I look up and see my sister poke her head through the door. Without waiting for an answer, she strides into my office, smiling broadly at Emma.
I should be relieved Milly’s here. She could very well be saving me from embarrassing myself any further.
But instead, I’m annoyed. Just like I was when Hank kept popping up at the tasting last night.
It’s all I can do not to groan. Why does my family annoy me so much all of a sudden? If I didn’t know better, I’d say I want Emma all to myself. Which is a joke. I don’t want Emma. At all.
“Emma!” Milly extends her hand. “Great to see you again. I heard you guys are working on your first event together—”
“Who told you that?” I grind out.
Milly turns her smile on me, wagging her brows. “Beau. He wanted me to come by and referee. I mean, offer my services.”
Emma laughs. My heart skips at the sound. It’s deep. Throaty. Real.
Something tells me Emma would never fake it.
I shift in my chair, settling my elbows on the desk. “How great of him. We’re doing just fine—”
“So.” Milly grabs the chair beside Emma’s and sits, turning to her. “As you know, I focus primarily on weddings. But I love to help out with smaller stuff when I can. Y’all are in luck—I don’t have a wedding this weekend, so I’m free to help with the Charleston Heat Luncheon.”
“So lucky,” I deadpan. “Also, why are you calling it that?”
“Because, Samuel, apparently the gentlemen of this party are, shall we say, easy on the eyes.” Milly grins conspiratorially at Emma. “I heard Elijah Jackson prefers to go shirtless.”
“Even at mealtimes?” Emma says.
Milly’s wagging her eyebrows again. “Especially at mealtimes. I’ve seen pictures, and the heat in his kitchen is very real. And Luke Rodgers, it’s rumored he’s grows the biggest zucchini on his farm and in his—”
“Stop,” I beg. “Please? Just—so many food puns, I can’t—topic. Stay on top of me. Stay on topic.”
Milly peers at me. “Did you not have your coffee yet?”
“Out.” I tear both hands through my hair. “Get out before I hurl myself through that window.”
Emma wrinkles her forehead. “Are you really not okay?”
“He’s fine.” Milly waves me away. “So, back to this weekend. I do it all—decor, lighting, china and glassware, flowers, linens. Let’s make this thing magical.”
“Let’s,” Emma says. She glances at me. “Since the group’s coming up from Charleston, they’ll probably dig a change of scenery. What if we played up the whole rustic, wine by the fire on a bearskin rug angle you guys have going up here?”
My brain, that bastard, conjures an image of Emma on the bearskin rug I just happen to have in front of my fireplace at home. She’s naked. Her legs are wrapped around me as I kiss her mouth. She tastes like the Rioja. Juicy stone fruit and heat.
“I love it,” Milly says, eyes lighting up. “We could keep it simple but exquisite—springtime in the mountains. I don’t know if you’ve been out to the Stag Pavilion yet, but it’s got a huge fireplace and these beamed ceilings that really don’t need much embellishment. We’ll have a fire going, and some greenery and white flowers on the tables. Gerbera daisies, peonies. Oh! And tulips.”
Emma’s writing feverishly in her notebook. “I love tulips.”
“I love running my own damn meetings,” I say.
“Mr. Beauregard, I’m speaking.” My sister shoots me a glare. “We’ll do white linens and these cool metal chairs that just came in. Throw some matching blankets on a few of them in case someone catches a chill.”
“Genius,” Emma says, not looking up from her notes.
“I know.”
Emma finally stops writing and glances at me. “Anything you’d like to add, Samuel?”
She’s the one who’s the genius. Her ideas, her mature brand of enthusiasm, the way she confidently offers suggestions and asks questions…
I don’t know why she doesn’t take an eye for an eye and be a jerk right back to me. But instead, she’s including me in the conversation.
She’s doing it again—she’s giving a shit. Genuinely, unabashedly inviting my input.
In doing that, she’s putting herself out there. Making herself vulnerable in a way I sure as fuck never will.
Never again, anyway.
