Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

Beau nods at his brother. “This is Samuel. As the director of our food program, he’ll be your partner in crime in all things culinary. You two will be the co-heads who take the resort’s food and beverage programs to the next level.”

Samuel grunts. “We’ll see.”

Beau cuts him a look that I’m guessing says play nice or else. It makes me wonder what the hell Samuel’s deal is. Is he gunning for the wine job too? Or does he not think they need me here?

I stiffen my spine. Not exactly the welcome I was hoping for from my new co-head.

Holding out my hand, I say, “Nice to meet you, Samuel. I’m Emma Crawford.” I don’t force cheeriness into my voice because, well, I don’t need to. If he wants to be a dick, fine. He’s not the first asshole I’ve worked with, but hopefully he’ll be the last. “I look forward to working together.”

I don’t, his expression says. Yep, can read that one loud and clear.

My training as a sommelier has made my nose extra sensitive, so it’s not surprising that I catch a whiff of his cologne. I pick up notes of graphite. Wet granite. A heavy hit of saccharine spice. It’s expensive and not at all subtle, just like his outfit.

Still, it doesn’t stop the bolt of electricity from darting up my arm when his hand engulfs mine. The warmth of his palm is a startling counterpoint to the ice in his eyes.

Eyes that flash, just for a second. Just long enough for me to think he felt the electricity too.

The space between us thrums, but I try to ignore it. I’m not here to get laid. I’m here at Blue Mountain Farm to make my dreams come true.

Besides, I have Blue for sex. I usually chat with several partners at once, but lately, the proverbial well has run dry. So for now, I’m unintentionally monogamous with Blue.

“Right,” he says, and drops my hand.

A beat of uncomfortable silence blooms between the three of us, along with the scent of rosemary. The herb borders the path in pretty blue-green swaths, along with a riot of azaleas and a gigantic magnolia tree. From the service to the grounds, everything about Blue Mountain Farm is impeccable.

Doesn’t hurt that it’s a beautiful spring day. It’s another warm afternoon in what’s been a remarkably mild winter. We never got the usual snowstorm or two we’ve come to expect, which makes me think we’re due for a thumper at some point.

“Okay then.” Beau claps his hands together. “Emma, you up for a quick behind-the-scenes tour of The Barn Door? Then we’ll get you checked into your cottage.”

“That would be great. I can’t wait to see this wine cellar I keep hearing about.”

“My cellar. Stocked with my bottles.” Samuel sends a meaningful glance in his brother’s direction. “The ones I began collecting long before I was Blue Mountain’s food and wine director.”

Ah. So he wants my job and he doesn’t think the resort needs me.

Great.

Rolling his eyes, Beau opens the door for me. “Excuse my brother. He’s still warming up to the idea of accepting much-needed help with our expanding programs. I promise he’ll see the light.”

I move through the doorway. “By the way, I appreciate that not-so-little perk of y’all putting me up in a cottage. I won’t lie, I’m really excited about staying here for a couple of weeks. Beau, your resort is stunning.”

“Of course. I wanted you to experience the farm as a guest so you can get a feel for the experience we’re trying to create. I’ll admit it’s also part of my shameless ploy to get you to stay, well, forever.”

As a part of my signing package, Beau offered me the chance to stay in one of Blue Mountain Farm’s insanely luxurious cottages for a few weeks. Considering they go for north of two grand a night, I would’ve never been able to afford to stay here otherwise. As much as I love my loft back in Asheville, a twenty or so minute drive from here, I’m excited about the change of scenery. Especially when that scenery is some of the best in the Smokies.

I take in the quiet of The Barn Door restaurant. It’s midafternoon on a Friday, and while a handful of diners linger over a late lunch, the place has the buzzy feel of a party about to begin. A small army of staff patrols the floor—front servers, busboys, a pair of hostesses.

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.