Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  Blue fruits. No, stone fruits. Red? Red what? And the tannins. What about the tannins?

  Fuck.

  I shove the bottle back into its slot with more force than necessary. The entire rack trembles, making me want to puke for one agonizing heartbeat, then another.

  “There a bee in your bonnet?”

  I turn to see my sister, Milly, stride into the room, a wine menu and notebook tucked under one arm, phone in hand.

  “Nah.” I paste on a smile and turn away from the wine. “Just—”

  “A certain sommelier’s arrival got you out of sorts. Or so I hear.”

  Out of my four siblings, I meddle the most. So I have absolutely no right to be annoyed by Milly’s line of questioning.

  But I am.

  I’m really, really annoyed. And I really, really wish Milly would go away. I want to be alone.

  “You know how I feel about that.” I nod at her notebook. “Need some help?”

  “Actually, Emma already gave me a few great ideas for John and Celeste. I guess they went to Slovenia last week and fell in love with the wine there, so they requested a change in the menu for the wedding. Emma said we should try—wait, here, let me check”—Milly opens her notebook to a bookmarked page—“something called Rebula? And she suggested we give Cabernet Franc a go for the red. Apparently that’s cultivated in Slovenia too. She gave me a few bottles to investigate down here.”

  The tightness in my chest returns with a vengeance. Emma’s already fucking with my work. “But I already helped John and Celeste pick out the wine. Some really nice stuff too. You sure they want that other garbage served at their million-dollar wedding?”

  “Million point two, thank you very much. And yes. They want the whole thing to feel ‘personal’ and ‘different.’ Emma says these wines should help accomplish that. She also says they can be really delicious.”

  Milly is Blue Mountain Farm’s resident wedding planner. This year, we booked our biggest wedding yet, for Celeste Loo (supermodel, cookbook author, and expert of social media clap backs) and John Bevin, legendary R&B star famous for singing songs about Celeste. The wedding’s about a month out, so Milly’s been finalizing selections and placing orders like crazy. So have Chef Katie and I. We pull out all the stops for all our weddings, but this one is especially lavish and especially large. John and Celeste are hosting three hundred guests at the swanky outdoor pavilion we built down by the small lake on our property.

  I was very much looking forward to serving a delicious champagne and a spicy Barolo. But now I’m going to be serving something that sounds like an infectious disease?

  Hard pass.

  “She’s wrong,” I say, grabbing the wine menu from my sister. “So fucking wrong.”

  Milly just smiles at me, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “You hate her. Emma. And you don’t hate anyone. Well, with one notable exception. Which makes me think you like her.”

  I busy myself by flipping through the Chardonnay section. Far Niente: butter, melon. Chateau Montelena: lemon, no, lime, medium body, slight acidity (maybe?). “That makes absolutely no sense.”

  “You make absolutely no sense. You’re all smiles and swagger for the rest of the world. But with her, apparently, you’re a broody, growly jerk. Yes, I talked to Beau, and yes, he told me how you showed your ass earlier today. Hank said there were some dirty puns being thrown around?”

  I draw a sharp breath through my nose. “Y’all are gonna put me in an early grave, you know that?”

  Milly’s grin deepens. “She’s pretty.”

  “She’s not what the farm needs.”

  “She’s staying really close to your house.”

  “You know I can do this, right?” I pause my flipping to meet her gaze. “You know I can run this restaurant and fill this cellar, and do it for any other restaurants and cellars we may open in the future?”

  Milly’s brows curve upward, making her look so much like Mama that for a second I can’t breathe. Even though she’s well into her sixties, Mama could almost be Milly’s twin.

  “Don’t compare this situation to that one,” she replies. “That was just a string of bad timing and worse luck.”

  I scoff. “If that’s true, fate must’ve had it out for me. I was the unluckiest asshole in pro sports.”

  “Were. You were the unluckiest asshole. That was in the past. Leave it there. This is about our future, Samuel. Think about how lucky you are these days to be working with your kind, loving, amazing family.”

