Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  I am the damsel, yeah, and I hated every second of it.

  I’m the damsel and I love it, give me more please and thank you.

  My pulse spikes at the idea of this enormous, powerful man being even the tiniest bit submissive.

  Even the tiniest bit into plays on power dynamics. I have yet to find a man not on the internet who is.

  “There y’all are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  I turn my head and see Chef Katie standing on the pavilion’s top step. She’s squinting, like she can’t quite see us against the glare of the sun.

  My stomach drops a hundred stories. I quickly step away from Samuel and tuck nonexistent hairs behind my ears.

  My hands are shaking again. I clasp them behind my back, pulse roaring in my ears as I paste on a smile.

  “Just needed some air,” I call back.

  “I’ve got two plates of paella with your names on ’em,” she replies. “Come on up.”

  She puts the flat of one hand against her brow and waves us in with the other.

  Please, please tell me she didn’t see me looking up at Samuel with stars in my eyes.

  “Be right up,” Samuel says. I feel him looking at me, but suddenly, I can’t look back at him.

  I feel like a coward, but I need time. I need to figure out—God, I need to figure out what’s wrong with me.

  How I feel about the fact that I feel safe and alive and so turned on when I’m with Samuel.

  Is he a beta at heart?

  Working with him today has stoked my attraction to new heights. What the hell am I going to do about that? What if this happens every time we’re working together—me wanting him so badly I do something reckless that could jeopardize my career?

  “We should go,” I manage, and without looking back, I charge across the patio and up the steps into the pavilion.

  All the while, I have a keen awareness of Samuel’s presence two steps behind me. Close enough to let me know he’s there, far enough to let me know he’s allowing me the space I didn’t say I needed, but that he’s giving me anyway.

  He knows I need it. And the fact he’s paying such close attention makes me feel tender to the point of pain.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Samuel

  I’m half naked when I open the door.

  Hey, it’s Saturday night. I don’t usually have weekend nights off, but because Emma and I worked our fingers to the bone all day, we decided to give ourselves the rare treat of a free weekend evening. I’m celebrating by going commando in my coziest pair of sweats and nothing else.

  Signals must cross inside my head, because my body lights up at the sight of Emma standing on my front stoop.

  I still haven’t recovered from how…intense that little interaction we had on the smoking patio was. I let my hand linger on her body way longer than I should have under the guise of keeping her close so I could protect her, and she didn’t pull away.

  In fact, she touched me right back. The way she put her head on my shoulder and her hand on my arm, like she was struggling just as hard as I was to keep her body in check—

  Did she feel it too? That surge of desire and understanding between us? I think she did.

  From the way her eyes darkened, she must have.

  Then again, I don’t exactly trust myself when it comes to Emma Crawford. I definitely don’t trust my dick.

  But I did trust her today. And she came through in a big way.

  She’s wearing leggings and neon pink sneakers, hands balled in the front pockets of her fitted black puffer jacket. Her hair, usually hidden in a coil, is gathered in a long ponytail at the crown of her head.

  Her hair. It’s thick and shiny and wavy. When it’s kinda sorta free like this, she looks undone. A little wild.

  She looks hot as fuck.

  “I’d like to apologize,” she blurts.

  I pull back, startled. “Apologize? For what?”

  Her eyes flick to my bare chest. She swallows audibly, and then she trains her gaze on my face. Her mouth flattens, like it takes effort not to keep looking down. “For today. I’m sorry I walked away like I did, but I needed time to think. So I took this really long hike, and I got lost, and I…I don’t know why I touched you the way I did. You know, touching your arm and putting my head on your shoulder. I wasn’t thinking, and I-I just wanted you to know how embarrassed I am. And I think we should clear the air before, you know…”

  I blink. Out of all the things she could’ve told me, I wasn’t expecting that.

  I wasn’t hoping for that.

  The fact that I was hoping at all means I should thank her, tell her we’ll figure it out in the morning, and close the damn door.

