Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

There are two types of foodies in this world: those who like good food because they can post pictures of it on Instagram, and those who treasure food because they appreciate the art and effort and heart involved in creating dishes like this.

Emma’s clearly the latter. Her phone’s nowhere to be seen. She’s sensitive to the most minute of flavors, brow furrowed as she chews thoughtfully. Eyes bright, like a light’s been turned on inside her. Fully absorbed in the moment. The flavors. The feel of a shared meal.

Can’t remember the last time I sat down with someone who radiated intelligent passion like this. Who wasn’t putting on a front, a fake face.

Makes me realize how fake my smiles can be sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.

“I hear you feed your staff,” she says, making me blink. Only then do I realize I’ve been staring at her. I look up and catch Hank staring at her too, hovering just out of arm’s reach.

Looking away, I shove a forkful of kale into my mouth. If anyone can make this leafy shit delicious, it’s Katie. The chef I hired.

“And?”

“And I think that’s really cool. Xavier was telling me how everyone eats together in the kitchen before service. Not many of the places I’ve worked for do that.”

I grab my wine and finish it. I notice her eyes stray to my fingers on the stem again.

“Figured the best way to get the staff excited about our food would be to feed it to them. That way they can sell it honestly. Put a personal touch on their recommendations.”

“You ever eat with them?” she asks, cleaning the last of her plate.

I shake my head. “I don’t have time.”

I lean back as our plates are cleared, replaced by a second course: spring vegetable risotto, featuring the peas, asparagus, and shallots grown right here on the farm. It’s topped with a generous helping of freshly shaved parmesan, the nutty, umami smell making my stomach growl.

I worked out like a motherfucker earlier, which explains why I’m starving. Exercise makes me feel centered. I do it six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, no exceptions, no excuses. But I don’t usually go as hard as I did today. Guess I have a lot on my mind I needed to clear out, thanks to the girl who’s currently torturing me from across the table.

The next wine is a white, straw colored. Cold enough to make the bowl of my glass frost over.

I follow Emma’s lead and shove my nose deep into the glass. She watches me do it, something like pleasure in her gaze. Tonight she’s the boss, and she digs it.

Exactly why she can’t stay.

At last she tips back her glass and sips. I do it too, determined to hate this wine like I hated the first one.

Only problem? It’s freaking delicious.

I’m not the biggest white wine fan, but I’ve tasted enough to know this one is good. It’s sweet but not perfume-y, crisp but not astringent, dry but not boring. A little baked bread on the nose. There’s so much going on here I can’t tease it all out on one sip alone. I take another, moving it around my tongue the way Emma does.

We look like total assholes, gurgling our wine, swishing it around our mouths. But I could give a shit.

This wine, it’s a whole mood. Makes me think of warm summer nights, cool water running over creek bottoms, the smell of fluffy lemon pancakes. The kind Daddy used to make on Sunday mornings. I feel grass under my feet. Lightness in my legs and chest. A sense of freedom and rightness I can’t quite get my arms around.

Sounds nuts, I know. I’m never one to gush random bullshit when I’m drinking. But two sips in, and I already know this wine is really, really special. It’s telling me a story—telling a version of my story back to me—making me sort through my memory to nail the exact feeling I get when I drink it.

Above all else, it makes me think of my past, which makes me think of Daddy.

My heart twists. Lungs clench. I set down my wine and reach for my water.

This little buzz I’m starting to get it is putting me in a weirdly poetic mood, and I am not here for it.

“You okay?” Emma asks. There’s a knowing warmth in her eyes. I don’t like that either.

“I’m fine. This is, uh, something new. The wine. Something I haven’t had before I don’t think.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Beauregard.”

“I don’t like it when you call me that.”

“I don’t like it when you don’t give credit where credit is due.”

She doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t try to win me over with flattery and respect and deference, the way the rest of my employees do.