Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  It really is. And considering the only fun I have these days is in chat rooms on the internet, I am ripe for the picking.

  “Somehow I doubt your tongue is as skilled as you think it is. Takes a lot of practice to get where I am. A lot of time, effort. Trial and error. Classes, tests, tastings…”

  “You think I don’t practice?” He shifts on his feet, leaning the tiniest bit closer to me. “I taste plenty, Emma. So much and so often I’ve been told I’m a connoisseur.”

  My turn to smirk. “I think you might need some new friends, Beauregard. Ones who tell it to you straight.”

  “I think you might need some new friends.” He ducks, lowering his voice to a teasing growl. “Ones who give it to you right.”

  Oh, no, no, no, I want to say. I’m the one who’d give it to you, hotshot. And you bet your bottom dollar it’d be right.

  Thankfully, Chef Katie appears. She’s wearing a puffer vest over her chef whites and a big smile.

  “I don’t think y’all are ready for how delicious this paella is gonna be.” She rubs her hands together. “I love mixing things up this way—been a spell since I brushed off my tapas skills. Great idea.”

  I tip my head toward Samuel. “I’m told he’s a connoisseur.”

  His eyes flick to meet mine.

  “What?” I ask. “I give credit where credit is due. Team player, remember?”

  “Right,” he replies. “I remember.”

  Only I don’t feel right at all when he turns and stalks across the pavilion, the heels of his red-soled shoes marking a solid beat against the floorboards.

  I want.

  I want. But I won’t allow myself to have.

  Sipping my coffee, I’m glad I waited. It’s still too hot.

  * * *

  “This,” Elijah Jackson says, swirling the Albariño in his glass before tipping it back to drain what’s left, “is fuckin’ delicious. That green apple note? Damn if it don’t play off the cheese and ham croqueta beautifully.”

  “Really nice combination of sweet and savory,” Greyson Montgomery adds, holding out his glass for another pour. “What’s the story behind this deliciousness?”

  I smile as I refill their glasses, a bloom of lightness spreading through my center. I love this part of my job.

  “I was lucky enough to meet the winemaker on a trip to Spain last year,” I say, cradling the bottle label out so Chef Eli and his friends have a good view of it. “Carmen Garcia’s vineyards date back to the fifteenth century—apparently, the nuns in a nearby convent liked to throw down while guzzling Garcia family wine by the barrel.”

  Luke Rodgers shakes his head. “Nuns. Gotta love ’em.”

  “If you had to wear hats like that every day, you’d drink your face off too. Anyway, when Carmen inherited the vines from her father, they were in pretty bad shape. She got a degree in microbiology and used her scientific background to bring the grapes back to life. I like to think you can taste that in her wines.” I run my thumb along my fingertips, trying to capture just the right words. “That mashup of art and science. History and innovation. Her vines are ancient, but her methods are smart and new. You mentioned that crisp apple zippiness this Albariño has—that’s sharp and sexy, yeah?”

  “Very mod,” Eli agrees.

  “But then there’s this backbone—yes, I know it’s ridiculous to use words like ‘backbone’ when describing wine, but I’m doing it and I’m not sorry—that’s got this earthiness, this minerality, that tastes ancient. It’s timeless, really. A reminder of the bigger story we’re all a part of.”

  Greyson nods, swallowing a sip of wine. “I’m not sorry either. I can totally taste what you’re talking about. That sense of…” He pauses, thinking. Takes another sip. I can almost see the light bulb going off in his head. “Continuity.”

  “How essentially human and right it is to enjoy good wine with good food and good friends. We’re taking part in an ancient tradition, getting fucked up with the people we love,” Eli says.

  Luke rolls his eyes. “You been hangin’ out with a writer or something lately?”

  “Married her.” Eli turns to me and grins. “I’m a huge fan of my wife’s torrid, kinky romance. Just like I’m a huge fan not only of this wine but of your storytellin’ too, Miss Crawford.”

  I refill more glasses, wishing I could pour for events and people like this every day.

