Southern Hotshot: A North Carolina Highlands Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  It means leveling everything I’ve worked for. Everything that’s kept me sane since my retirement. But I will not see Emma lose her shot at happiness on my account.

  It hurts like hell, giving it all up. But I’d like to think it’s what Daddy would do.

  I’d like to think I’m making him proud.

  “I hit my stride because I had Emma working beside me. Now that she’s gone—”

  “Wait.” Beau stares at me. “Don’t tell me Emma is resigning, too? I thought you said you wanted her as your replacement!”

  I swallow. “She’s gonna try. To quit, I mean. But you can’t let her. Emma, Hank, and I—the three of us shouldn’t be working together. Someone has to go, and of course she was the first to volunteer.”

  “Such a Katniss move,” Bel calls.

  I pull my brows together. “Who’s Katniss, and why do I have a feeling she has something to do with that sparkly vampire guy?”

  “Clearly, you need to brush up on your YA love triangles. Anyway—I could wring all y’alls’ necks right now. I’m not accepting this.” He tosses the letter back at me. It flutters awkwardly through the air, landing somewhere on the floor next to his chair.

  “Too bad. I’m not working for Blue Mountain Farm anymore.”

  Beau lets out an aggravated sigh. “Why can’t the three of you work together? You’re adults. Y’all just need to swallow your pride and get over your damn selves.”

  I dip my head. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do here. But there’s a lot of hurt feelings involved—”

  “Have you talked to Hank? Reached out to him?”

  My chest tightens. “No.”

  “You need to figure that shit out.”

  “He’s the one who kissed my girl.”

  Beau narrows his eyes at me. “You showed your ass when Emma got here. Now he’s showing his when she leaves. Really, you’re both at fault, and you both have shit to atone for.”

  “Maybe,” I sniff. “Maybe not. Either way, I don’t trust myself to talk to him without it ending bloody.”

  “What? Who do you think you are, Jax Teller? This isn’t a motorcycle club. This is a family. And I won’t see it come apart on my watch. Make things right with Hank, you hear? I’m telling you as a boss, but first and foremost, I’m telling you as a brother. We’ve all come too far and been through too much shit to give up on each other now. Besides, what do you think is gonna happen after you resign? Will you really never talk to Hank again? Are you going to skip Sunday supper from now until forever so y’all don’t have to see each other? The problem is still gonna be there, Samuel, whether you leave or not. Find Hank and talk to him. Right now. Walk out that door”—he nods in the direction of his foyer—“find your brother, and make this right. Don’t freeze him out until you’ve heard his side of the story.”

  By the way my gut seizes, I know that’s exactly what I should do. I should let Hank explain himself. I should at least attempt to make things right. The thought of missing out on a single Sunday supper, much less all of them from now on, makes me short of breath.

  But my anger is the only thing keeping me from drowning in my pain. Anger is easy.

  Forgiveness is not.

  I know it makes me a hypocrite, asking Emma to forgive me for being a bonehead while refusing to forgive Hank for the same sin.

  Then again, he was more than a bonehead. He was malicious. He knows my history, which means he definitely knows how painful his betrayal would be.

  He knew exactly where to sink his dagger to hurt me most. So yeah. If Hank wants to come to me, I’ll talk. But I won’t be the one extending the olive branch. That’s up to him.

  “Let me figure out things with Emma first, okay? Then…yeah, we’ll see what happens with Hank.”

  Beau rises with a groan. “Don’t you play that game with me, Samuel Joseph.”

  “You know, using my middle name to get me to listen only works when Mama does it.”

  “You don’t figure your shit out, I’ll get Mama to kick your ass. How about that?”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He points at the door. “Oh, I would. Now get gone so I can put this nugget to bed.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, running a hand over my face. “I really am, for being such a douchebag to Emma in the beginning. I thought you didn’t trust me to handle everything. The food and the wine programs.”

  That gives Beau pause. He frowns. “Of course I trusted you. This—right now—it’s the first time I’ve ever questioned that.”

  The knife twists.

  Aw, fuck.