  “Did you miss my comment about the early grave?”

  Milly just grins. “Of course you can run this place. But that’s not what bringing Emma onboard is about. It’s not about pushing you out. It’s just a way of stepping up our game. When Beau first got the idea for the resort, we all agreed we wanted it to be the best of the best. You don’t get to the top by resting on your laurels. We have to keep pushing forward, always.”

  I grunt. “From the feedback I’ve gotten, I’d say we’re at the top already. But if need be, I can always expand the cellar. Get more wine. Better wine.”

  Milly shakes her head, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You’re gonna burn yourself out working the way you do. That’s another reason Beau wanted to hire a sommelier. To help you.”

  “Beau’s worked his balls off for this resort. He’s the one who needs a break, and I think Annabel’s gonna give him one.” Beau’s best friend, Annabel, arrived yesterday at Blue Mountain with her four-month-old baby in tow. Beau and Bel have been in love since they were back in college, but they have yet to admit it to themselves or to each other. “I ran into her earlier, by the way.”

  Milly’s face lights up. “You did? I’m jealous. How’s she doing?”

  “Well, she cried when she saw Beau, so…yeah, he wasn’t joking when he said motherhood’s been giving her a tough time. And yes”—I hold up my hand—“we are absolutely pulling out all the stops for her. Hank’s arranging a spa day, and I made sure her fridge was stocked with lots of goodies. I’ve got dinner being delivered to her in”—I bend my arm and check my watch—“twenty minutes. I asked Chef Katie to send over four of her favorite entrees from tonight’s menu, plus enough pimiento cheese and crackers to feed a small army. A couple of pints of ice cream too.”

  My sister smiles. “I won’t pretend to understand how you can be such a great brother while also being the world’s worst coworker.”

  “Isn’t your motto ‘you do you’?”

  “It is.” She looks down at a chirp from her phone. A text? Whatever it is, it’s making her smile.

  Now that I think about it, she’s been smiling a lot since Nate Kingsley, owner of a famous local whiskey distillery, visited recently.

  “Something good?” I ask.

  Still smiling, Milly types a quick reply, then blanks the screen with a click. “Yes. Anyway, ‘you do you’ doesn’t apply when you’re being a complete and utter jerk. Give Emma a chance, all right? It won’t kill you, and it would make Beau happy. Hell, maybe it’ll even make you happy too.”

  “I am happy,” I growl.

  Milly points a finger at me. “Growling isn’t a good look on you. Quit it. And have fun at your tasting tomorrow.”

  Fun. Ha.

  Like I even know what that is anymore.

  Chapter Five

  Samuel

  “Ready to get your ass kicked?” Emma asks the next night.

  No greeting. Just a pretty smile and eyes that burn with a challenge she’s unabashedly excited about.

  Why does she enjoy brutalizing me this way?

  And how does she look prettier than she did yesterday, even though she’s standing in the same restaurant wearing almost the same damn outfit?

  Despite my best effort to avoid her, I’ve seen a lot of Emma over the past twenty-four hours. She’s popped into my office more times than I can count, and was all over the floor last night shadowing me as I selected wines for guests and served them.

  She’s thorough, I’l
l give her that.

  My hand curls into a fist at my side. The sooner we start, the sooner we get this over with.

  Taking a quick glance around the restaurant, my annoyance fades. The place is packed. People are chowing down on the food, smiling as they chat with their loved ones and sip their drinks. The waitstaff crisscrosses the floor, arms loaded with trays of beautiful food and bottles of excellent wine. A couple laughs in a booth in the corner. Another hold hands across their table. A family of five digs into Chef’s insanely delicious take on rabbit ragu with homemade pasta and aged pecorino. Hank is chatting with a pair of older women at the bar.

  The food, the wine, the people—it all comes together to create this heady buzz that’s heaven on earth.