  Instead, I open the door wider, and say, “Come in. Let’s talk.”

  Yep, I must have a death wish. Or at the very least a masochistic streak. I know someone who would approve.

  “You sure?” Emma asks, brow furrowing.

  “Of course. By the way, I feel like I owe you an apology too. I touched you without asking—”

  “You were just trying to do the right thing.” Emma’s eyes are steady on mine. “I appreciate that. No apology necessary.”

  “Okay. Good.” I motion her inside.

  Emma steps inside the foyer and glances around, eyes going wide.

  “I thought your suits were ridiculous. But this—Beauregard, this is sick.”

  “It’s baller, and I love it.” I close the door without bothering to lock it because this is Blue Mountain, and you’re more likely to run into Dave the Bear than a burglar. “By the way, how did you know this was my house?”

  The color in her cheeks burns from pink to red. “Lucky guess. I picked the biggest one I could find and just…went with it.”

  “Yeah, you did. I was going to open a bottle of something good to celebrate us not killing each other today. Want a glass?”

  She cuts me a look, her eyes slipping to my chest again. “May I request you put on a shirt first?”

  “You may not. Kitchen’s this way.”

  Emma follows me, steps slowing as we cross from the soaring sitting room into the kitchen.

  She gapes. I smile. The kitchen is incredible, and it’s the room I love the most in the house. The space is dominated by a pair of twelve-foot islands. One is for food prep, decked out with butcher block and two farm sinks, while the other is for dining, with several cushy barstools tucked underneath the marble countertop.

  Emma is immediately drawn to the range, the centerpiece of the kitchen. Of the entire house, probably. At fifteen feet long, with two ovens, eight burners, a griddle, a warming plate, and a grill, it’s the best range money can buy.

  “This is the most beautiful stove I’ve ever seen.” She gently runs her hand over the custom-made brass knobs. “Wow. Truly a work of art.”

  “It’s the sexiest piece of machinery I’ve bought. The most expensive too.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “We had it custom-made in France. Took something like a month to build the whole thing by hand. I’d been dreaming about getting one of these beauties for years, so when I could finally swing it, I wanted it to be perfect.”

  “Why a stove? Why not, say, a Lamborghini? Or a Caribbean island?”

  I lift a shoulder, very much enjoying the way her eyes move appreciatively over my bare skin. I may like to eat, but I also workout like a motherfucker. I’ve always been a work hard, play hard kinda guy.

  I’ve also been thinking a fuck ton about how trying on Emma’s honesty felt today.

  I decide to try it again tonight.

  “I love food. Grew up chubby ’cause my mama is the best damn cook this side of the Appalachians. Daddy wasn’t so bad either. Wasn’t long before I was bugging ’em to teach me how to make my own pancakes. Guess I just sorta took to it. I cooked for my siblings. Then my teammates and coaching staff. Now I cook for my family. Sunday supper’s my favorite time of the week.”

  She furrows her brow.
“That’s sweet.” She says it like she’s confused.

  I know the feeling. Here I am, welcoming into my home the sommelier I swore I’d kick to the curb.

  Makes absolutely no fucking sense. But it feels right, so I go with it.

  “Sit.” I point at a stool. “I decanted some Screaming Eagle. Sound good?”

  With her hand on the back of the stool, Emma cocks her head. “And here I thought I was winning you over with small producers and their stories of lushes who happen to be nuns.”

  I set the empty bottle and full decanter on the counter in front of her. Her eyes light up as she gives the decanter a sniff and inspects the label.

  “I appreciate the nun lushes.” I cross my arms over my chest, but even my biceps on full display don’t distract her from the wine. “Just like I appreciate a solid bottle from my BSD collection.”

  “Solid? Samuel, you have a better chance of meeting the real Santa Claus than you do of finding a bottle of 2016 Screaming Eagle. Do you always open thousand-dollar bottles of wine on your nights off?”