But damn if I’m not tempted to put my guard down. Just a little. Just enough for Emma to glimpse my non-asshole side. Because she makes caring look good.
She makes me want to care too.
My head’s telling me to run. Caring means letting her in, and I know better than to do that.
But my gut is telling me Emma is different. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to her. I’m Frodo and she’s the ring. I gotta resist. Gotta keep my head on straight. But she’s got this willingness to subject herself to the ass kicking she visited on me last night that’s a fucking siren song.
“Let’s do the tapas family style,” I say. “Everything passed around the table. Chef Katie’s gonna kill me, but I think it’s the right call for this group.”
Emma makes a note. Milly looks from me to Emma and back again.
What? I mouth.
Milly just shakes her head. You’re in trouble, she mouths back.
The three of us flesh out the menu. Emma defers to me on the food. Takes charge on the wine. She gets bolder and firmer with each pick.
I like them all.
I especially like that she takes no shit. When I suggest a red to accompany the dessert course—cinnamon sugar churros with chocolate ganache dipping sauce—Emma calls me out.
“You don’t pair a decadent wine with a decadent dessert like that,” she says. “We want a punchy counterpoint to the creaminess of the chocolate. The richness. Something that’s easy to drink. I say sparkling—a cava.”
Milly looks at me, eyes wide with glee. “I say she’s right.”
Oh yeah, I’m in trouble.
Lots of it.
“Well.” Milly taps her hands against her knees. “I gotta run. Emma, you have my number. Reach out anytime, day or night. We’re thrilled to have you on the farm. Right, Samuel?”
I shoot Milly the darkest look I can muster.
“Good luck,” she murmurs to Emma, patting her shoulder before heading out the door.
Emma smiles. “She’s great.”
“She’s the worst, but I love her.” I stand, closing my folio. “I have an eleven with the kitchen staff. Anything else you need?”
“Not at the moment, no. I’ll follow up with Milly about the decor and pull the wines we discussed. Let’s give them a try when you have a sec.”
She moves to stand, her skirt gliding up her thighs as she leans forward. A surge of dark hunger moves through me. I shift on my feet, unsteady.
I do not like how this woman makes me so goddamn unsteady all the time.
“My schedule’s packed for the next two days,” I grunt. “Don’t have time.”
She draws to her full height—can’t be more than five one, five two at most—and the look in her eyes turns flinty. For such a little thing, she’s got real presence.
“You just saw what happens when you don’t stonewall me, right? We not only get shit done, we crush it.”
I run a hand over my stubble. “I always crush it. Whether or not you’re here.”
“We’ll see about that.” She tucks her notebook underneath her arm. “In the meantime, stop playing games, Beauregard. The pouting’s just childish. Put on your big boy undies and let’s see how far we can take this thing.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turns and leaves. Head high, shoulders pulled back. Pert ass straining against the fabric of her slim skirt.
Those fucking skirts she wears. They’re modest but…not.
Curling my hands into fists, I lean them against my desk. That hunger is everywhere now, throbbing inside my skin alongside the very real anger and annoyance I’v
e felt since I first laid eyes on Emma. Was that really only seventy-two hours ago?
In my day-to-day life, I maintain an impeccable sense of control. It hasn’t been a struggle. The people who work for me do what I say, and they do it exactly how I want them to. The Barn Door’s success is no accident.
Now, though, I am struggling to maintain that control, thanks to Emma.
But I won’t let her take me down. It’s not in my DNA. I’ll crush this challenge just like I always do, with strength, planning, and a shitload of determination.
Chapter Eleven
Emma
The rest of the week flies by.
Introductions, tours, meetings, and my first real turn on the floor at The Barn Door. I shadowed Samuel and the waitstaff for a while, so it’s nice to be out on my own again, doing what I do best.
It’s love at first sight. The staff is friendly and incredibly well trained. It’s a real pleasure serving food of this caliber and creativity, and an absolute honor to plunder Samuel’s cellar in search of the perfect wine pairing for each lovingly crafted dish.
