her lips linger on the tines of her fork. Gliding over them slowly as she savors every morsel.

  When she moans, my knife slips against my plate and almost gouges my eye out.

  “Wow,” she says, shaking her head appreciatively. “We gotta give our compliments to Chef Katie. The play on texture in this salad is just—I mean, it’s on a whole other level. The crunchy heat of the pecans with the creamy cheese and the tang of that warm bacon vinaigrette? Kill me now and I’d die happy.”

  There are two types of foodies in this world: those who like good food because they can post pictures of it on Instagram, and those who treasure food because they appreciate the art and effort and heart involved in creating dishes like this.

  Emma’s clearly the latter. Her phone’s nowhere to be seen. She’s sensitive to the most minute of flavors, brow furrowed as she chews thoughtfully. Eyes bright, like a light’s been turned on inside her. Fully absorbed in the moment. The flavors. The feel of a shared meal.

  Can’t remember the last time I sat down with someone who radiated intelligent passion like this. Who wasn’t putting on a front, a fake face.

  Makes me realize how fake my smiles can be sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.

  “I hear you feed your staff,” she says, making me blink. Only then do I realize I’ve been staring at her. I look up and catch Hank staring at her too, hovering just out of arm’s reach.

  Looking away, I shove a forkful of kale into my mouth. If anyone can make this leafy shit delicious, it’s Katie. The chef I hired.

  “And?”

  “And I think that’s really cool. Xavier was telling me how everyone eats together in the kitchen before service. Not many of the places I’ve worked for do that.”

  I grab my wine and finish it. I notice her eyes stray to my fingers on the stem again.

  “Figured the best way to get the staff excited about our food would be to feed it to them. That way they can sell it honestly. Put a personal touch on their recommendations.”

  “You ever eat with them?” she asks, cleaning the last of her plate.

  I shake my head. “I don’t have time.”

  I lean back as our plates are cleared, replaced by a second course: spring vegetable risotto, featuring the peas, asparagus, and shallots grown right here on the farm. It’s topped with a generous helping of freshly shaved parmesan, the nutty, umami smell making my stomach growl.

  I worked out like a motherfucker earlier, which explains why I’m starving. Exercise makes me feel centered. I do it six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, no exceptions, no excuses. But I don’t usually go as hard as I did today. Guess I have a lot on my mind I needed to clear out, thanks to the girl who’s currently torturing me from across the table.

  The next wine is a white, straw colored. Cold enough to make the bowl of my glass frost over.

  I follow Emma’s lead and shove my nose deep into the glass. She watches me do it, something like pleasure in her gaze. Tonight she’s the boss, and she digs it.

  Exactly why she can’t stay.

  At last she tips back her glass and sips. I do it too, determined to hate this wine like I hated the first one.

  Only problem? It’s freaking delicious.

  I’m not the biggest white wine fan, but I’ve tasted enough to know this one is good. It’s sweet but not perfume-y, crisp but not astringent, dry but not boring. A little baked bread on the nose. There’s so much going on here I can’t tease it all out on one sip alone. I take another, moving it around my tongue the way Emma does.

  We look like total assholes, gurgling our wine, swishing it around our mouths. But I could give a shit.

  This wine, it’s a whole mood. Makes me think of warm summer nights, cool water running over creek bottoms, the smell of fluffy lemon pancakes. The kind Daddy used to make on Sunday mornings. I feel grass under my feet. Lightness in my legs and chest. A sense of freedom and rightness I can’t quite get my arms around.

  Sounds nuts, I know. I’m never one to gush random bullshit when I’m drinking. But two sips in, and I already know this wine is really, really special. It’s telling me a story—telling a version of my story back to me—making me sort through my memory to nail the exact feeling I get when I drink it.

  Above all else, it makes me think of my past, which makes me think of Daddy.

  My heart twists. Lungs clench. I set down my wine and reach for my water.

  This little buzz I’m starting to get it is putting me in a weirdly poetic mood, and I am not here for it.

  “You okay?” Emma asks. There’s a knowing warmth in her eyes. I don’t like that either.

  “I’m fine. This is, uh, something new. The wine. Something I haven’t had before I don’t think.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Beauregard.”

  “I don’t like it when you call me that.”

  “I don’t like it when you don’t give credit where credit is due.”

  She doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t try to win me over with flattery and respect and deference, the way the rest of my employees do.

  She just does and says what she wants.

  I get that. What I don’t get? Why she puts up with my rudeness. My scowly, shitty attitude. I want her to give up already, but she won’t, and it’s driving me up the goddamn wall.