  “Yes.” I fill the gigantic bowls of a pair of Cabernet glasses. “I woke up this morning thinking there was a very real possibility I’d end up in a shallow grave by dinner, so…yeah. The fact that I’m alive is kind of a miracle. If that isn’t something to celebrate, I don’t know what is.”

  “I’m not that scary.”

  “Yes, you are. You know it, and you like it.”

  Holding up her glass, she smiles at me, unguarded and warm, and damn if my heart doesn’t turn over in my chest. “A toast to the truth. You’re finally telling it, and I’m pretty sure you learned that from me.”

  I sip. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re surrounded exclusively by yes men. Women. Yes people, I should say. Everyone but Beau.”

  Emma came here to apologize. And still she’s unapologetically, brutally, titillatingly honest.

  I tap my glass to hers. Keyed up and curious and why is my heart doing that aching thing? “What’s wrong with being surrounded by yes people if they helped you build the best restaurant at the best resort in the South?”

  “Chef Eli would beg to differ on the best restaurant bit. But I digress. What’s wrong with surrounding yourself with people who never challenge you is that you never grow. You’re not being pushed the way you need to be.”

  She’s right. Deep down, I know she’s right, and she’s giving me something else to think about.

  The girl’s always making me think and making me question. I want to hate it, but I don’t.

  Looking away, I sniff my wine. I don’t miss how Emma grins as she watches me dip my nose deep into the glass, just like she does. Whatever. It really does help you tease out the more subtle elements of the wine’s flavor profile.

  Case in point: I’ve had this same bottle several times over the past year (when you’re able to get your hands on the Holy Grail of California Cabs, you buy it by the case). But tasting it Emma’s way makes it a whole new experience. I pick up on notes of wet stone. Grass. Earth.

  “Petrichor,” she says, sniffing her own glass.

  I snap my eyebrows together. “What the fuck is that?”

  “What the world smells like after it rains.”

  The ache intensifies. “Yeah. Yes. I get that too. A little nutmeg on the nose?”

  She smiles, the kind that touches her eyes, and my heart is doing full-on backflips now. “Yes. Nice way to liven up those earthy notes.”

  She sips. I sip. Our eyes lock as the flavors explode on my tongue. Watching her watching me, I feel joy rise inside me. Same as it did when I tasted her Riesling.

  From the stunned look on her face, she’s feeling it too.

  It’s autumn afternoons. The smell in the air on Sunday right before a game. Leaves and nerves and the feeling of carrying on a tradition that’s gone unbroken for generations.

  A tradition that broke me.

  The joy that’s flooded me all day dims. A prick of fear, familiar and hard, punctures the soft stuff inside my chest.

  “Good God,” Emma says, smacking her lips. “That’s just…wow…no words…”

  She sips again, this dreamy look coming over her expression. My skin tightens.

  I like beautiful women. The curvier and flirtier, the sexier.

  But a thinking woman? A girl who honestly and openly engages with the truth?

  She might be the sexiest of all.

  Also the most dangerous.

  Clearing my throat, I give the wine in my glass a swirl. “I thought you didn’t like my BSD wine.”

  She swallows and shakes her head. “I never said that. I did say most of it was uninteresting. But this—it’s a cult wine for a reason. I get it, Beauregard.”

  “Look at us, proving each other wrong.”

  “Are you admitting that Riesling was the best fucking thing you’ve had this year?”

  I swirl again. “Maybe.”

  She’s smiling again, and Jesus Christ, so am I.

  Danger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Samuel

  “So.” I sip, the first stirrings of that red wine buzz I love so much tingling along my spine. “Didn’t you come here to clear the air?”

  Emma sets down her glass. “I did. I blurted out everything I came to say on your front step. But what went down on the smoking patio didn’t sit right with me. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m going to use your line and say no apology necessary.”

