Aw, I like that heat. That hint of a chink in the armor of her impeccable professionalism.
But then she blinks and the heat is gone, smoothed over by something like victory.
We’ll see about that.
“Xavier?” The waiter appears at my elbow in half a second flat. “Would you mind bringing some cornbread to the table?”
“Ah,” Emma says, glancing up at my face. “You’ve been neglectful of that. Making it moist.”
“I’m going to take my brother’s advice and stop the food puns there. But I figure we could use some extra carbs to soak up five courses of wine.”
“Six. I included a dessert course.”
“I hate dessert wine.”
“Trust me with this one? You’ll like it.”
“You have no idea what I like.”
I run my fingers up the stem again. But this time, her eyes stay glued to mine.
“I’m learning,” she replies steadily. “I’m good at reading the room. Good at reading people.”
“Oh? And what kind of book am I?”
The gleam in her eyes darkens. “I’m not sure yet.”
Her eyes keep flicking to my fingers. The ones wrapped around the elegant stem of my wineglass.
I gently glide them up the stem. Then I pick up the glass and bring it to my lips.
Time to get down to business.
Closing my eyes, I do my best to ignore the heaviness in my groin and focus on the wine instead.
I inhale. My nostrils sting at the immediate hit of alcohol. Behind that, I smell burnt sugar, an almost sticky strawberry note that brings to mind the kind of old, gooey candy you’d get at Grandma’s house.
Emma sips, taking the lead, and I follow. Bubbles wash over my tongue. I wrinkle my nose. Oh, yeah, that sticky sweetness is there, and it is gross. Gotta be something young and cheap.
“You’re smiling,” Emma says, swallowing. “You know this one?”
“I’m smiling because your pick is downright awful. Reminds me of the crap I’d duct tape to my hands in college.”
Emma cocks a brow. “You duct taped bottles of sparkling wine to your hands in college?”
“You’ve clearly never played Edward Forty Hands. It was forty-ounce bottles of malt liquor, actually, but it tasted the same.”
“Right.” She digs her teeth into her bottom lip, still smiling. Like she knows something I don’t. “How about you save all your answers for the end? Make a note on your phone about what you think each wine is. Varietal, vintage, and location.”
No need. I make a mental note—gotta be Prosecco, two or three years old, Italy—and raise my hand for the next round.
Emma’s arm shoots out. She grabs my forearm, the heat of her touch seeping through the sleeve of my jacket, and guides it back down to the table.
Her grip is firm. Confident. So is her voice when she says, “This is my tasting, Beauregard. I call the shots.”
My cock stands at attention as my vision goes red.
Who the hell does Emma think she is?
And since when does she call me Beauregard?
“Keep it moving,” I grunt, slugging what’s left of the sparkling.
Emma’s paired it with a winter kale, Manchego, and chili dusted pecan salad. We eat while we wait for the next pour. I can’t help but notice how she eats like a European, fork in her left hand, knife in her right, and every time she takes a bite her lips linger on the tines of her fork. Gliding over them slowly as she savors every morsel.
When she moans, my knife slips against my plate and almost gouges my eye out.
“Wow,” she says, shaking her head appreciatively. “We gotta give our compliments to Chef Katie. The play on texture in this salad is just—I mean, it’s on a whole other level. The crunchy heat of the pecans with the creamy cheese and the tang of that warm bacon vinaigrette? Kill me now and I’d die happy.”
There are two types of foodies in this world: those who like good food because they can post pictures of it on Instagram, and those who treasure food because they appreciate the art and effort and heart involved in creating dishes like this.
Emma’s clearly the latter. Her phone’s nowhere to be seen. She’s sensitive to the most minute of flavors, brow furrowed as she chews thoughtfully. Eyes bright, like a light’s been turned on inside her. Fully absorbed in the moment. The flavors. The feel of a shared meal.
Can’t remember the last time I sat down with someone who radiated intelligent passion like this. Who wasn’t putting on a front, a fake face.
Makes me realize how fake my smiles can be sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.
“I hear you feed your staff,” she says, making me blink. Only then do I realize I’ve been staring at her. I look up and catch Hank staring at her too, hovering just out of arm’s reach.
Looking away, I shove a forkful of kale into my mouth. If anyone can make this leafy shit delicious, it’s Katie. The chef I hired.
“And?”
“And I think that’s really cool. Xavier was telling me how everyone eats together in the kitchen before service. Not many of the places I’ve worked for do that.”
I grab my wine and finish it. I notice her eyes stray to my fingers on the stem again.
“Figured the best way to get the staff excited about our food would be to feed it to them. That way they can sell it honestly. Put a personal touch on their recommendations.”
“You ever eat with them?” she asks, cleaning the last of her plate.
I shake my head. “I don’t have time.”
I lean back as our plates are cleared, replaced by a second course: spring vegetable risotto, featuring the peas, asparagus, and shallots grown right here on the farm. It’s topped with a generous helping of freshly shaved parmesan, the nutty, umami smell making my stomach growl.
I worked out like a motherfucker earlier, which explains why I’m starving. Exercise makes me feel centered. I do it six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, no exceptions, no excuses. But I don’t usually go as hard as I did today. Guess I have a lot on my mind I needed to clear out, thanks to the girl who’s currently torturing me from across the table.
The next wine is a white, straw colored. Cold enough to make the bowl of my glass frost over.
I follow Emma’s lead and shove my nose deep into the glass. She watches me do it, something like pleasure in her gaze. Tonight she’s the boss, and she digs it.
Exactly why she can’t stay.
At last she tips back her glass and sips. I do it too, determined to hate this wine like I hated the first one.
Only problem? It’s freaking delicious.
I’m not the biggest white wine fan, but I’ve tasted enough to know this one is good. It’s sweet but not perfume-y, crisp but not astringent, dry but not boring. A little baked bread on the nose. There’s so much going on here I can’t tease it all out on one sip alone. I take another, moving it around my tongue the way Emma does.
We look like total assholes, gurgling our wine, swishing it around our mouths. But I could give a shit.
This wine, it’s a whole mood. Makes me think of warm summer nights, cool water running over creek bottoms, the smell of fluffy lemon pancakes. The kind Daddy used to make on Sunday mornings. I feel grass under my feet. Lightness in my legs and chest. A sense of freedom and rightness I can’t quite get my arms around.