She’s right. Deep down, I know she’s right, and she’s giving me something else to think about.
The girl’s always making me think and making me question. I want to hate it, but I don’t.
Looking away, I sniff my wine. I don’t miss how Emma grins as she watches me dip my nose deep into the glass, just like she does. Whatever. It really does help you tease out the more subtle elements of the wine’s flavor profile.
Case in point: I’ve had this same bottle several times over the past year (when you’re able to get your hands on the Holy Grail of California Cabs, you buy it by the case). But tasting it Emma’s way makes it a whole new experience. I pick up on notes of wet stone. Grass. Earth.
“Petrichor,” she says, sniffing her own glass.
I snap my eyebrows together. “What the fuck is that?”
“What the world smells like after it rains.”
The ache intensifies. “Yeah. Yes. I get that too. A little nutmeg on the nose?”
She smiles, the kind that touches her eyes, and my heart is doing full-on backflips now. “Yes. Nice way to liven up those earthy notes.”
She sips. I sip. Our eyes lock as the flavors explode on my tongue. Watching her watching me, I feel joy rise inside me. Same as it did when I tasted her Riesling.
From the stunned look on her face, she’s feeling it too.
It’s autumn afternoons. The smell in the air on Sunday right before a game. Leaves and nerves and the feeling of carrying on a tradition that’s gone unbroken for generations.
A tradition that broke me.
The joy that’s flooded me all day dims. A prick of fear, familiar and hard, punctures the soft stuff inside my chest.
“Good God,” Emma says, smacking her lips. “That’s just…wow…no words…”
She sips again, this dreamy look coming over her expression. My skin tightens.
I like beautiful women. The curvier and flirtier, the sexier.
But a thinking woman? A girl who honestly and openly engages with the truth?
She might be the sexiest of all.
Also the most dangerous.
Clearing my throat, I give the wine in my glass a swirl. “I thought you didn’t like my BSD wine.”
She swallows and shakes her head. “I never said that. I did say most of it was uninteresting. But this—it’s a cult wine for a reason. I get it, Beauregard.”
“Look at us, proving each other wrong.”
“Are you admitting that Riesling was the best fucking thing you’ve had this year?”
I swirl again. “Maybe.”
She’s smiling again, and Jesus Christ, so am I.
Danger.
Chapter Fifteen
Samuel
“So.” I sip, the first stirrings of that red wine buzz I love so much tingling along my spine. “Didn’t you come here to clear the air?”
Emma sets down her glass. “I did. I blurted out everything I came to say on your front step. But what went down on the smoking patio didn’t sit right with me. I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to use your line and say no apology necessary.”
Looking down, she settles the stem of her glass between her first two fingers, palm flat against the base. “I saw it today—how you were opening up. I hope that means we can finally work through why things between us have been so…difficult.” When she looks up, her eyes are serious. “I want this to work, Beauregard. The smoking patio incident notwithstanding, today went so damn well. I love the farm, I love the staff, and I love what we do together. It’s special. With your passion for food, my knowledge of wine, and a stellar staff to work side by side with us, we can do amazing, transformative, important work. See what great things can happen when you play nice? I can’t show you any more clearly. So please, for the love of God, stop being a dick, and start being the guy you were today. The one who’s kind and real and open to change.”
My heart trips to a stop. The prick of fear becomes a full-on glacier of ice that lodges itself in my center.
Be open to change, Beauregard.
Those were the first words that came out of Coach’s mouth the day I was released from the team.
Things are gonna change around here.
Those were the words Daddy said to me when he came home from the hospital after getting lost on a neighbor’s farm.
I blink, the world around me snapping into focus. Like I’m waking from a stupor or something. The look I’m giving Emma morphs into a glare, and the ice inside me burns to anger.
I was kind once. I was real. I opened myself up to hope, but all I got was hurt.
“What exactly are you trying to prove here, Emma?” I challenge. She startles at my sudden change in mood. “You’re at the top of your game, but you still try too damn hard. Here you are, trying to make me do things I don’t do and see things I don’t want to see. It’s annoying. I may be a dick, but you’re a pain in the ass.”
Her shoulders set, and the look in her eyes turns to stone, even as the space between us electrifies. “I try hard because I care.”
“No, you don’t. You try hard because you’re ashamed.” Oh, Lord, pot meet kettle. I have absolutely no right to say these things, but the words are coming too fast for me to stop them. “That’s why that drunk guy got to you. You’re hard on yourself because you don’t like yourself. Why do you think that is?”
I’m being a huge dick, and I know that. I’m angry with myself for taking it so far, and ashamed I’m letting fear win.
I’m angry that I’m ashamed. I’m angry that I have to put up with this barrage of inconvenient emotions at all.
I don’t like being the angry guy. I’ve made it a point not to let my bitterness get the better of me. I’m the happy-go-lucky hotshot. But Emma’s making me see just how big the disconnect is between who I want to be and who I really am.
Who I show the world, and who I show her.
Somewhere in the swirl of emotions barreling through me, I know Emma doesn’t deserve this treatment. The up and down. The back and forth.
But that doesn’t stop me from putting my dukes up.
Hell, maybe it’s why I put ’em up in the first place. A shitty defense mechanism that’s getting really fucking old.
Knowing that I’m wrong but not doing anything about it—that’s what makes me angriest of all.
The red in her cheeks returns. She leaps up from her stool to stand in front of me. Without her heels, she’s even shorter than normal, but her ballooning rage gives her an enormous presence. Jabbing a finger into my chest, she says, “You don’t know a damn thing about me, Beauregard, so stop pretending you do. And let’s be real, you’re the one who tries too hard. You try to be something you’re not, and that, in my unhumble opinion, is much, much worse.”
The rage that darts through my center tells me she’s right.
Fucking hell, Emma’s right. And she is mad. And…hot? Is that flash in her eyes the kind of heat I think it is?
Is this argument turning her on?
It’d be twisted if that were true. Then again, everything about my relationship with Emma is twisted.
She’s twisting me up and turning me inside out, and I don’t know how much more I can take.