Of course, I can’t help mentally choosing different wines—wines I’d stock—as I sell $27 glasses of chardonnay and $400 bottles of Burgundy.
The clientele at Blue Mountain Farm may be the most rarefied I’ve served. But that doesn’t mean guests won’t appreciate something different. Something they don’t see at every high-dollar steakhouse and hotel they visit. I think it’d make the whole experience of staying here that much more memorable.
I manage to squeeze in that blind tasting with Hank.
“Australian Shiraz?” His eyes had widened adorably as he poured himself another glass of my favorite red from last year. “Not sure if I’ve ever had it before, but goddamn is it delicious. It’s just the right amount of sweet.”
“Right? The spice and hint of velvet evens out the sweetness nicely.”
He’d run his tongue along the inside of his mouth. “Velvet. Yes. That’s exactly how it feels. Good for chilly, cloudy days like this one—makes me feel all warm and cozy inside.” His eyes flashed with understanding. Appreciation too. “Which is exactly why you picked it.”
I’d smiled so hard my face hurt. “Yup. Originally, I selected an Israeli Grenache blend, but when it started to rain earlier, the Shiraz just felt right.”
“There’s such a thing as Israeli wine?”
“Heck yes, there is! They’ve been making wine there literally forever, and it can be really, really good. What do you think Jesus drank?”
He’d laughed at that, and so did I.
I meet Beau’s friend Annabel and her daughter, Maisie, when they stop by the restaurant for an early dinner one night, and they’re lucky enough to witness Samuel and me sparring over which wine she might want.
She went with a mocktail, and I went away rolling my eyes and biting back a smile. Samuel is not immune to the professional chemistry we have. I see it in the way his eyes gleam with appreciation when our ideas come together just right. I see it in the way he no longer greets me with a grunt. Granted, he doesn’t say hello, either, but it’s better than it was.
I also see it in the way he watches me. Every so often, I’ll catch him looking at me as I pour wine, or converse with a guest, or take the mic at a meeting. A few times, he downright stares like he’s trying to work me out inside his head.
The professional in me would say it’s weird. But the woman doesn’t mind it. In fact, she likes it.
Reason one hundred eighty-five why I’m grateful I have Blue in my back pocket.
* * *
“Ho-ly shit,” I breathe.
I set my tote bag on the edge of the nearest table and stare at the gorgeousness that surrounds me.
Today is the Charleston Heat luncheon. It’s barely half past seven in the morning, but the pavilion is a beehive of activity. A small army of staff in matching Blue Mountain Farm aprons crisscrosses the open-air space. They spear the stems of white peonies and limelight hydrangea into mason jars set out on a massive farm table and place locally crafted clay plates on brass chargers. Crisp white linens and embroidered napkins are an elegant counterpoint to the rustic wooden chairs and artfully mismatched silverware.
Excitement floods my chest as my eyes catch on the spotless wine glasses accompanying each place setting. Only a place like Blue Mountain Farm would have hundreds of mouth-blown Czech crystal glasses on hand, in more shapes and sizes than I could count. Milly and I pored over the collection earlier this week, selecting glasses that were just the right shape and size to complement the varietals we’ll be serving.
For a wine nerd like me, it was nirvana.
In a corner, staff set up the station where Chef Katie will be making paella in a Kia-sized paella pan. Others decorate the dozen circular chandeliers hanging from the massive ceiling beams with garlands of greenery and hydrangea. Their light casts everything in a warm, cozy glow.
The smoky-savory smell emanating from the fire burning in the massive stone fireplace fills the crisp morning air.
It’s such a picture-perfect moment—something out of a movie, if Last of the Mohicans had a feast scene it’d look and smell like this—that I get goosebumps.
Milly sidles up beside me. “What do you think?”
“Chills.” I hold out my arm and pull up the sleeve of my jacket. “Milly, I have literal chills. This is magical. Thank you so damn much for your help.”
