“That’s exactly why I’d make a terrible lawyer,” she says, eyes on mine. “And why I’m a fucking great sommelier. Because really, is there anything sexier than a great glass of wine?”
I feel the table’s eyes turn to me as they wait on my response. I know they’ve picked up on the less-than-friendly vibes between Emma and me.
I know they know that I wanted her gone. I only said as much, out loud and in front of employees, about five dozen times.
I don’t want that anymore. But am I ready to admit that not only to my staff but to myself too? That’s some terrifying territory right there.
But I have to try.
“I’ll go next,” I say. “Two truths and a lie. One, I think Emma is the best damn sommelier I’ve had the pleasure of working with, and I think she’s insanely talented with both wine and sexual innuendos, and I hope she’ll be with us at the farm for a long time. Two, the word moist grosses me out. And three, I have a favorite sibling.”
Emma’s smiling so hard it lights up her whole face. The kind of excitement she was talking about when we traded ideas about truth and honesty and authenticity.
And I did that.
I lit her up because I’m touching things inside her that matter. Or maybe I’m helping her touch those things.
Speaking of sexual innuendo—I’d love to touch her things. All of them. Inside and out.
Only, I can’t. I understand now why she’s so adamant about not engaging in workplace relationships. She’s staked her entire life on this job.
It’s important she not only keeps her position but thrives in it too. Which means she shouldn’t be taking stupid risks like hooking up with me.
Because, really, what if it blows up in our faces? What if one of us falls in lust and the other in love? How horrific would that be, coming to work every day knowing you’ll be side by side with the person who doesn’t want you back? It’d make me hate the job, no matter how much I love food or Emma loves wine.
It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
Besides, I have my date with V to look forward to. Who’s to say we won’t hit it off? I’m really, really hoping it goes well. If only so I have someone else to think about besides Emma Crawford.
“Three,” Emma says softly. “You hate all your siblings. Only because you love them so much that you smother them with your curiosity and your cooking, which makes them lash out at you often and with great vehemence.”
Bianca furrows her brow. “Samuel, you like the m word? Ew!”
The table’s laughing. Emma’s lit up.
And me? I keep finding more reasons to dig the woman I can’t have.
* * *
I throw the casserole dish onto the range and coat it with butter.
Tossing a cutting board onto the counter, I mince a couple scallions while I wait for the spinach to cool, cursing when my knife comes down on my thumbnail.
It makes me think of the time Emma cut her thumb with her wine tool. Her lips had ducked out ever so slightly as she sucked on it.
She’d be great at sucking dick. I know she would be. The idea of being at her mercy with my dick in her mouth—she’d be on her knees, but I’d be the one begging—makes my balls tighten.
Why does everything have to make me think of her? I need to be moving away from this shit, not toward it. This isn’t high school, and we aren’t hormonal teenagers with questionable self-control. I can defeat these feelings if I try hard enough.
But that’s the problem. I am trying. I try every fucking minute of every hour not to think about Emma, not to feel what I feel for her. But it seems the harder I try, the more I realize I’m a hopeless case.
I throw the knife across the island. It skitters across the countertop and lands with a bang on the floor.
Hank, who’s apparently let himself into my house, bends down to pick it up.
Holding it in his hand, he says, “Rage cooking again?”
Wrapping my thumb in a paper towel, I cut him a glare. “What do you want?”
He nods at a stool. “Why don’t you sit and let me handle the scallions?”
“Fine.” I sit. “You know what you’re doing?”
Hank sidles up to the cutting board and shrugs. “Not really. But better I mess up the garlic than you lose a finger. What are you making, anyway?”
“Quiche. Chef Katie just harvested our first crop of spinach, and we’ve got that ridiculous house-made feta. Thought it’d make a nice combo.”
His eyes rove over the pantry’s worth of eggs, sour cream, butter, and half-and-half I have set out. “Are you cooking for the staff again?”
I deflect. Because I’m cooking for Emma even though I shouldn’t be. “How do you know about that? The breakfast I made for everyone, I mean.”
