I smile. “I wish I had a better ending for you. Nothing crazy happened, but the eight of us sat at this table outside a tiny restaurant overlooking the Alhambra, a gorgeous medieval Moorish palace right out of a Game of Thrones episode. We ate tapas and talked for hours and drank bottle after bottle of this red wine that was maybe ten euros a pop. I still remember how it tasted, how warm the air was while I tasted it, and the happy buzz it gave me. It made us philosophical. Funny. It allowed us to bare ourselves, our true selves, in a way we never had before. As I drank and ate, I realized I’d never talked so frankly with my friends like that. I finally shared how I was feeling about law school, how I had that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. Saying it out loud made me realize just how wrong the whole thing was. And a lot of that had to do with the fact I was falling in love at that table. Not with a person, but with the truth.”
“That’s beautiful,” Samuel says. The look in his eyes turns my heart inside out.
“And naïve.” I swallow. I notice Hank is looking at me too. “I followed that feeling I got at the table—the warm, deep, happy peace that filled me. Again and again, it led me back to wine. Food. A table full of friends. Sharing stories and truths and fears. Look, I get it. At the end of the day, wine is grape juice that gets you drunk. But when I drink it—even just a taste, a sip—I feel seen. Or maybe I allow myself to be seen. It liberated me. When I came back from Spain, I kept following that feeling. It led me to drop out of law school to work in a restaurant cellar instead.”
Hank’s eyes go wide. “Bet your parents loved that.”
“They did not.” I smile tightly. “But I get it. They want me to have a nice life, you know? I want that for myself too. So I’ve worked hard to put myself in a position where I can get it. I know that will make them a little proud at least. Still, it’s taken me a long, long time to come to grips with the fact that following my heart meant letting down the people I love. It’s something I still struggle with, especially when I see how my sister’s crushing it in her law career.”
“Ballsy,” Samuel says. He’s full-on staring at me now, and I have to remember what a dick he was when I first met him or I’ll be falling hook, line, and sinker for the naked admiration in his eyes. “Such a ballsy move, Emma. I mean that as a compliment. I got lucky—my dad and I loved the same things, and were good at the same things, right down to the position we played. If that hadn’t been the case, I don’t think I would’ve been brave enough to do what you did.”
I meet his eyes. “Give yourself more credit. You’re braver than you think.”
He holds my gaze for one long, heated beat. I can feel the entire table watching us. I want to look away, but I like this sensation—the feeling of Samuel and me being the only people in the room.
The sense of belonging and safety that gives me.
Grabbing my wine, I break eye contact and take a long, thirsty sip. Milly’s looking between Samuel and me with a knowing expression on her face.
My own face burns.
“Moral of the story, you fell in love with what wine represented,” Hank says, breaking the silence. “Not necessarily the wine itself.”
“Exactly.” I clear my throat. “So, Hank. Tell me how you got into guest relations.”
I get seconds, then thirds of cornbread, using it to sop up the ridiculous gravy Samuel was talking about. Everything is insanely delicious. We go through four bottles of the Amarone, everyone getting just tipsy enough to let loose and laugh. June tells a story about the time she found several pairs of Samuel’s Ninja Turtle underwear underneath the kitchen sink. Upon closer inspection, she discovered they were covered in brown skid marks.
“Apparently, Samuel was afraid to tell me he pooped his pants,” she says. “So, at the age of six, he hid his undies, thinking I wouldn’t find out.”
Samuel shrugs. Maisie is asleep on his shoulder. “What? I still hide my dirty undies there. Sometimes, I just get scared shitless.”
“Seriously, dude, you need to stop getting poopy pants drunk,” Rhett says, howling.
Beau slaps the table. “What a shitty thing to do.”
Milly’s rolling her eyes and biting back laughter. “Y’all and the poop jokes. They’re not that funny.”
“They’re not,” June says, wiping the tears from her eyes.
I’m laughing so hard the sides of my torso ache.
By the time we finish dessert, this particularly delicious strawberry strudel type thing, I’m painfully, happily full. Despite working in some of the best restaurants in the Carolinas, I don’t normally eat this well. I don’t have the time or the energy to cook for myself, and Blue Mountain is one of the few places that serves its staff a meal before service.
“Need a ride home?” Hank asks, handing me the pot he just washed.
I’m in the kitchen helping clean up. Again, everyone plays a part. Milly wipes down the counters while Rhett loads the dishwasher. Samuel’s filling dishes with leftovers for everyone to take home with them, and Bel and Beau are using dining room clean up duty as an excuse to make out with each other. Hank washes dishes and I’m drying them. There are people and plates everywhere, but it’s weirdly soothing to be in on the action.
“I’ll take her,” Samuel says.
“That’s okay,” I reply a little too quickly. “I want to pick Hank’s brain anyway about room service stuff.”
It’s not a lie. But the whole truth is I don’t trust myself to be alone with Samuel right now.
I’ve seen so many sides of the man today. Fierce, loving, funny, generous, cocky. Sensual. I’m attracted to the whole package.
But I need to accept that we can only be friends. I need to commit to the fact that another man I can have is interested in meeting me.
With that in mind, I’ll try chalking up my attraction to Samuel to a simple case of shared passions—food, wine, sobre mesa.
There.
Done.
I hope.
Chapter Twenty
Samuel
I give Milly a ride home after supper.
“Why are you following Hank so closely?” She turns her head to look at me. “You’re gonna rear-end him.”
My headlights don’t do shit to illuminate what’s happening in Hank’s vintage Bronco ahead of us. I still try to creep closer, thinking if I hit just the right angle, I’ll be able to see what he and Emma are doing. Laughing? Touching?
So what if they are? But they wouldn’t be, would they, because Emma doesn’t get involved with coworkers.
Then again, she got involved with me.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. I hate this jealousy, especially when it’s aimed at my little brother. It’s unworthy of the man I’m trying to become.
“Hello? Earth to Samuel.”
“Sorry.” I blink, easing up on the gas. “There. That better?”
Milly’s looking at me. I look back.
“What?” I ask.
“You and Emma seem to be getting along.”
“What about you and Nate Kingsley? I hear y’all are getting friendly.”