  And to think that I made it happen. Yes, I got lucky hiring some of the best staff on the planet, starting with Chef Katie. Beau was there for every meeting, every round of interviews, and Milly played a big part in planning our food and beverage programs too. But I went from quarterback to food and wine director in the space of a few years. During those years, I studied the hospitality industry like a madman. I traveled all over to spend my Saturday nights in the kitchens of the world’s best restaurants. I took courses, shadowed waiters, washed dishes. I cooked. I networked. I filled close to a dozen notebooks with my notes on everything from the proper way to slice prosciutto to how I wanted our guests to feel while dining at Blue Mountain Farm.

  When we finally opened The Barn Door, I wanted to take the position of food and wine director knowing I left nothing on the table. I tried my best.

  I still try my best. And I’m damn proud of the result. In that respect, I’ve done my family proud.

  “Josie,” I clip.

  A hostess immediately appears at my elbow. “Yes, Samuel?”

  “Take us to our table, please.”

  “Right away. We have y’all at seventeen.”

  I cut Emma a glance. She shrugs, this smug little thing that enrages me. Olly, my former backup-turned-traitor teammate, was smug like that too. At first, I thought it was just playful indifference, but I learned the hard way it was something much more sinister.

  “Heard you had a thing for the night sky,” she says, “so I guessed seventeen was your favorite table. You can see the stars through the window if you blow out the candles. It’s also private and quite cushy. Perfect for a big swinging dick celebrity like yourself.”

  I can tell Josie is trying very hard not to laugh as she seats us at the table. It is my favorite, for exactly the reasons Emma mentioned. The booth is a circular swath of butter soft leather tucked into the far corner of the barn. A high window follows the curve of the booth, allowing diners to glimpse nearly three hundred sixty degrees of sky. At night, when the light’s just right, it can be downright magical.

  It can also be hell on earth when you’re experiencing it beside Miss Know-It-All. Seeing the flight of wineglasses set out at each place setting is an unwelcome reminder of how long I’ll be stuck here.

  I could leave. Walk away. That might even be the smart thing to do.

  But just like I was glued to the spot at Emma’s cottage yesterday, I find my legs unwilling to move. I glance across the table and watch Emma settle her napkin on her lap. Her movements are elegant. Restrained. But her eyes flash in the low light, alive and eager.

  I sit, my clothes feeling a size too tight as I grab my own napkin.

  “I heard you gave Milly some pointers today,” I say, careful to keep my voice even.

  Emma nods. “The Slovenian wines, yes. What a cool request.”

  “You overstepped your bounds, Emma.” When she opens her mouth to correct me, I hold up my hand. “I spent weeks helping John and Celeste put together a wine list. I pored over my entire cellar and went through every bottle until we found exactly what they envisioned. They want to change that now, fine. But you come to me first. Always. Have you ever planned a beverage menu for a wedding? What about a wedding that’s happening in four weeks? Hundreds of moving parts are involved. You were just telling me how you can’t pair duck with a Riesling. How do you think this is going to affect the food menu? What about the stemware we’ll need? Milly knows her way around the logistics. And you may know your way around wine, but I’m the only one out of all three of us who can make those pieces, plus the hundred others, work together.”

  She blinks at me. Chastised. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just heard Slovenia, and Celeste Loo, and my excitement got the better of me.”

  My turn to blink. I wasn’t expecting her to back down so easily.

  “But”—ah, here it is—“I do have some great ideas for the revised menu. I think we can put together something really special.”

  “Of course it will be special. This is Blue Mountain Farm. And I’m in charge.” I nod at the glasses in front of me. “Let’s do this. I have to be out of here by quarter till ten.”

  Emma stiffens. “Right. I have a…call with a friend I have to get to as well.” She looks up and nods with a smile, and Xavier approaches the table with an opened bottle wrapped in a serviette (that’s cloth napkin in wine speak).

  He pours us each a glass of sparkling wine. It’s all I can do not to rub my hands together. After California Cabs, bubbly is my specialty. Back in my pro days, there was always a bottle being popped somewhere: locker rooms, flights, hungover mornings in Vegas that called for more than a little hair of the dog.