“Dude, the whole restaurant won’t shut up about your scones and how you like the word moist.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Who are you, and how, as manager of guest relations here at Blue Mountain Farm, can I get you to stay?”
“Throw in the scallions.” I nod at the dish on the stove. “I’ll add the eggs next.”
Hank scoops up the scallions and tosses them in the pot. Half of it ends up on the floor. What-the fuck-ever.
“A lot of the staff also mentioned you and Emma have, uh, a special rapport.”
I can’t tell if it’s the heat from the range or if it’s emotion that’s making Hank’s cheeks turn red. Is he embarrassed? Does he have something he wants to say?
“Say it.”
He doesn’t look up from the pot, gathering a few stray chopped scallions from the cutting board. “Say what?”
“Whatever you came here to talk about.”
Dropping the scallions into the dish, he turns around and crosses his arms. “Is there something going on between you and Emma?”
“No,” I say a little too quickly. “Absolutely not. Why?”
He scratches the underside of his clean-shaven jaw. “No reason. Just wanted to make sure we, uh, didn’t have a…situation on our hands is all.” He looks at me. “You sure you don’t have feelings for her?”
“That’s not what you asked.”
“Well, I’m asking it now,” he says. Hank’s an easygoing guy, so it surprises me that he’s getting angry. “Do you have feelings for Emma?”
Be honest.
But what if I’m honest about how I want to feel? Does that count?
“I don’t, no.” Self-loathing crawls up my throat as the words leave my mouth.
Still. Maybe if I say them, I’ll actually start to believe them. I’m that desperate. And Hank doesn’t need to know about how I really feel.
What if confessing it somehow blows back on Emma? I’d trust Hank with my life. But I’ve been around long enough to know shit like this grows legs and gets around more often than not.
Admitting my feelings would just reopen a closed case.
But because I’m an asshole, and because this whole conversation is rubbing me the wrong way, I still can’t help asking Hank the same question.
“Do you? Have feelings for her?”
A beat passes between us. His eyes are locked on mine, but they’re a little vacant. Like he’s somewhere else.
“No,” he says.
Abandoning the scallions, he leaves my house.
Chat #4
MyBoyBlue4: Friday night it is! That still work for you?
LadyV76: Sure does. I’m trying to keep my expectations in check here, but…yeah, I am really looking forward to meeting up. Although I admit I’m terrified of disappointing you.
MyBoyBlue4: I’m scared of the same. Taking this offline is definitely a leap of faith. But I’m trying to be more honest and brave and shit. And I honestly really, really want to meet you.
LadyV76: The fact that you’re saying that makes me even more excited to meet *you.* Things with work are actually smoothing out. Well, they are, and they aren’t.
MyBoyBlue4: Care to explain?
LadyV76: Maybe when
I see you. It’s quite the story. And it has nothing to do with us, except that I think I’m finally able to, you know, do something nice for myself. Like go on a date with a dude I like.
MyBoyBlue4: Whoa, whoa, whoa, you like me?
LadyV76: I like your dick. I hope I’ll like you.
MyBoyBlue4: Fair.
LadyV76: Let’s agree to some ground rules. We’ve already agreed to meet in a public place. No phone numbers are exchanged until after we meet. I may have a friend tag along, at least for the beginning.
MyBoyBlue4: Right. Just to make sure I’m not that serial killer. How will I know it’s you?
LadyV76: I’ll be wearing my heels. The ones you’ve seen. What about you?
MyBoyBlue4: I’ll be wearing…hm. Let me think about this.
LadyV76: Really?
MyBoyBlue4: Hey now Miss I Love to Subvert Gender Norms. I like clothes. So what? I make ’em look good.
LadyV76: Funny, but my coworker, the one I’m always complaining about, likes clothes too.
MyBoyBlue4: Ha. If I were your coworker, you wouldn’t be complaining.
LadyV76: I’d probably be fired, considering how much sex we’d be having.
