“Josie,” I clip.
A hostess immediately appears at my elbow. “Yes, Samuel?”
“Take us to our table, please.”
“Right away. We have y’all at seventeen.”
I cut Emma a glance. She shrugs, this smug little thing that enrages me. Olly, my former backup-turned-traitor teammate, was smug like that too. At first, I thought it was just playful indifference, but I learned the hard way it was something much more sinister.
“Heard you had a thing for the night sky,” she says, “so I guessed seventeen was your favorite table. You can see the stars through the window if you blow out the candles. It’s also private and quite cushy. Perfect for a big swinging dick celebrity like yourself.”
I can tell Josie is trying very hard not to laugh as she seats us at the table. It is my favorite, for exactly the reasons Emma mentioned. The booth is a circular swath of butter soft leather tucked into the far corner of the barn. A high window follows the curve of the booth, allowing diners to glimpse nearly three hundred sixty degrees of sky. At night, when the light’s just right, it can be downright magical.
It can also be hell on earth when you’re experiencing it beside Miss Know-It-All. Seeing the flight of wineglasses set out at each place setting is an unwelcome reminder of how long I’ll be stuck here.
I could leave. Walk away. That might even be the smart thing to do.
But just like I was glued to the spot at Emma’s cottage yesterday, I find my legs unwilling to move. I glance across the table and watch Emma settle her napkin on her lap. Her movements are elegant. Restrained. But her eyes flash in the low light, alive and eager.
I sit, my clothes feeling a size too tight as I grab my own napkin.
“I heard you gave Milly some pointers today,” I say, careful to keep my voice even.
Emma nods. “The Slovenian wines, yes. What a cool request.”
“You overstepped your bounds, Emma.” When she opens her mouth to correct me, I hold up my hand. “I spent weeks helping John and Celeste put together a wine list. I pored over my entire cellar and went through every bottle until we found exactly what they envisioned. They want to change that now, fine. But you come to me first. Always. Have you ever planned a beverage menu for a wedding? What about a wedding that’s happening in four weeks? Hundreds of moving parts are involved. You were just telling me how you can’t pair duck with a Riesling. How do you think this is going to affect the food menu? What about the stemware we’ll need? Milly knows her way around the logistics. And you may know your way around wine, but I’m the only one out of all three of us who can make those pieces, plus the hundred others, work together.”
She blinks at me. Chastised. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just heard Slovenia, and Celeste Loo, and my excitement got the better of me.”
My turn to blink. I wasn’t expecting her to back down so easily.
“But”—ah, here it is—“I do have some great ideas for the revised menu. I think we can put together something really special.”
“Of course it will be special. This is Blue Mountain Farm. And I’m in charge.” I nod at the glasses in front of me. “Let’s do this. I have to be out of here by quarter till ten.”
Emma stiffens. “Right. I have a…call with a friend I have to get to as well.” She looks up and nods with a smile, and Xavier approaches the table with an opened bottle wrapped in a serviette (that’s cloth napkin in wine speak).
He pours us each a glass of sparkling wine. It’s all I can do not to rub my hands together. After California Cabs, bubbly is my specialty. Back in my pro days, there was always a bottle being popped somewhere: locker rooms, flights, hungover mornings in Vegas that called for more than a little hair of the dog.
“A toast?” Emma holds out her glass.
I glare at her across the table, reaching for my glass but not holding it up. “I save my toasts for family and friends, thanks.”
Undeterred, she continues to hold up her glass. “Fine. I’ll toast myself. To our future partnership. I’m excited to see how far we can take this thing.”
“You won’t be touching my thing.”
It’s too far and entirely inappropriate. I want to send her running for the place she worked last, not a lawyer’s office. But my lizard brain must consider being crass a legitimate way of pushing her away. The bun, the suit, the sensible heels—everything about her screams I’m offended by your awfulness.
But those eyes of hers tell a different story. They darken with mischief, a small smile working its way across her lips.
She unbuttons her blazer, revealing a white silk blouse that appeared to be all business when her lapels were closed. But now that they’re open, I can see the damn thing is gossamer thin and slightly transparent.
Dear God.
“You can keep that thing.” Her gaze flicks briefly to my crotch. “But this thing? The resort, everything it represents, showing your guests the best damn hospitality this side of the Appalachians? I’d very much like to play around with that.”
My cock twitches.
The goddamn traitor actually moves inside my pants, thanks to the awareness—the blood—that gathers in my balls at her equally crass reply.
My fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. No fucking way Emma’s perverted wittiness is gonna distract me.
No. Fucking. Way.
“Hey, y’all!” Hank appears at the table with a smile. “So, this tasting. I can only imagine how epic it will be. Emma, this guy being any nicer to you?”
Emma shoots me a look. “Not really.”
Now Hank’s looking at me too. “Dude, c’mon.”
“Don’t you have a job to do?” I reply.
“Be nice.” He turns to Emma. “You need someone to talk some sense into him, you know who to call.”
“Let’s get this over with,” I grunt, and hold my glass up to my nose as my brother thankfully disappears.
I watch Emma do the same. She really sticks her nose in the glass, looking like an idiot but not seeming to give two shits about it. Her tits rise on a deep inhale.
Look away. But is that the outline of her nipple?
Christ, it is her nipple, and it’s hard. I can make out the whisper-thin cup of her bra through her blouse and the color of the pebbled point through it.
Her nipple is pink, lusciously sized, with those little fucking dots surrounding it in a tight, perfect circle.
My mouth fills with saliva as my cock full-on surges against my fly.
I look up to see Emma watching me. That gleam in her eye is still there. So is the smile.
The realization hits me with the force of a skillet to the head.
Emma did this on purpose. She unbuttoned her blazer, and wore this shirt with this bra, to tease me.
Taunt me.
Provoke me.
Fuck her. Two can play this game.
“I’m sorry,” I say, setting down my glass without sipping. I place my fingertips on its stem.
She sets down her glass too. “Sorry?”
“I’ve been neglectful.” I glide those fingers up the stem. Back down, Austin Powers style. Just to mess with her.
Just to see if she’ll catch on.
She does, right away. Her gaze follows my movements. She smirks, amused. But then her nostrils flare, and her eyes get a little hazy. Heated.