“My pleasure. This kind of laid-back event is fun. Y’all are gonna have a ball, I can already tell.” She cuts me a glance. “Things going okay? At the restaurant, I mean. I know Samuel’s been less than accommodating.”
“I’ll make it work. Always do.”
“The staff at The Barn Door already love her.” Hank appears at my elbow, almost making me jump. “Can’t tell you how many good things I’ve overheard in the past few days. Morning, Emma.”
I look down at the cardboard cup of coffee he holds out. “Good morning. What’s this?”
“Jet fuel. We like our coffee strong here on the farm. Thought you could use a boost before the big event.”
Hank smiles, his hazel eyes warm.
“Thanks.” I carefully peel the plastic top off the cup, grateful for the distraction. The silky, slightly bitter smell of the coffee fills my lungs. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”
“Took the liberty of adding cream and sugar.” Hank lifts a shoulder. “Because it’s Saturday and you’re on the farm.”
I grin, blowing on the coffee. “And Saturdays on the farm mean—”
“It’s time to indulge. Enjoy.”
“I can get on board with that.”
“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Milly eyes her brother.
Hank shrugs again. “I’m not afraid of bein’ shameless. Beau said Emma was the best of the best, but now that I’ve seen her in action, I get how incredible it is to witness a master at work. If I gotta be the one to woo Emma to stay, well, I’ll woo my ass off.”
“Woo your ass on down to the cellar,” a voice, deep and firm, says behind me. A shiver darts up my spine. “I’ve got five cases of wine down there that aren’t gonna move themselves.”
I look up and there he is. Samuel Beauregard in all his early morning glory, shoulders rolled back so they seem to take up the entirety of the pavilion’s threshold. I don’t know if it’s the shoulders, the suit—double-breasted, Carolina blue with white check, pink tie that matches the face of his white gold Rolex—the smirk, or the way his hair is still wet from the shower. But damn does he look good.
The kind of good that makes the hum of activity around us come to a momentary standstill as everyone shamelessly checks him out.
He’s looking at me. Eyes searing. My heart trips and falls inside my chest.
I can smell his shampoo. Sandalwood, smidge of musk. Expensive.
But no cologne.
Hank wrinkles his brow. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“This whole thing ma
kes no sense.” Milly loops her arm through Hank’s, casting one last glance at Samuel and me. “C’mon. I’ll help.”
Blinking, I tear my gaze from Samuel’s face and focus on my coffee. It takes more effort than I’m willing to admit.
I bring the cup to my lips, ready to sip when Samuel grabs the cup, calloused fingers rough against the back of my hand. That electricity—the one I felt when we shook hands the first time—zips through my blood again, a spark that starts at the place where skin meets skin.
Glancing up, I notice that his nostrils flare. Once. Twice.
“Careful,” he says, dropping his hand. “Coffee from the main house is hot as fuck. And a burn will really mess with your tongue.”
My lips twitch at the familiar line, even as my heart keeps doing that weird tripping thing. It’s making my pulse blare inside my body, an insistent rhythm. I want. I want.
I want him to touch me again. I want to move closer and sniff his neck. Bite his shoulder.
I want to know if the chemistry that keeps crossing from professional to physical and back again is as hot as I think it is.
So what if it is, though? It’s not like I could ever act on it. I have to keep my eyes on the prize. Not on Samuel’s finely chiseled jawline or the freckles that dot his cheeks and forehead.
Not on how this is the second time he’s looked out for me.
Still, I can’t resist a little pervy banter to start the day.
“Thanks for the heads-up. My tongue might be my most treasured body part. Professionally speaking, anyway.”
He’s smirking again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I hear it’s the best in the business. Although I, for one, am not convinced that’s true.”
“It’s not my job to convince you. My tongue is reserved for our guests and our guests only.”
He lifts a brow. “You won’t share? How ungenerous. Me, I’m the opposite. I always make sure to give before I receive.”
Oh, God, he’s talking about oral without talking about oral, and I can’t help but fucking smile.
This is not appropriate. It shouldn’t be fun. But it is.
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