MyBoyBlue4: Oh, yeah. All over the place. Shit, I just got hard. But let’s figure out the details of our date before we get down. I need this. Both the date and the orgasm.
LadyV76: Something on your mind, Blue?
MyBoyBlue4: Yeah. I can’t figure out what to wear. What’s your favorite color?
LadyV76: I have two: black and blue.
MyBoyBlue4: You were born to dominate, weren’t you?
LadyV76: Indeed.
MyBoyBlue4: Okay. I’ll wear blue then. But it won’t be like a bullshit French blue collared shirt or anything. I hope you weren’t expecting a banker.
LadyV76: Nope. So basically, you’ll be hard to miss in your unique shade of blue.
MyBoyBlue4: And you’ll definitely stand out in those fucking heels. Can we throw in something cheesy and expected?
LadyV76: Like?
MyBoyBlue4: Hm. What if you bring…an apple?
LadyV76: Oh ha, the naughty teacher thing from our first chat. Good memory. Okay, I’ll be holding an apple. What about you?
MyBoyBlue4: I’ll have a Van Halen CD on the table.
LadyV76: You still have a CD?
MyBoyBlue4: It was my dad’s. VH was his favorite band, so I kept all their cassette tapes and CDs he collected over the years.
LadyV76: Van Halen was one of my dad’s favorite bands too! He’s very square, very uptight, the kind of guy who wears khakis and cuff links on the weekend. But he had this secret love for eighties hair bands. Well, it wasn’t secret per se, but he definitely didn’t advertise it. You go for a ride in his Lexus, though? You bet he had Panama blasting.
MyBoyBlue4: I like your dad.
LadyV76: He and I are pretty much opposites. But sometimes I think I got my weird, artsy feely wild streak from him. I guess he could just hide his better.
MyBoyBlue4: Maybe his didn’t sing as loud as yours.
LadyV76: Cool thought. Yeah, maybe.
[A pause]
MyBoyBlue4: I’m more nervous than I want to admit.
LadyV76: But you’re admitting it, which is hot. I’m nervous too. While we’re being honest…this is the first date I’ve gone on in over a year. In real life, I mean. Not on the internet. I’m worried I forget how.
MyBoyBlue4: How to what?
LadyV76: Date. Have fun. Do something other than work.
MyBoyBlue4: I get it. My hobby is my work. Which is awesome most of the time, but it really blurs the line between my professional and personal lives. As in, I don’t really have a personal life anymore. Insert wincing emoji here.
LadyV76: The more we talk, the more I feel like we’re the same person. Well, except for the whole alpha/beta thing. Although you made a pretty good alpha the other night. But I digress. My point is, my hobby is my work too, and the lines have definitely been blurring lately. Which is one of the (many) reasons I’m so excited to meet you. I think you might be just what I need to get over this weird hump.
MyBoyBlue4: Jeez no pressure or anything. Just kidding. Speaking of hump…what happens if we meet each other and we totally hit it off and we want to bone?
LadyV76: Then we get a fancy hotel room and we bone until our bodies give out. Yes, I’ll keep my heels on. Everything else comes off.
MyBoyBlue4: I got a shiver just thinking about it.
LadyV76: Me too. I also got scared.
MyBoyBlue4: You know what I like most about you?
LadyV76: What’s that?
MyBoyBlue4: You keep it real. I’m trying to do the same, but it’s not easy.
LadyV76: It’s never easy. But I’d like to think it requires a lot less effort than pretending to be perfect all the time.
MyBoyBlue4: Good point. So…next time we talk, it will be in person.
LadyV76: Pretty crazy. Please don’t kill me.
MyBoyBlue4: Hey. What if you end up being the serial killer?
LadyV76: These heels can definitely be used as weapons…
MyBoyBlue4: Wait, you’re wearing them now?
LadyV76: [sends picture of her feet crossed on the bed, legs bare, stilettos on]
MyBoyBlue4: Boing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Emma
On Monday, forecasters give the freak winter storm sweeping through the Rockies a twenty percent chance of making it to Asheville by the weekend.