  What if I made that happen? At a place like Blue Mountain Farm, anything is possible. I could bring in winemakers like Carmen. Organize whole weekends around regions, varietals, vineyards. Introduce guests to wines they would’ve never otherwise given a shot, expanding their horizons while giving them a good excuse to, as Eli so poetically put it, get fucked up with their people.

  I can bring people together. At the end of the day, that’s what I love most about wine.

  “Please, call me Emma. And I love a good story, clearly. All the better if it’s torrid. I actually just downloaded one of your wife’s books—My Enemy the Earl. I’m always looking for titillating new adjectives to use to describe wine.”

  “You’ll definitely find ’em in Olivia’s romances,” Ford Montgomery says. “They’re very…descriptive.”

  “I’m game,” I say. “In my line of work, being able to access the right vocabulary is just as important as being able to pour correctly.”

  People are buzzing and plates are licked clean. There’s laughter. Conversation. Heat from the fire, relief from the breeze. Looking around the table to make sure no one needs another pour before we start the next course, I see smiles. The guests are enjoying themselves, especially the one dude at the far end who keeps laughing.

  He also keeps looking at me, which makes my enjoyment dim ever so slightly, because I get the feeling I’m the one making him laugh. Not because I’m witty, but because I’m ridiculous. In his eyes, at least.

  It’s totally not okay for someone to laugh at me that way, but it’s an unfortunate reality of my job. Over the years, I’ve learned that the sooner you stay away from people who just don’t get it, the better.

  Also helps to keep their water glass full and their wineglass mostly empty.

  Making a mental note to keep his pours light from now on, I look away.

  My gaze lands on Samuel, who’s staring at me from the other side of the table. My stomach dips at the softness I see in his gaze. When he’s looked before, it’s been wolfish. Like he wants to eat me.

  But this—this is open and honest and interested. Like he wants to know more.

  About what? Wine? Me?

  And why are butterflies taking flight inside my torso?

  Chapter Twelve

  Samuel

  Fuck me, she’s on fire.

  Emma’s burning with real, ardent passion, pride too, and I can’t stop staring.

  “She’s incredible,” one of the guys at the table murmurs to his neighbor.

  She’s better than that. She’s extraordinary. She’s knowledgeable and relatable and funny and warm.

  She makes you feel something about the liquid in your glass that, on any other day, would just be wine. But today? Today the stuff is a story. A bridge between the past and present. A way to connect with people we love.

  It’s the meaning of life itself.

  I have never, in all my years drinking the world’s best wine, felt so much about a glass of grape juice, as Hank calls it. And I’m not even drinking it. I’m watching everyone else soak up the flavors while listening, rapt, to Emma’s explanation of why it’s important and what makes it special.

  All the while thinking it isn’t the wine that’s the star here.

  I should be threatened. Scared. I know this script all too well. She’s stealing the show. My show. The one I’ve poured years of my life into perfecting.

  Only, I’m enthralled.

  More. I want more of this, whatever it is. Her bravery, maybe? She’s taking a deep dive into wine and nuns and history, wearing her heart on her sleeve as she gives th
e table full access to who she is and what she loves.

  She’s allowing them to know her in a way I never, ever let people know me. And I’m witnessing, firsthand, how the table connects with her vulnerability, and how it allows her to genuinely, joyfully connect with them.

  This is what I’ve been missing.

  Holy shit, how did I not see it sooner? I’m protective by nature. I’ll protect my family at any cost.

  I guess I’ve been protecting myself too. I thought I was doing the right thing, pasting on a smile so I could get through life without being pummeled again.

  Beau once told me it’s natural to want to protect yourself when you’re a pro athlete, because the world—the media, the fans—believe nothing about our lives should be private. Like being an elite athlete means you aren’t entitled to freedom anymore or something.

  Is that why I’m so reticent?

  Unlike Emma. Lord, does she make being open—transparent—look good.

  She makes being known look like happiness. The kind of happy I saw in my parents’ faces when I was young and times were good.