  * * *

  I don’t know what to do with myself when I get home.

  Usually I’d check my email. Fire off some calls about John and Celeste’s big wedding, which is next weekend.

  But I’m unemployed now, and not exactly in my right mind, so no point in doing that.

  Usually I’d decant a bottle of something good. The cellar really is my happy place. But now wine just reminds me of Emma.

  God, if only she were here right now—

  We’d be in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the island, glass of Amarone in front of her as she watches me cook at the stove. I’m making comfort food, maybe breakfast for dinner? Eggs Benedict, Southern style, with fried green tomatoes, grit cakes, and Mama’s creamed collards. Homemade hollandaise and a side of crispy sweet potatoes.

  The fire’s going, and Emma’s smiling, and everything is warm and cozy as it should be. We’d eat, then we’d fuck. The kind of sex that takes all night and leaves you shaking.

  Instead, I’m standing in my dark kitchen alone, starving but feeling too sick to eat. I put my hand on the countertop. The marble is cold to the touch, and I start to shake for a different reason.

  I can’t.

  I can’t face the fucking enormity of what I’m feeling. The truth is killing me now, and if I don’t stop it, I’m afraid it’s just gonna leave my mangled body for dead.

  The gym. Yeah. Maybe that’ll help. Always clears my head, and I need to come up with a plan for how to clean up this mess.

  I throw on some shorts. Don’t bother with a shirt. I head downstairs to the basement. The trophy case is usually lit up, but tonight, I’m glad it’s dark down here. I can’t look at that stuff right now.

  I blast music while I push my limits on one machine after another. I put on the TV. I even talk to myself in the mirror like a lunatic. But it’s still too quiet. Nothing drowns out the voice in my head telling me I’m being a fuckwad. Not the sweat dripping in my eyes or the pounding of my heart or the acute burn in my muscles.

  Nothing makes me miss my girl any less.

  I was annoyed my brothers showed up the other day. But now I miss them. I need someone to talk to, but they all kinda hate me right now, and I hate them right back. It’s a disaster, and I don’t know how to fix it.

  One problem at a time. I’ll figure out how to get Emma back on the farm and go from there.

  Emma is V. I still can’t believe it.

  I want her. So badly.

  I love her, deeply.

  I love being the beta to her alpha.

  I love her courage.

  I love her adventurousness. I want to be her bastard forever and always.

  But we fucked up and now I’m alone in my gym, and I’m worried sick I’ve done things and said things I can never take back or make amends for.

  I have to get her back.

  An hour and a half later, I’m still shaking, but I’m hoping I’ve exhausted myself to the point that I can get some sleep.

  My sister calls. I ignore it. Rhett calls, and I ignore him too. Even Annabel sends me a text, asking if I’m okay, but I don’t respond. I tell myself it’s because I need to focus on Emma. Then I’ll deal with my fucking family.

  But deep down I know I’m just hanging on to my rage for dear life.

  I get in bed and wait for sleep to come. It doesn’t. I lie there, the silence so loud it screams.


  I’m right back where I started.

  Alone.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Emma

  The next day is bright and warm. Springtime in the North Carolina mountains, where seventy-degree days follow freak snowstorms, and no one bats an eye.

  I’m surprised when Lindsey says she’ll stay another night.

  “But don’t you have to work?” I ask, trying valiantly to choke down some cereal. It’s the only thing I have in the house for breakfast, and it’s stale.

  But even if it were Samuel’s lemon scones, I don’t think I’d be able to eat. I’m nauseous to the point that I wonder if I’ll be able to make the drive up to Blue Mountain without puking.

  “I took a few days off to celebrate my promotion.” She tips back her mug. “Needed to charge my batteries before I dive back in, you know?”

  I feel a prick of envy, and not the good kind, either. My sister is taking time off to celebrate moving up in her world, while here I am, free-falling through mine. It’s only a matter of time before I hit rock bottom.

  Still, I try my best to put on a brave face.

  “Good for you,” I say thickly. “I’ll try to get off as early as I can. I’ll bring home some dinner.”

