Emma’s at my side now, filling more glasses. Jen, a waitress, is right behind her. So I raise my arm and give Emma a nod. Lips twitching, she passes underneath it. Her elbow brushes against my belly, painting a brushstroke of heat across my torso.
I’m trying honesty on, and it feels nice.
“Nice casual mention of socarrat,” Emma says when we’re back at the service station. She’s uncorking bottles for the next course, so I start lining up the appropriate decanters.
“Hey. Really good socarrat is a great way to enhance sobre mesa. Which, coincidentally, happens to be my favorite thing in life. Well”—I smirk—“my second favorite, but you get the idea.”
She arches a brow. “Damn, Beauregard, bringing out the big guns today.”
“Told you I’m good at this.”
“You’re the best.” She meets my eyes. “Same as I’m the best at wine. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t sobre mesa the art of conversation over a meal? The way people connect and talk and, yeah, basically touch the divine while lingering over dinner?”
“It’s a lost art here in the States, and one I’d love to bring back.”
She pauses. The heat of her gaze coats my entire left side in this buzzy, prickly warmth. I’ve had women stare at me. A lot. Nothing new here. Except—
Except Emma’s attention gives me sense of pride. I’ve worked hard to get where I am today, just like I worked hard on the field. But right now, I’m being acknowledged for my work in this world, at this event.
It’s pretty fucking great.
“You do know that staring is rude, right?” I manage. When what I really want to ask is Will you let me make you a meal so I can show you how nourishing real food can be?
Speaking of getting crushed. A voice in my head screams no over and over again.
I listen. For now.
“You’re full of surprises, Beauregard.” I hear her smile in her voice. “And you know what the essential requirement for a solid sobre mesa is, right?”
“A pack of cheap French cigarettes. Obviously.”
She’s struggling with the wine tool again now that her thumb is tender. Wordlessly I take the tool and the bottle, the fingers of her gloved hand touching mine as she lets me take over. I curse the glove for being there because I want her skin. Her alive-ness, if that’s even a word, because I’m suddenly feeling achingly alive myself.
“Well, obviously that, yes. But honesty too. A willingness to dig deep and bare your soul.”
Pulling out a cork, I nod at the table. “Go see what seven wants to do about a refill. His glass is empty.”
“On it.”
She pours. I feed. Halfway through the next course she’s beside me again. Before I can move to get out of the way, she’s ducking underneath my arms again and shooting me a saucy, happy, satisfied grin. When the decanter I’m pouring from is empty, she’s at my side with a full one ready to go.
I thank her, and she shimmies.
The girl fucking shimmies, a barely-there shake of her hips that’s as playful as it is effortless.
No way putting myself out there is making her feel giddy too?
No fucking way.
Still, I can’t help thinking that Emma could easily edge me out. Elbow me aside, roll her eyes, grab things out of my hand.
Instead, she’s literally dancing while helping me out. Encouraging me. Injecting this heady sense of joy in what would otherwise be a routine luncheon at Blue Mountain Farm.
I suddenly feel like the world’s biggest asshat for behaving the way I have this week.
Someone else who’s a complete asshat? The guy at fourteen. From the gleam of thirst in his eyes, he witnessed Emma’s shimmy, and he very much enjoyed the view.
Emma notices him noticing. Her mirth fades. My grip on the decanter tightens. Hers is empty. I run for a full one and hand it to her. She moves to take it, but I keep my hold on it firm.
“I’ll ask him to leave,” I murmur.
She shakes her head. “Don’t. The meal is almost over. Hopefully, his friends will take him home and let him sleep it off. No need to cause a scene.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “He’s the one who’s making a scene.”
“I don’t disagree. But we’re almost at the finish line, and I really want this event to be a home run for everybody. If he becomes a real problem, I’ll let you know, all right? I’ll pull on my ear or something. I don’t need you playing Batman on my behalf.”
“I’m more of an Iron Man.”
“So I’ve been told. I got this.”
Without waiting for a reply, she dives back in. I make up some bullshit about letting the wine in my decanter breathe for an extra minute, giving me the excuse to stand watch over the table.
But the only person I watch is Emma.
I may be protective, but I never get protective over girls I’ve just met, and I definitely don’t get possessive.
But I feel a surge of both as I watch Emma approach the guy. She expertly trades her decanter for a pitcher of water from a passing server. Holding her body away from him, she tops off his water glass. He turns his head to look at her, and my pulse kicks up a notch when he lifts his empty wineglass, asking for more Rioja.
Emma politely but firmly refuses the request, suggesting a coffee instead.
That’s when shit hits the fan. The guy digs a dollar bill out of his wallet, and he tucks it into Emma’s lapel.
Somehow my spidey senses kick in, and I’m able to hear him say, “For your services. Because that’s how much they’re worth. A wine expert? What a joke. You may wear your little Lois Lane suit, but I think we all know what your real job is here. Which, yeah”—his gaze rakes over her curves—“I’ll pay more than a dollar for that.”
She stiffens, her cheeks burning pink.
But I see red. Is no one else catching this? The rest of the table is absorbed in other conversations. Every so often, Eli will shoot the guy a warning glance, but then someone tugs on his sleeve or calls his name, and he gets distracted.
I stare at Emma, silently begging her to look at me, to give me permission to suit up and kick some bad-guy ass. But she asked me not to intervene unless she gave me the signal. She’s been so considerate today—all week—and returning that favor is the least I can do.
It goes against my every impulse, though. I set down the decanter I’m holding because I’m squeezing it so hard I’m worried it’ll shatter. Emma steps back so that she’s out of fourteen’s reach. His hand falls and so does his face.
She removes the dollar bill from her lapel and slides it onto the table beside his plate.
“Trust me when I say you need that coffee now, sir,” Emma replies steadily. I watch, pulse pounding, as Emma turns and heads to the back of the pavilion. She sets down the pitcher at the service station and slips out of the side entrance, which leads to the smoking patio.
My stomach drops. I may only have known the woman for a week, but I can already tell tucking tail and running isn’t like her.
Fourteen’s clearly hit on a soft spot.
My feet move before my mind does. I don’t know what I’m going to do or how I’m going to fix this or even if me following Emma outside is the right move. What if she just wants to be left alone?