“I do, yeah. I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I say, “but what is Samuel’s deal? He seems to get along with everyone else. What sore spot am I hitting?”
“Fuck if I know.” Hank puts his hands in his pockets. “On the surface, Samuel can be a big bullshitter. But when it comes down to it, I think he has trouble trusting new people. Letting them in. Be patient.”
I nod. “I can do that.”
“Anything I can help with in the meantime? I’d be happy to show you around the resort. I’m sure I could finagle you an appointment at the spa if you’re into that stuff. We’ve got plenty of outdoor activities too. Just say the word and I’ll line it up, free of charge. I’ll tell Beau—I mean, my boss—that you’re doing ‘resort research.’”
I laugh. “Is that a real thing?”
“Nope. But I can make it one if you want.”
“Thanks.” I grin. “I appreciate the offer, really. I see why Beau put you in charge of guest relations. You’re good at making people feel at home here. Me included. Makes Blue Mountain Farm stand out.”
He grins too, handsome and glowing and clearly proud. “I appreciate the kind words. A lot of what I do is kinda invisible work, you know? It’s not as sexy as, say, one of Milly’s weddings, or Samuel’s Tony Stark wine cellar.”
“Did he actually have the cellar built in Iron Man style?”
“Yup.”
“Of course he did.” I roll my eyes, and Hank laughs. “But yeah, I see what you mean. You’re the glue that holds it all together. The food, the weddings, the activities, the accommodations—I’ve worked in hospitality long enough to know it all only runs smoothly if there’s a shit ton of work that happens behind the scenes.”
Hank’s gaze meets mine. “I like you, Emma.”
“I like you, too, Hank.”
“So, hey.” He rocks back on his heels, and at that moment, I see a teddy bear, not a mountain man. Really, why can’t Samuel have Hank’s personality? It would certainly make my life a lot easier. “I know you’re super busy, but if you ever have time for another tasting, I’d love to do one with you.”
“Anytime. But you have to promise not to freak out the way Samuel did if I outmaneuver you.”
His smile broadens. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Samuel walks into the restaurant at eight o’clock on the dot. He smiles at the restaurant’s manager, Raquel, and nods at one of the dishwashers heading into the kitchen.
His greeting isn’t exactly warm or personal. But it gets the job done. The hum of activity surrounding us is a testament to the respect Samuel’s employees have for him. So are The Barn Door’s stats: turnover is very, very low—much of the kitchen and waitstaff has been with the Beauregards since the resort opened a few years ago—and employees consistently give him the highest rating on Blue Mountain’s biannual performance reviews.
He’s not wearing a suit this morning. Instead, he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white thermal. His white and neon orange sneakers would look ridiculous on anyone else. But on Samuel, they’re sexy. Probably because he wears them with I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-you-think swagger.
Guy’s got balls of steel, I’ll give him that.
His eyes lock on mine and despite my best efforts to remain calm, cool, and steady—this is not your first rodeo, Em—my stomach somersaults.
The image of his bare ass immediately flashes across my thoughts. Did I really trespass on Samuel’s property last night to peep him in his pool?
Thinking about your co-head’s naked, perfectly pert ass is not the best way to start your third day on the job.
As if he can read my dirty mind, Samuel’s smile disappears.
“Emma,” he says.
I clear my throat. “Morning, Beauregard.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Have a moment?”
“Of course.”
“My office.”
Notebook and pen in hand, I follow him up to the suite of offices on the second floor. His is surprisingly cozy, tidy too, with the same reclaimed wood walls and beamed ceilings as downstairs. Samuel takes a seat behind the massive desk in the center of the room.
He does not invite me to sit.
“Elijah Jackson is coming to the resort this weekend.” He opens a drawer, takes out a leather folio, and tosses it onto the desk. “Beau wants us to put together a lunch-tasting combo for him and his guests on Saturday.”
I smile, excitement fluttering inside my chest. Okay, working with Samuel has not been awesome. But the clientele Blue Mountain Farm attracts most certainly is. So is the idea of introducing one of my favorite chefs of all time to my favorite wines.
“The Eli Jackson?”
“Yup.” Rummaging through the folio, his gaze flicks up to meet mine. “You a fan?”
“Love him. His breakfast bowls? And the fact that he fell in love with his wife by making her food while she wrote her first romance novel? I mean, he’s an icon in every sense of the word.”
Samuel grunts. “So you read that Garden and Gun profile too.”
“I read everything food and wine related that I can get my hands on. The profile was a good one, right?”
Samuel’s eyes flick to mine. They’re intensely, almost supernaturally blue in the strident morning light. “Don’t sound so surprised that I read. I know you think I’m just a dumb jock—”
“I never said that.”
“That gleam in your eye last night when you showed me the label on that bottle of Dom? Yeah, that definitely said ‘you’re dumb.’”
“No.” I cross my arms. “It said ‘I want to open your mind, but since you’re so hell-bent on thwarting me at every turn, this is the only way I know how.’”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I reserved the Stag Pavilion from eleven till three. Eli’s bringing his guy friends, fifteen guests total. Goes without saying we need to pull out all the stops.”
My pulse kicks up a notch. This is my chance to show him that I really am a team player.
My chance to prove I’m trustworthy.
I take a seat in one of the chairs facing Samuel’s desk and cross my legs, settling my notebook on my lap.
“Absolutely.” I click my pen and start writing. “It’ll be something fabulous. Something different. Because he’s well versed in southern classics, I say we stay away from that kind of thing. No one does grits quite like him—”
“You have yet to taste my grits.”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “So why try to top his mastery? It’d almost be an insult.”
Samuel’s eyes flick over my stockinged legs. That muscle in his jaw tics.
“I thought the same thing.” We meet eyes, and my pulse kicks up another notch. “I gave Chef Katie a call this morning and floated the idea of doing a Spanish-style meal. I’ve always been a big fan of paella—”
“Me too,” I say, my pen flying as ideas begin to take shape. “And you’ve got some pretty sweet wines from Spain in the cellar, so the pairings will be a breeze.”
Samuel smirks, cocky and knowing and…actually kinda cute? “Exactly. And it just so happens our rice supplier is Luke Rodgers of Rodgers’ Farms in South Carolina. He’ll be at the lunch on Saturday. So not only do we get to do a southern riff on the dish with locally sourced ingredients, but we’ll also be giving a guest a nod of appreciation.”