  “I got dinner. I’ll make us something good, okay?” She reaches across the sofa and gives my arm a squeeze. “You got this, Em. It only gets better from here.”

  I get in the car and blink back tears. I’m nervous about telling the staff I’m quitting. I’m really nervous about running into Hank.

  Most of all, I’m nervous about seeing Samuel.

  But crying isn’t going to fix my problems. So on the drive up to the farm, I manage not to puke and come up with a plan instead. I make a mental list of people I can call: former managers and restaurant group heads. My friends at the big box wine store in West Jefferson—maybe I can land there while I figure out my next move. Fellow sommeliers at the top restaurant and wine spots downtown.

  Do I want to stay in Asheville, though? I’ve lived in the mountains for more than a decade. I’ve lived in the Carolinas my whole life. I love it here.

  But maybe it’s time for a change. Nashville has a booming hospitality scene. There’s always Charleston too. Would it be wrong if I gave Elijah Jackson a call? I could ask Beau if he’d be cool with it.

  The freefall happens inside my chest too, when I think about that being the last conversation I have with Beau.

  How many more times will I get to drive through the resort’s front gate?

  The snow’s melted, except for a few spots in the shade beneath trees and the hollows of hills. Everything is suddenly vibrant green, the sky wide open and clear, a shade of blue so intense it makes your heart turn over to look at it.

  The farm glitters beneath the springtime sun. I crack my windows, the smells of grass and earth filling my lungs. Horses in the field to my right toss their manes. Chef Katie’s line cooks are in the enormous garden to my left, baskets on their hips as they gather whatever produce wasn’t squashed by the late spring snow. I wonder what alterations Chef has had to make to tonight’s menu. Did the asparagus make it? If not, what is she subbing in the agnolotti? That Tuscan kale, maybe?

  Oooooh, if that’s the case, then that spicy Napa Valley Cabernet Franc would be perfect with it.

  I’m gripped by sharp-edged longing. I love my job here.

  I love it here, period. So much.

  But I can’t stay. If it was meant to be, it would’ve worked out, right?

  I want to turn around when the barn comes into view. I may love my job, but I do not love the idea of facing the mess I’ve made. Still, I park in the lot behind the restaurant and march through the door, determined to show up anyway. If I only have two weeks left, I’m going to try to enjoy them. A tall order, considering I’ll have to see the man I love but can’t have every damn day.

  Still, I have to try.

  Guests are eager to escape their rooms after being cooped up, so we’re slammed right from the get-go. It’s a nice distraction, but my heart is lodged somewhere in my throat as I wait to run into Samuel or Hank or any Beauregard, really.

  I’m distracted to the point that I can barely function. I drop a tray carrying a bottle of Pinot Grigio and four glasses. The shatter brings the noise in the restaurant to a temporary standstill as everyone stares. I mix up a Chardonnay and a Sauv blanc I have chilling at the wait station and end up serving two tables the wrong wines. It’s not the end of the world, but when the bottle of Chardonnay you’re serving costs upward of two hundred dollars, your customers aren’t going to be very happy.

  I totally bungle not one but two tickets. I get well-deserved side-eye from Chef Katie when I pick up a hot plate without a towel and burn my hand.

  I’m a mess, and it’s embarrassing. Also embarrassing? The way I catch staff looking at me every so often. It’s obvious they know something’s up. Makes me wonder how much they know. Are they looking because I’m fucking up? Or are they looking because I fucked my co-director?

  Brunch service passes, then lunch. Dinner’s around the corner, but Samuel is still nowhere to be found.

  At quarter till five he walks in. He’s wearing a suit, as usual, but this one is alarmingly subdued for him. It’s black, no pinstripes, no pocket square. His simple white button-down is open at the neck.

  His eyes find mine across the restaurant, and I’m hit by a tidal wave of emotion.

  He is so fucking handsome. And he looks so distraught. His eyes are red, and his scruff is scruffier than usual, like he hasn’t shaved in a day or two. The naked hurt in his gaze has me putting a hand on my chest to keep my heart inside its proper cavity.

