I head for Chef. All the while stealing glances at Emma. She’s got her wine tool in one hand and a bottle of Canción de Sangre in the other. She nudges the edge of the screw beneath the foil. Tries to pull it back but ends up jerking her hand away, catching her thumb on the screw instead.
“Fuck,” she says.
The way she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip as she says it makes my pulse hiccup.
She brings the pad of her thumb to her mouth and sucks on it, her brow furrowed.
I grab a plastic glove at the kitchen station—Chef keeps a box of them around for mishaps like this—and next thing I know, I’m standing beside Emma. I take the wine and the tool in one hand. Pass her the glove and a few cocktail napkins with the other.
“You okay?”
She takes her thumb out of her mouth and wraps it in a napkin. “Thanks. I’ll be all right. I don’t—I’ve never done that before. Cut myself.”
“Maybe you’re too titillated to focus,” I say, working my wrist as I guide the screw around the mouth of the bottle. I glide my thumb under the foil, pulling it back easily.
Emma watches me do it. Eyes glued to my fingers. For a second, her eyes lose focus.
She blinks, drawing a sharp, quick inhale through her nose. “Talking about wine does tend to get me hot and bothered.”
“I noticed.” I screw the tool into the cork and carefully give it a pull. The cork makes a muffled pop as it comes out.
“God, that’s satisfying.” Emma nods at the cork. “That sound. Probably not as satisfying as Chef’s paella, though. It’s your turn.”
Pouring the bottle into one of the decanters lined up on the table, I say, “My turn?”
“To take the stage. You’re the food guy, right? Go knock their socks off with your paella.”
Now that was not what I expected.
In fact, apart from the wine tasting the other night, Emma hasn’t undermined me in any way, shape, or form. She’s literally handing me the reins, allowing me to showcase what I do best.
Extraordinary.
“One, Chef gets the credit for actually making the paella.” I set down the empty bottle and reach for another. I have the sudden urge to touch Emma, and if I don’t keep my hands busy, I’ll wrap my fingers around her wrist and bring her thumb to my mouth and suck on it myself.
“And two—” Fuck, I forgot what two was.
Emma grins. “One, what’s wrong with you and Chef taking the stage together? The cooking is hers, but the concept is all yours. And two, it’s satisfying as all get-out to accept praise when praise is due. I speak from experience.”
“Of course you do,” I murmur, reaching for another bottle. “How many more of these do you want me to open?”
Her lips twitch.
“What?”
Her eyes flick to meet mine. “Are you being a team player, Beauregard?”
“I’m preparing wine for my guests to enjoy,” I reply gruffly, nodding at the glove in her hand. “Put that on so you can help.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch as Emma does what I tell her. She turns away, but she must forget that I’m so much taller than her I’m practically a satellite to her planet. I can see it all at any time.
And what I see is that her hands are shaking.
I frown. “You eat today?”
“What?” She throws me a look over her shoulder, snapping the glove into place. “Of course I ate. I’m not five. I can take care of myself.”
“Better question: what did you eat?”
“Best question yet: why don’t you mind your own damn business?” She grabs two decanters. “I had coffee. And a protein bar. And I guess half of another protein bar. Different flavor, though.”
I stare at her, suddenly and deeply enraged. “What kind of garbage meal is that?”
“The kind I have time for working twelve-hour days. I’m not starving, Beauregard. My hands…I’m, uh, nervous. New job, famous chef at our table—”
“Horseshit.”
Her eyes flash with something I can’t decipher. Surprise? Warmth? Both?
“When you’re done serving this course, you go sit by Chef”—I nod in Katie’s direction—“and eat some real food. Understood?”
“Whoa. Not only are you being a team player, but are you also caring? About me, of all people?”
“No,” I grunt.
She grins. “Hey. If you can’t be honest with me, at least make an attempt to be honest with yourself.”
See, that’s just the thing. Somewhere along the way, I forgot what honesty looks like. Feels like. I’ve been lied to so often and so well that I guess I started assuming it was a dead language. Like Latin or some shit.
But looking in Emma’s eyes, I realize the truth feels like this. Like rage. Rightness. The combination is equal parts maddening and magnetic, and this time, it’s my hands that shake as I grab two decanters and follow Emma to the table.
I know this is the first time I’m collaborating with her in a meaningful way. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t already thinking about the really cool stuff we could do together going forward.
I think I’m actually seeing how working as co-heads might be a home run.
I think I’m actually trusting Emma. And not because Beau’s making me but because she deserves it.
Try it on. Maybe I should try accepting that Emma isn’t biding her time, waiting for the opportunity to manipulate me. To lie about her intentions.
My heart lifts the way it always does at the sight of a table of loud, happy people. The waitstaff has begun to set out the paella, and the smell is incredible. A little spice from the chorizo, starch from the rice, earthiness from the homemade chicken stock Chef and I spent the past two years getting just right.
I’m not the only one who appreciates just how fragrant and pretty the plates are.
“Y’all see that char on the rice?” Luke says, lifting his plate to get a better look. “Perfect.”
Elijah nods, and my chest swells. “Damn fuckin’ right it is.”
“Chef Katie is all kinds of talented with a paella pan.” I fill Greyson’s glass, the scent of vanilla and stone fruit rising from the wine. Glancing across the table, I catch Emma looking at me. She tips her head.
Keep going, she’s saying.
So I take a deep breath and gird my loins and put myself out there.
“Because I like to feed my ego, I’m gonna drop some knowledge on y’all.” The table laughs. Emma smiles. “The crispy, toasted rice you got there on your plates is called socarrat.”
“Socarrat,” Eli repeats, tipping back his wineglass for a sniff. “The stuff of dreams.”
I nod. “Exactly. Y’all give it a try. Notice how it’s a little sweet? That’s because the rice caramelizes in the pan. Add in that satisfying crunch, and you’ve got pure heaven. Well, for foodies like me, anyway.”
Emma holds up her decanter. “This Rioja balances out that note of caramel nicely—taste the vanilla? A little more sweetness to go with all that savory happening on your plates.”
Our eyes lock. Something urgent and sweet arrows through my center.
“Genius,” Greyson says. “It’s a beautiful pairing, truly.”