On Friday, winter storm warnings are issued across Buncombe County.
That’s right. On the night I’m supposed to head into town for my first date with Blue, blizzard conditions are expected. They’re calling for up to eight inches of snow and forty mile-per-hour wind gusts.
It’s April.
If I were superstitious, I’d say the universe was conspiring against Blue and me meeting. Good thing I’m not.
So on Friday morning, I put my head down and hope for the best, and thank the powers that be that my Toyota has four-wheel drive. Luckily, the snow isn’t supposed to start in earnest until after seven. I figure worst-case scenario, I’ll make it downtown for dinner but get snowed in there, in which case I’ll just grab a hotel room. And if Blue and I hit it off, that definitely wouldn’t be a bad thing.
I’m really hoping we hit it off. I wasn’t lying when I told Blue I need this—need to get out and lust after someone other than Samuel Beauregard. Maybe that’s all it will take. A night out with someone new to help me forget about my crush on the guy who has life or death authority over my dream job.
Maybe I’m being overly idealistic, believing one date with someone new will do the trick. But I have to do something, or I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
Schools close early, but we’re fully booked for the weekend at the farm. Thanks to the approaching storm, guest arrivals begin earlier than usual, and we get a steady stream of diners and drinkers at the barn from breakfast onward.
I tell myself that busy is good as I run to the cellar to grab a pricey bottle of Muscadet. Busy means I won’t have time to think about…well, how much I try to think about Blue but end up thinking about Samuel instead.
How much he’s changed since I arrived.
How his tongue felt between my legs.
How fucking handsome he is today in his cobalt suit and black tie. He was the first person I saw when I came in this morning, looking fresh and sharp, if a little subdued. He didn’t smile at me, but his eyes did, and my heart dropped, and my lips throbbed, and I wondered if I’d taste the coffee on his mouth if I kissed him.
Stop. I try to stop thoughts like that in their tracks. Samuel’s respected my wish to keep things friendly, and it’s only fair my imagination does the same.
Trusting my feet to guide me down the stairs—I could run up and down this staircase in my sleep I do it so often—I close my eyes and try to imagine what Blue will look like. Granted, I’ve only seen his thighs, dick,
and stomach, but it’s obvious he’s in great shape. He had a light brown, almost red happy trail, so maybe his hair will be a lighter shade of that? Or darker? And his eyes, I bet they’re—
“Whoa!”
I bump into something hard at the same moment I hear Samuel’s voice. My eyes fly open and the spicy smell of masculine shampoo fills my head. Suddenly, I find myself pressed against his broad chest with my nose buried in his shirt. He’s close enough that I can make out the different shades of blue that speck his irises—slate, sky, ocean.
“Wow, I am so sorry,” I manage, leaning back.
“Are you trying to break a leg? Or do you always walk down staircases with your eyes closed?”
“I’m, um, practicing. For the time you inevitably challenge me to find a specific bottle down here blindfolded. I refuse to accept another tie, so…”
He smiles. With his eyes and his mouth this time.
An ache unfurls along the sides of my torso, so strong and persistent it makes me short of breath. My heart is popping around again.
I want to put my mouth on this man so very badly.
“Game on. But seriously, I don’t want you breaking those legs, okay?”
“Ha,” I say. But the universe must really be conspiring against me because my left leg buckles.
My knee literally gives out, and I feel myself going down like a heroine in a Regency novel. I didn’t think swooning was a real thing until this moment.
And just like in a Regency novel, Samuel curls an arm around my waist and holds me up—holds me against him—the motion quick and effortless.
“Whoa,” he repeats, brow furrowed. “Emma, I was joking, but if you’re really not okay, let’s sit you down and get you some water. If you tell me this involves a protein bar—”
“No protein bars.” I put my hands on his chest and gently push him away. “Just busy. I’ll see you around.”
I hobble into the cellar and leave Samuel staring after me. It’s rude, and it’s weird, but I’m worried if I stood there one second longer, I would’ve done something stupid.
Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel Page 18