  Looking down, she settles the stem of her glass between her first two fingers, palm flat against the base. “I saw it today—how you were opening up. I hope that means we can finally work through why things between us have been so…difficult.” When she looks up, her eyes are serious. “I want this to work, Beauregard. The smoking patio incident notwithstanding, today went so damn well. I love the farm, I love the staff, and I love what we do together. It’s special. With your passion for food, my knowledge of wine, and a stellar staff to work side by side with us, we can do amazing, transformative, important work. See what great things can happen when you play nice? I can’t show you any more clearly. So please, for the love of God, stop being a dick, and start being the guy you were today. The one who’s kind and real and open to change.”

  My heart trips to a stop. The prick of fear becomes a full-on glacier of ice that lodges itself in my center.

  Be open to change, Beauregard.

  Those were the first words that came out of Coach’s mouth the day I was released from the team.

  Things are gonna change around here.

  Those were the words Daddy said to me when he came home from the hospital after getting lost on a neighbor’s farm.

  I blink, the world around me snapping into focus. Like I’m waking from a stupor or something. The look I’m giving Emma morphs into a glare, and the ice inside me burns to anger.

  I was kind once. I was real. I opened myself up to hope, but all I got was hurt.

  “What exactly are you trying to prove here, Emma?” I challenge. She startles at my sudden change in mood. “You’re at the top of your game, but you still try too damn hard. Here you are, trying to make me do things I don’t do and see things I don’t want to see. It’s annoying. I may be a dick, but you’re a pain in the ass.”

  Her shoulders set, and the look in her eyes turns to stone, even as the space between us electrifies. “I try hard because I care.”

  “No, you don’t. You try hard because you’re ashamed.” Oh, Lord, pot meet kettle. I have absolutely no right to say these things, but the words are coming too fast for me to stop them. “That’s why that drunk guy got to you. You’re hard on yourself because you don’t like yourself. Why do you think that is?”

  I’m being a huge dick, and I know that. I’m angry with myself for taking it so far, and ashamed I’m letting fear win.

  I’m angry that I’m ashamed. I’m angry that I have to put up with this barrage of inconvenient emotions at all.

  I don�
��t like being the angry guy. I’ve made it a point not to let my bitterness get the better of me. I’m the happy-go-lucky hotshot. But Emma’s making me see just how big the disconnect is between who I want to be and who I really am.

  Who I show the world, and who I show her.

  Somewhere in the swirl of emotions barreling through me, I know Emma doesn’t deserve this treatment. The up and down. The back and forth.

  But that doesn’t stop me from putting my dukes up.

  Hell, maybe it’s why I put ’em up in the first place. A shitty defense mechanism that’s getting really fucking old.

  Knowing that I’m wrong but not doing anything about it—that’s what makes me angriest of all.

  The red in her cheeks returns. She leaps up from her stool to stand in front of me. Without her heels, she’s even shorter than normal, but her ballooning rage gives her an enormous presence. Jabbing a finger into my chest, she says, “You don’t know a damn thing about me, Beauregard, so stop pretending you do. And let’s be real, you’re the one who tries too hard. You try to be something you’re not, and that, in my unhumble opinion, is much, much worse.”

  The rage that darts through my center tells me she’s right.

  Fucking hell, Emma’s right. And she is mad. And…hot? Is that flash in her eyes the kind of heat I think it is?

  Is this argument turning her on?

  It’d be twisted if that were true. Then again, everything about my relationship with Emma is twisted.

  She’s twisting me up and turning me inside out, and I don’t know how much more I can take.

  “I’m fine with who I am,” I say.

  “That why you’re all rage-y when I’m around? Because you’re fine?”

  I could be honest. But fuck it, honesty leads to hope, and hope leads to hurt. How many times do I need to learn that lesson?

  “Are you fine after how I made you feel today?” I duck my head and lower my voice. “I saw it, Emma. I heard it, I felt it, and I saw how much you wanted me. You’ve wanted to touch me like that from day one, haven’t you? And please, since you’re so into the truth, be honest.”