  I want that. So damn bad. What if I trusted her and tried it on, her vulnerability? Dropping the bullshit smile and showing the world something else? Something real? I just—yeah, I’m scared shitless. Opening yourself up to joy also means opening up to pain.And I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  Speaking of pain—I’m about to visit some on that prick at seat fourteen. He’s been sneering at Emma all damn day.

  Maybe the wine does taste like history. Or maybe it just tastes like tomorrow’s hangover.

  What’s with the bun? She think she’s got a real job or something?

  Emma’s not letting it ruffle her feathers, but I can tell by the way her shoulders stiffen every time he makes a snide comment that it bothers her. Eli and the other guys seem to be too absorbed in their own conversations to really notice.

  But I notice. And that dickbag is one minute from getting hauled out of here by his hair.

  Thankfully, the rich, starchy smell of the paella distracts him. Checking my watch, I glance at Chef Katie, who gives me the thumbs-up.

  We’re on time, which means the paella course is almost ready.

  I glance at Emma who, like the veteran restaurant employee she is, glances back and forth between Chef and me.

  I nod. Emma nods back and heads for the table on the other side of the pavilion serving as our makeshift service station.

  I head for Chef. All the while stealing glances at Emma. She’s got her wine tool in one hand and a bottle of Canción de Sangre in the other. She nudges the edge of the screw beneath the foil. Tries to pull it back but ends up jerking her hand away, catching her thumb on the screw instead.

  “Fuck,” she says.

  The way she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as she says it makes my pulse hiccup.

  She brings the pad of her thumb to her mouth and sucks on it, her brow furrowed.

  I grab a plastic glove at the kitchen station—Chef keeps a box of them around for mishaps like this—and next thing I know, I’m standing beside Emma. I take the wine and the tool in one hand. Pass her the glove and a few cocktail napkins with the other.

  “You okay?”

  She takes her thumb out of her mouth and wraps it in a napkin. “Thanks. I’ll be all right. I don’t—I’ve never done that before. Cut myself.”

  “Maybe you’re too titillated to focus,” I say, working my wrist as I guide the screw around the mouth of the bottle. I glide my thumb under the foil, pulling it back easily.

  Emma watches me do it. Eyes glued to my fingers. For a second, her eyes lose focus.

  She blinks, drawing a sharp, quick inhale through her nose. “Talking about wine does tend to get me hot and bothered.”

  “I noticed.” I screw the tool into the cork and carefully give it a pull. The cork makes a muffled pop as it comes out.

  “God, that’s satisfying.” Emma nods at the cork. “That sound. Probably not as satisfying as Chef’s paella, though. It’s your turn.”

  Pouring the bottle into one of the decanters lined up on the table, I say, “My turn?”

  “To take the stage. You’re the food guy, right? Go knock their socks off with your paella.”

  Now that was not what I expected.

  In fact, apart from the wine tasting the other night, Emma hasn’t undermined me in any way, shape, or form. She’s literally handing me the reins, allowing me to showcase what I do best.

  Extraordinary.

  “One, Chef gets the credit for actually making the paella.” I set down the empty bottle and reach for another. I have the sudden urge to touch Emma, and if I don’t keep my hands busy, I’ll wrap my fingers around her wrist and bring her thumb to my mouth and suck on it myself.

  “And two—” Fuck, I forgot what two was.

  Emma grins. “One, what’s wrong with you and Chef taking the stage together? The cooking is hers, but the concept is all yours. And two, it’s satisfying as all get-out to accept praise when praise is due. I speak from experience.”

  “Of course you do,” I murmur, reaching for another bottle. “How many more of these do you want me to open?”

  Her lips twitch.

  “What?”

  Her eyes flick to meet mine. “Are you being a team player, Beauregard?”

  “I’m preparing wine for my guests to enjoy,” I reply gruffly, nodding at the glove in her hand. “Put that on so you can help.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watch as Emma does what I tell her. She turns away, but she must forget that I’m so much taller than her I’m practically a satellite to her planet. I can see it all at any time.

