The impeccable décor is beautifully designed without being stiff or overstuffed. A pair of enormous fireplaces anchor each end of the space, and antique beams that look to be as old—and weathered—as the structure itself cover the soaring ceiling. Leather booths curl around tables covered in pristine white tablecloths with artfully mismatched flatware and broken-in wooden chairs. The sign at the resort’s entrance told me the farm has been here since the 1750s.
The restaurant is a study in contrasts. The fine crystal glassware against the bohemian arrangements of purple and yellow wildflowers set out on each table. The smell of a smoker, something you’d find at a barbecue joint, against the briny, wet slate smell of a dozen oysters passing by on a server’s tray. The five-hundred-dollar bottle of California Cabernet on a table where a man and a woman are chowing down on fried chicken sandwiches.
This is not my first time inside these hallowed walls. As one of Asheville’s many resident foodies, I couldn’t resist the siren call of Chef Katie Gates’s high-low combination of Southern classics with a decidedly down-home twist.
But it is the first time I’m appreciating it as a project. A living, breathing entity whose story I get to help shape.
A zippy little chill darts along my spine, lighting up my chest like an exclamation point.
Yeah, I want this job. And I’m not going to let an entitled jackass like Samuel Beauregard keep me from getting it. Who knows? Maybe if I stick around long enough and dig my heels in deep enough, Samuel will call it quits and go live that cushy, pro-athlete retirement life. I imagine he’s got millions socked away.
I just have to outlast him.
Outsmart him.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say. “Seriously, one of the most romantic and beautiful restaurants I’ve seen. Ever.”
“Samuel,” Beau says, a note of warning in his tone. “Why don’t you give Emma the inside scoop on how The Barn Door came to be?”
Samuel lets out an annoyed sigh. I glance to my right to see him standing on the other side of Beau. As far away from me as he can get.
“What is there to explain?” Samuel rolls back his shoulders. “I came up with the concept, I executed it, and now I run it. Pretty fucking well too. Isn’t that right, Xavier?”
The passing server offers us a smile, despite the fact that his tray is weighed down by a sizable beverage order. “It’s an honor to work at The Barn Door, sir.”
I study Xavier’s face. It’s not that the server’s smile is fake, necessarily. It’s that it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Interesting.
“What Samuel means to say”—Beau cuts his brother another look—“is that our family has lived on Blue Mountain for generations. We were known for many things—some of them great, some of them not so much—but one thing that always stood out was our Beauregard hospitality. Whoever visited the farm could count on a warm welcome and a square meal that stuck to your ribs. We’re biased, but our mama is the best cook in these parts, hands down. Daddy wasn’t so bad at breakfast, either. I inherited their good looks—”
Samuel lets out a scoff.
“While Samuel here inherited their love of sharing good food with good friends and family. So when the farm passed to us, we knew we wanted to continue that tradition.”
“And so The Barn Door was born,” I say, glancing up at the beamed ceiling. “For y’all’s first restaurant, I have to say you absolutely killed it.”
“Chef Katie’s killing it,” Beau replies. “As is our staff. We’re just along for the ride.”
I like Beau. He’s got fame, and he’s got money, but he’s still humble. He’s not afraid to give praise where praise is due. He’s clearly a smart guy who’s surrounded himself with smart people.
But Samuel doesn’t say a word. Just stands there in his lavender suit looking like a pissed-off, albeit finely sculpted, block of stone.
“How about the wine list?” I say. “Let’s take a look at that.”
Chapter Two
Emma
Beau looks at his brother. “Samuel?”
With a heavy sigh, Samuel heads for the hostess stand. He comes back with a binder, its brown leather cover fashionably scuffed up like a well-loved pair of hunting boots.
“Quite the bible y’all have.” I hold up the binder. The pages inside are a combined two, maybe two-and-a-half inches thick. I glance at Samuel before opening the cover. “So. What’s your gospel?”
“My gospel?”
“What’s your story? Why this wine”—I poke my finger into a page of pinot noir—“for this restaurant? The food you serve is second to none. It’s interesting, it’s innovative, and it’s got a great story to tell. How does this wine enhance that story? How does it deepen the meaning of a shared meal at a place like The Barn Door?”
Samuel’s expression goes blank. Pink smudges appear on his cheekbones.
I allow myself a small smile. I imagine not many people challenge him. He’s used to having his way, and he’s used to not having to explain why.
I look forward to disabusing him of that habit.
“The farm is and always has been a family place,” Samuel says, slipping his hands inside the front pockets of his trousers. “Our hospitality is the best of the best. I wanted our cellar to reflect that.”
I keep flipping. Page after page of big name, big-ticket wines. “Best of the best. Right. I can definitely see you went that direction.”
“You don’t sound impressed,” Beau says.
“To be honest?” I glance up from the binder. “I’m not.”
“That’s the biggest and best collection in the state, if not the South. If you don’t get that it’s special, then you don’t get wine.” Samuel’s reply is cold. But his eyes are suddenly hot.
“Bigger doesn’t always equal better,” I say.
I shouldn’t take pleasure in pissing off the guy who has the power to make or break my future. Samuel is not only Blue Mountain’s food director but he’s also got a large ownership stake in the resort itself.
All six members of the Beauregard family own and operate Blue Mountain Farm, a five-star resort in the Great Smoky Mountains. The brainchild of Beau, the oldest Beauregard brother who retired several years ago from a successful pro football career, the resort has been developed over the past five or so years to encompass luxurious guest accommodations, a spa, stables, a smokehouse, gardens, outdoor entertaining spaces, and the South’s most awarded new restaurant, The Barn Door.
Unsurprisingly, Beau’s got plans to expand the resort even further. He hopes to build additional rooms, a sports complex, and another restaurant on the twenty acres of untouched land to the resort’s east. Meaning I could one day be wine director of not one top-notch, James Beard Award-winning restaurant, but two.
Still, I can’t help engaging in a little sharp banter with Samuel. Could be the fact that I’m still a little keyed up from the exceptional cybersex I had with Blue last night. I thought he might just be another internet creeper with zero personality and even less imagination. But he was a pleasant surprise. Considering how lame my non-internet love and sex lives have been, the timing of our meeting couldn’t be more perfect. Blue gave me a much-needed dash of hope—hope that not every guy I meet, virtually or otherwise, will make me feel ridiculous for being who I am and liking what I like.