  “A toast?” Emma holds out her glass.

  I glare at her across the table, reaching for my glass but not holding it up. “I save my toasts for family and friends, thanks.”

  Undeterred, she continues to hold up her glass. “Fine. I’ll toast myself. To our future partnership. I’m excited to see how far we can take this thing.”

  “You won’t be touching my thing.”

  It’s too far and entirely inappropriate. I want to send her running for the place she worked last, not a lawyer’s office. But my lizard brain must consider being crass a legitimate way of pushing her away. The bun, the suit, the sensible heels—everything about her screams I’m offended by your awfulness.

  But those eyes of hers tell a different story. They darken with mischief, a small smile working its way across her lips.

  She unbuttons her blazer, revealing a white silk blouse that appeared to be all business when her lapels were closed. But now that they’re open, I can see the damn thing is gossamer thin and slightly transparent.

  Dear God.

  “You can keep that thing.” Her gaze flicks briefly to my crotch. “But this thing? The resort, everything it represents, showing your guests the best damn hospitality this side of the Appalachians? I’d very much like to play around with that.”

  My cock twitches.

  The goddamn traitor actually moves inside my pants, thanks to the awareness—the blood—that gathers in my balls at her equally crass reply.

  My fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. No fucking way Emma’s perverted wittiness is gonna distract me.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  “Hey, y’all!” Hank appears at the table with a smile. “So, this tasting. I can only imagine how epic it will be. Emma, this guy being any nicer to you?”

  Emma shoots me a look. “Not really.”

  Now Hank’s looking at me too. “Dude, c’mon.”

  “Don’t you have a job to do?” I reply.

  “Be nice.” He turns to Emma. “You need someone to talk some sense into him, you know who to call.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” I grunt, and hold my glass up to my nose as my brother thankfully disappears.

  I watch Emma do the same. She really sticks her nose in the glass, looking like an idiot but not seeming to give two shits about it. Her tits rise on a deep inhale.

  Look away. But is that the outline of her nipple?

  Christ, it is her nipple, and it’s hard. I can make out the whisper-thin cup of her bra through her blouse and the color of the pebbled point through it.

&nb
sp; Her nipple is pink, lusciously sized, with those little fucking dots surrounding it in a tight, perfect circle.

  My mouth fills with saliva as my cock full-on surges against my fly.

  I look up to see Emma watching me. That gleam in her eye is still there. So is the smile.

  The realization hits me with the force of a skillet to the head.

  Emma did this on purpose. She unbuttoned her blazer, and wore this shirt with this bra, to tease me.

  Taunt me.

  Provoke me.

  Fuck her. Two can play this game.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, setting down my glass without sipping. I place my fingertips on its stem.

  She sets down her glass too. “Sorry?”

  “I’ve been neglectful.” I glide those fingers up the stem. Back down, Austin Powers style. Just to mess with her.

  Just to see if she’ll catch on.

  She does, right away. Her gaze follows my movements. She smirks, amused. But then her nostrils flare, and her eyes get a little hazy. Heated.

  Aw, I like that heat. That hint of a chink in the armor of her impeccable professionalism.

  But then she blinks and the heat is gone, smoothed over by something like victory.

  We’ll see about that.

  “Xavier?” The waiter appears at my elbow in half a second flat. “Would you mind bringing some cornbread to the table?”

  “Ah,” Emma says, glancing up at my face. “You’ve been neglectful of that. Making it moist.”

  “I’m going to take my brother’s advice and stop the food puns there. But I figure we could use some extra carbs to soak up five courses of wine.”

  “Six. I included a dessert course.”

  “I hate dessert wine.”

  “Trust me with this one? You’ll like it.”

  “You have no idea what I like.”

  I run my fingers up the stem again. But this time, her eyes stay glued to mine.

  “I’m learning,” she replies steadily. “I’m good at reading the room. Good at reading people.”