  Whatever. She’ll break eventually. I’ll just keep at it. So I chug my wine and clean my plate, bringing my blood back down to a simmer.

  We finish that course. Dive right into the next one, and the next. All reds, all shit I’m pretty confident I know. Some are better than other
s. I fully expect a hearty, spicy red to go with our oxtail course, but I’m surprised when I’m served an inky Grenache (I think?) that, much as I hate to admit it, is juicy in all the best ways.

  Emma keeps asking questions. I keep replying with one word answers, praying she’ll take the hint.

  She doesn’t.

  Her eyes flick to my fingers several times. So Emma here’s clearly got a thing for my hands. Interesting.

  Not that it matters. The sooner this girl is gone, the better.

  Although the dessert wine she picked—yeah, I don’t hate it.

  Chapter Six

  Emma

  It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for all night: the reveal of the wines I’ve selected.

  I resist the urge to rub my hands together with glee. I’m never one to gloat. But putting this guy in his place is going to be so, so satisfying.

  “Thank you,” I say to Xavier as he lines up all six bottles on the table. Their labels are still covered by serviettes, some of them damp on account of the old-school ice buckets I like to use for my sparkling and white wines.

  I glance at Samuel. He’s checking his watch. It’s a different one tonight: a yellow gold Rolex that’s a flashy pick against his (relatively) subdued navy-blue suit. As much as I hate to give him a win, this look is his best yet.

  “Make this quick,” he says, shooting his cuffs like the arrogant prick he is before settling his elbows on the table. “I’m about to turn into a pumpkin.”

  I’m about to turn into something much more interesting than that. Not that a blockheaded bully like him would appreciate it, but still. Victory calls for a special kind of celebration.

  “First wine: the sparkling.” I settle my first two fingers over the throat of the bottle. “What did you think?”

  “Prosecco. Two to three years old, Italy. Garbage,” he says with a smug smile.

  I uncoil the serviette from around the bottle. I resist the urge to giggle like a kid in front of her birthday cake as I watch Samuel’s smile flatten. His blue eyes widen in genuine shock.

  “No,” he blurts, grabbing the bottle. It looks laughably tiny in his enormous hands.

  Those hands. They’re this combination of nimble and thick that makes my mind short circuit.

  I look away. “Oh, yes.”

  It’s one of his trophy bottles—a 2002 Dom Perignon listed on the menu for north of eight hundred bucks—that I thought was pretty delicious.

  I knew he’d hate my picks, no matter what they were. Testing that theory was unnecessary, but I’m glad I did it. Seeing the frantic look on his face as he pours what’s left of the bottle into an empty glass to taste it again was worth the trouble.

  I watch him swallow it down, heart thumping. He’s gotta give in, right?

  I really, really want this guy to give in already. Because maybe then he’ll finally view me not as a threat but as a partner. I’m not here for a hostile takeover.

  I’m here to help.

  “That’s not the wine I tasted,” he tries.

  Crossing my arms, I spear him with a look. “Now you’re just embarrassing yourself.”

  “The bottle must be skunked.” Samuel sniffs the mouth of said bottle, wrinkling his forehead. “Whatever. Next one?”

  My heart thumps again, this time for a different reason. Something weird happened when Samuel sampled the Spring Mountain Riesling I served for our second course. He got this look in his eyes, the one people usually get when a wine does something to them. When it not only touches something essential inside them but rearranges it too. Cracks it open. Makes it new.

  It’s the look of love.

  Interestingly, Samuel quashed that look as soon as it appeared. But at that moment, his eyes had softened, and I’d almost felt a kinship with him. See? I’d wanted to say. See how giving something new a chance pays off?

  Not all men are as evolved as MyBoyBlue, I guess. One of the five hundred reasons I prefer internet sex to the real-life version.

  I grab the second bottle and hold it out to Samuel.

  A spark of curiosity lights up his eyes. The firm line of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t want to show interest. Appreciation. He’s fighting it. But it’s there, and it’s the kind of reaction I live for as a sommelier.

  “Riesling,” he says. “Napa Valley? It’s too dry for an old-world Riesling. I’m thinking 2015ish. 2017 maybe.”

  I could continue my gloating. But that would just give Samuel an excuse to replace that interest with annoyance, which would defeat the whole purpose of this tasting. So I try a different tack.

  Unwrapping the serviette, I reveal a 2016 Riesling from the Spring Mountain district of Napa Valley.