  He immediately comes to me.

  “Hi,” he says.

  I smell his skin and want to cry. “Hey.”

  “My office? Just for a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  I trail him upstairs. A few pairs of eyes follow us. My face burns.

  Samuel closes the door behind me and moves to stand at his desk. I stay put by the door. Not wanting to stay but not wanting to go, either.

  “I’ve resigned,” he says.

  I startle, my heart falling. “But you can’t!”

  “I did. Effective immediately. You’re my replacement.”

  Dizzy, my hand moves to my stomach. I try to breathe through the shock roiling my gut. “I can’t replace you if I’ve resigned too.”

  “You said one of us has to go. It’s not gonna be you. I have no idea what the fuck is going on with Hank, and quite frankly, I don’t care. So that leaves me.” His eyes soften. “We need you, Emma. The farm’s gotta move forward, and you’re the only one who’s up to the task. That much has become clear.”

  I’m blinking back tears, wondering what in the world is happening. Wondering when the hell I’m going to stop crying. I was so good at managing my emotions before I met Samuel. I had control over the people in my life and how they made me feel.

  But ever since he came into my life, my feelings are a runaway train. It’s terrifying.

  “But the staff,” I say. “Our reputation—”

  “If I’m gone, they’ll forget. Out of sight, out of mind kind of thing. Y’all can work together to push this program to heights even Beau hasn’t dreamed of. Em, this job—it was meant for you. You love it. It lights you up. It gives you what you want, so take it. I’m begging you.”

  I close my eyes and just breathe. Because that’s all I can manage at the moment.

  “But what will you do?” I say.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. No, that’s a lie, I won’t be fine. Not until I know you’re okay.” He curls his hand into a fist and sets it, knuckles down, on the desk. “Right now, I’m not going to ask you to take me back. That’s not what this conversation is about. But I meant it when I said I’m going to fight for you. Being in my bed alone without you—I couldn’t sleep. I can’t eat.”

  Opening my eyes, I draw a trembling breath. “Sounds fa
miliar. But how are you going to put your family back together if I’m here?”

  “Let me figure that out. It may take some time, but my family and I have been through tough shit before. We made it out alive, and we can do it again.”

  “Have you spoken to Hank since—”

  “I haven’t.” His expression falls. “I’m not ready yet. You said you need time, and maybe I need that too. Time to let my relationship with my brother heal.”

  I shake my head. I’m watching the damage to Samuel’s family happen in real time. I’ve already caused too much hurt. The sooner I leave, the sooner Samuel and Hank can reconcile, and the sooner they can all move on.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t accept your offer.”

  Then I turn and go before Samuel can convince me to stay.

  * * *

  I walk into my apartment and immediately stop in my tracks.

  Lindsey is spread out on my sofa, an enormous, half-eaten pepperoni pizza in a box on the coffee table in front of her. She’s got a glass of white wine in one hand and the remains of a slice in the other. Her hair is in a messy knot at the top of her head, and she’s wearing leggings with one of my oversized sweatshirts. Mascara is smeared in blue-black halos around her eyes, making them look like two burn holes in a sheet.

  Paul Hollywood is eviscerating some poor redhead’s raspberry pavlova on TV. The Great British Bakeoff? Really? Last we talked, Linds and Palmer “don’t have time to watch TV.” Much less something light and fluffy like GBB.

  “Lindsey?” I say slowly, my heart beginning to pound. “What’s going on?”

  She doesn’t look at me. Just rips off a chunk of pizza and says, “Tried to cook. Couldn’t. Sorry.”

  “I mean what’s going on with you?” I gesture at her disheveled person. “I’ve never seen you wear a sweatshirt. I’ve never seen you eat carbs. Did someone die?”

  I mean it as a joke, but the hurt I see in Lindsey’s eyes when she finally meets my gaze makes me want to die.

  “How’d it go today?” she asks.

  “It sucked. Tell me what’s wrong, Lindsey, or I’m going to call Palmer and have him explain why you’re having a mental breakdown on my couch.”