Nothing makes me miss my girl any less.
I was annoyed my brothers showed up the other day. But now I miss them. I need someone to talk to, but they all kinda hate me right now, and I hate them right back. It’s a disaster, and I don’t know how to fix it.
One problem at a time. I’ll figure out how to get Emma back on the farm and go from there.
Emma is V. I still can’t believe it.
I want her. So badly.
I love her, deeply.
I love being the beta to her alpha.
I love her courage.
I love her adventurousness. I want to be her bastard forever and always.
But we fucked up and now I’m alone in my gym, and I’m worried sick I’ve done things and said things I can never take back or make amends for.
I have to get her back.
An hour and a half later, I’m still shaking, but I’m hoping I’ve exhausted myself to the point that I can get some sleep.
My sister calls. I ignore it. Rhett calls, and I ignore him too. Even Annabel sends me a text, asking if I’m okay, but I don’t respond. I tell myself it’s because I need to focus on Emma. Then I’ll deal with my fucking family.
But deep down I know I’m just hanging on to my rage for dear life.
I get in bed and wait for sleep to come. It doesn’t. I lie there, the silence so loud it screams.
I’m right back where I started.
Alone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Emma
The next day is bright and warm. Springtime in the North Carolina mountains, where seventy-degree days follow freak snowstorms, and no one bats an eye.
I’m surprised when Lindsey says she’ll stay another night.
“But don’t you have to work?” I ask, trying valiantly to choke down some cereal. It’s the only thing I have in the house for breakfast, and it’s stale.
But even if it were Samuel’s lemon scones, I don’t think I’d be able to eat. I’m nauseous to the point that I wonder if I’ll be able to make the drive up to Blue Mountain without puking.
“I took a few days off to celebrate my promotion.” She tips back her mug. “Needed to charge my batteries before I dive back in, you know?”
I feel a prick of envy, and not the good kind, either. My sister is taking time off to celebrate moving up in her world, while here I am, free-falling through mine. It’s only a matter of time before I hit rock bottom.
Still, I try my best to put on a brave face.
“Good for you,” I say thickly. “I’ll try to get off as early as I can. I’ll bring home some dinner.”
“I got dinner. I’ll make us something good, okay?” She reaches across the sofa and gives my arm a squeeze. “You got this, Em. It only gets better from here.”
I get in the car and blink back tears. I’m nervous about telling the staff I’m quitting. I’m really nervous about running into Hank.
Most of all, I’m nervous about seeing Samuel.
But crying isn’t going to fix my problems. So on the drive up to the farm, I manage not to puke and come up with a plan instead. I make a mental list of people I can call: former managers and restaurant group heads. My friends at the big box wine store in West Jefferson—maybe I can land there while I figure out my next move. Fellow sommeliers at the top restaurant and wine spots downtown.
Do I want to stay in Asheville, though? I’ve lived in the mountains for more than a decade. I’ve lived in the Carolinas my whole life. I love it here.
But maybe it’s time for a change. Nashville has a booming hospitality scene. There’s always Charleston too. Would it be wrong if I gave Elijah Jackson a call? I could ask Beau if he’d be cool with it.
The freefall happens inside my chest too, when I think about that being the last conversation I have with Beau.
How many more times will I get to drive through the resort’s front gate?
The snow’s melted, except for a few spots in the shade beneath trees and the hollows of hills. Everything is suddenly vibrant green, the sky wide open and clear, a shade of blue so intense it makes your heart turn over to look at it.
The farm glitters beneath the springtime sun. I crack my windows, the smells of grass and earth filling my lungs. Horses in the field to my right toss their manes. Chef Katie’s line cooks are in the enormous garden to my left, baskets on their hips as they gather whatever produce wasn’t squashed by the late spring snow. I wonder what alterations Chef has had to make to tonight’s menu. Did the asparagus make it? If not, what is she subbing in the agnolotti? That Tuscan kale, maybe?
Oooooh, if that’s the case, then that spicy Napa Valley Cabernet Franc would be perfect with it.
I’m gripped by sharp-edged longing. I love my job here.
I love it here, period. So much.
But I can’t stay. If it was meant to be, it would’ve worked out, right?
I want to turn around when the barn comes into view. I may love my job, but I do not love the idea of facing the mess I’ve made. Still, I park in the lot behind the restaurant and march through the door, determined to show up anyway. If I only have two weeks left, I’m going to try to enjoy them. A tall order, considering I’ll have to see the man I love but can’t have every damn day.
Still, I have to try.
Guests are eager to escape their rooms after being cooped up, so we’re slammed right from the get-go. It’s a nice distraction, but my heart is lodged somewhere in my throat as I wait to run into Samuel or Hank or any Beauregard, really.
I’m distracted to the point that I can barely function. I drop a tray carrying a bottle of Pinot Grigio and four glasses. The shatter brings the noise in the restaurant to a temporary standstill as everyone stares. I mix up a Chardonnay and a Sauv blanc I have chilling at the wait station and end up serving two tables the wrong wines. It’s not the end of the world, but when the bottle of Chardonnay you’re serving costs upward of two hundred dollars, your customers aren’t going to be very happy.
I totally bungle not one but two tickets. I get well-deserved side-eye from Chef Katie when I pick up a hot plate without a towel and burn my hand.
I’m a mess, and it’s embarrassing. Also embarrassing? The way I catch staff looking at me every so often. It’s obvious they know something’s up. Makes me wonder how much they know. Are they looking because I’m fucking up? Or are they looking because I fucked my co-director?
Brunch service passes, then lunch. Dinner’s around the corner, but Samuel is still nowhere to be found.
At quarter till five he walks in. He’s wearing a suit, as usual, but this one is alarmingly subdued for him. It’s black, no pinstripes, no pocket square. His simple white button-down is open at the neck.
His eyes find mine across the restaurant, and I’m hit by a tidal wave of emotion.
He is so fucking handsome. And he looks so distraught. His eyes are red, and his scruff is scruffier than usual, like he hasn’t shaved in a day or two. The naked hurt in his gaze has me putting a hand on my chest to keep my heart inside its proper cavity.
He immediately comes to me.
“Hi,” he says.
I smell his skin and want to cry. “Hey.”
“My office? Just for a minute.”
“Sure.”