  “Well done,” I say, holding up my hand for a high five. “One of the best wines I’ve had in the past five years. Different but totally delicious, right? And it retails for under thirty-five bucks a bottle. Not exactly a steal, but for a wine with this kind of complexity, it’s still a great bargain.”

  Samuel glances at my hand. Glances at the bottle.

  He leaves my high five hanging. But he does glide his glass forward—those fingers, Jesus—and raise his eyebrows.

  “I’ll have a little more.”

  I watch him taste it, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. He knows his wine, that much is clear, but I could tell at the start of our meal he wasn’t as well versed in tasting. He wasn’t smelling the wine correctly, and he gulped his wine instead of savoring it. Now he’s shoving his nose into the glass like a pro, taking his time as he drinks to contemplate the Riesling’s gorgeous flavor profile.

  Clearly he watched me, took notes, and modified his behavior accordingly.

  He actually learned something. Took a suggestion. Changed.

  Hope rises in my chest like the sun. I don’t want to jump the gun here. But I think Samuel’s got a softer, more intelligent side. He may act like an unyielding asshole, but deep down maybe that’s not who he really is.

  Which begs the question: why the dissonance?

  “I like this one.” He tips back what’s left in the glass. His eyes find mine, and he cocks a brow. “You know the winemaker?”

  I finally allow myself to grin. “Sure do. Smith-Madrone is a family operation, same as Blue Mountain Resort. Their story is actually really cool. I’m happy to reach out to them and inquire about putting in an order. They have an Estate Riesling, too, that’s baller. Pricier. But blow-your-mind amazing. Almost as good as a ’76 German Riesling I had a few years back. It’s still my favorite wine I’ve ever tasted.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I’ll take it.

  We’re running out of time, so I hurry through the rest of the wines. Samuel only nails one of the reds, a Willamette Valley Pinot Noir. He completely misses the other three.

  By the time we’re finished, he’s back to being a block of stone.

  Two out of six. He’s not happy about that. Tossing his napkin onto the table, he stands, letting out an annoyed sigh as he buttons his blazer. His gaze rakes over the bustling restaurant before it lands on me.

  “You did well,” I say. “That was a tough tasting.”

  “Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” he replies, throwing my line back at me. “I bombed it. You proved your point. You’re the expert and I’m the idiot. Happy now?”

  I feel a pinch of guilt. It was a dick move, putting together a tasting of esoteric wines I knew he wouldn’t be able to identify.

  Then again, if he hadn’t been such a jerk to begin with, I wouldn’t have had to put together this tasting in the first place. I wouldn’t have had to prove that I’m able to contribute something of value. If he’d been amenable to working together, we could already be on our way to creating something special and spectacular here on the farm, instead of staring each other down over a table littered with half-empty bottles.

  The thought makes me angry.

  It makes me sad.
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  “My cornbread is indeed moi—well, you know, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply, deflecting.

  For half a heartbeat he squints his eyes, mirthful.

  “Told you I was a food guy.”

  He stands there, looking at me. I look back.

  It hits me that he’s waiting for me to get up. Like the gentleman he most certainly is not.

  Even more bewildering? When he holds out his hand.

  “Need some help?” he asks. “I gotta get going.”

  I glance at his hand. Nails are neatly groomed—filed, not cut—which makes me think he gets manicures.

  But the walnut-sized knuckles, the blunt calluses on his fingertips, the roadmap of thick, ropey veins that marks the back of his hand—that speaks to a roughness I like very much.

  I blink, stopping that thought in its tracks. I have to keep my eyes on the prize. Which means keeping my eyes off this man.

  “I’ve got it, thanks,” I say, scooting out of the booth on my own. I grab my bag, and we head for the door.

  I notice the servers and hostesses practically kowtow to Samuel as we pass.

  I also notice how he turns the heads of nearly every woman in the restaurant. A few of the men too.

  As for me, I try very hard not to stare at the breadth of his back. The guy is huge. And hugely confident. He prowls the floor like he owns it (I mean, he kind of does), massive shoulders rolling as he waves to one guest, then smiles at another.

  He is all smiles for the world. But for me? Totally different story.

  He holds the door open. I step outside, welcoming the slight chill in the air. I’m feeling overheated. Also a little trepidatious. It’s dark out here.

  I walked to the restaurant earlier. My cottage is close by, and I knew I’d be drinking, so I didn’t want to take the golf cart provided with my accommodations. No big deal when it was light outside.

  But now that it’s dark, I’m not so sure. I’m not necessarily worried about a serial killer leaping out of the trees and grabbing me. But I imagine these woods are home to all kinds of animals. Bears. Mountain lions. Snakes.