  And what I see is that her hands are shaking.

  I frown. “You eat today?”

  “What?” She throws me a look over her shoulder, snapping the glove into place. “Of course I ate. I’m not five. I can take care of myself.”

  “Better question: what did you eat?”

  “Best question yet: why don’t you mind your own damn business?” She grabs two decanters. “I had coffee. And a protein bar. And I guess half of another protein bar. Different flavor, though.”

  I stare at her, suddenly and deeply enraged. “What kind of garbage meal is that?”

  “The kind I have time for working twelve-hour days. I’m not starving, Beauregard. My hands…I’m, uh, nervous. New job, famous chef at our table—”

  “Horseshit.”

  Her eyes flash with something I can’t decipher. Surprise? Warmth? Both?

  “When you’re done serving this course, you go sit by Chef”—I nod in Katie’s direction—“and eat some real food. Understood?”

  “Whoa. Not only are you being a team player, but are you also caring? About me, of all people?”

  “No,” I grunt.

  She grins. “Hey. If you can’t be honest with me, at least make an attempt to be honest with yourself.”

  See, that’s just the thing. Somewhere along the way, I forgot what honesty looks like. Feels like. I’ve been lied to so often and so well that I guess I started assuming it was a dead language. Like Latin or some shit.

  But looking in Emma’s eyes, I realize the truth feels like this. Like rage. Rightness. The combination is equal parts maddening and magnetic, and this time, it’s my hands that shake as I grab two decanters and follow Emma to the table.

  I know this is the first time I’m collaborating with her in a meaningful way. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already thinking about the really cool stuff we could do together going forward.

  I think I’m actually seeing how working as co-heads might be a home run.

  I think I’m actually trusting Emma. And not because Beau’s making me but because she deserves it.

  Try it on. Maybe I should try accepting that Emma isn’t biding her time, waiting for the opportunity to manipulate me. To lie about her intentions.

  My heart lifts the way it always does at the sight of a ta
ble of loud, happy people. The waitstaff has begun to set out the paella, and the smell is incredible. A little spice from the chorizo, starch from the rice, earthiness from the homemade chicken stock Chef and I spent the past two years getting just right.

  I’m not the only one who appreciates just how fragrant and pretty the plates are.

  “Y’all see that char on the rice?” Luke says, lifting his plate to get a better look. “Perfect.”

  Elijah nods, and my chest swells. “Damn fuckin’ right it is.”

  “Chef Katie is all kinds of talented with a paella pan.” I fill Greyson’s glass, the scent of vanilla and stone fruit rising from the wine. Glancing across the table, I catch Emma looking at me. She tips her head.

  Keep going, she’s saying.

  So I take a deep breath and gird my loins and put myself out there.

  “Because I like to feed my ego, I’m gonna drop some knowledge on y’all.” The table laughs. Emma smiles. “The crispy, toasted rice you got there on your plates is called socarrat.”

  “Socarrat,” Eli repeats, tipping back his wineglass for a sniff. “The stuff of dreams.”

  I nod. “Exactly. Y’all give it a try. Notice how it’s a little sweet? That’s because the rice caramelizes in the pan. Add in that satisfying crunch, and you’ve got pure heaven. Well, for foodies like me, anyway.”

  Emma holds up her decanter. “This Rioja balances out that note of caramel nicely—taste the vanilla? A little more sweetness to go with all that savory happening on your plates.”

  Our eyes lock. Something urgent and sweet arrows through my center.

  “Genius,” Greyson says. “It’s a beautiful pairing, truly.”

  Emma’s at my side now, filling more glasses. Jen, a waitress, is right behind her. So I raise my arm and give Emma a nod. Lips twitching, she passes underneath it. Her elbow brushes against my belly, painting a brushstroke of heat across my torso.

  I’m trying honesty on, and it feels nice.

  “Nice casual mention of socarrat,” Emma says when we’re back at the service station. She’s uncorking bottles for the next course, so I start lining up the appropriate decanters.