Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

“Riesling,” he says. “Napa Valley? It’s too dry for an old-world Riesling. I’m thinking 2015ish. 2017 maybe.”

I could continue my gloating. But that would just give Samuel an excuse to replace that interest with annoyance, which would defeat the whole purpose of this tasting. So I try a different tack.

Unwrapping the serviette, I reveal a 2016 Riesling from the Spring Mountain district of Napa Valley.

“Well done,” I say, holding up my hand for a high five. “One of the best wines I’ve had in the past five years. Different but totally delicious, right? And it retails for under thirty-five bucks a bottle. Not exactly a steal, but for a wine with this kind of complexity, it’s still a great bargain.”

Samuel glances at my hand. Glances at the bottle.

He leaves my high five hanging. But he does glide his glass forward—those fingers, Jesus—and raise his eyebrows.

“I’ll have a little more.”

I watch him taste it, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. He knows his wine, that much is clear, but I could tell at the start of our meal he wasn’t as well versed in tasting. He wasn’t smelling the wine correctly, and he gulped his wine instead of savoring it. Now he’s shoving his nose into the glass like a pro, taking his time as he drinks to contemplate the Riesling’s gorgeous flavor profile.

Clearly he watched me, took notes, and modified his behavior accordingly.

He actually learned something. Took a suggestion. Changed.

Hope rises in my chest like the sun. I don’t want to jump the gun here. But I think Samuel’s got a softer, more intelligent side. He may act like an unyielding asshole, but deep down maybe that’s not who he really is.

Which begs the question: why the dissonance?

“I like this one.” He tips back what’s left in the glass. His eyes find mine, and he cocks a brow. “You know the winemaker?”

I finally allow myself to grin. “Sure do. Smith-Madrone is a family operation, same as Blue Mountain Resort. Their story is actually really cool. I’m happy to reach out to them and inquire about putting in an order. They have an Estate Riesling, too, that’s baller. Pricier. But blow-your-mind amazing. Almost as good as a ’76 German Riesling I had a few years back. It’s still my favorite wine I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’ll think about it.”

It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I’ll take it.

We’re running out of time, so I hurry through the rest of the wines. Samuel only nails one of the reds, a Willamette Valley Pinot Noir. He completely misses the other three.

By the time we’re finished, he’s back to being a block of stone.

Two out of six. He’s not happy about that. Tossing his napkin onto the table, he stands, letting out an annoyed sigh as he buttons his blazer. His gaze rakes over the bustling restaurant before it lands on me.

“You did well,” I say. “That was a tough tasting.”

“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” he replies, throwing my line back at me. “I bombed it. You proved your point. You’re the expert and I’m the idiot. Happy now?”

I feel a pinch of guilt. It was a dick move, putting together a tasting of esoteric wines I knew he wouldn’t be able to identify.

Then again, if he hadn’t been such a jerk to begin with, I wouldn’t have had to put together this tasting in the first place. I wouldn’t have had to prove that I’m able to contribute something of value. If he’d been amenable to working together, we could already be on our way to creating something special and spectacular here on the farm, instead of staring each other down over a table littered with half-empty bottles.

The thought makes me angry.

It makes me sad.

“My cornbread is indeed moi—well, you know, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply, deflecting.

For half a heartbeat he squints his eyes, mirthful.

“Told you I was a food guy.”

He stands there, looking at me. I look back.

It hits me that he’s waiting for me to get up. Like the gentleman he most certainly is not.

Even more bewildering? When he holds out his hand.

“Need some help?” he asks. “I gotta get going.”

I glance at his hand. Nails are neatly groomed—filed, not cut—which makes me think he gets manicures.

But the walnut-sized knuckles, the blunt calluses on his fingertips, the roadmap of thick, ropey veins that marks the back of his hand—that speaks to a roughness I like very much.

I blink, stopping that thought in its tracks. I have to keep my eyes on the prize. Which means keeping my eyes off this man.

“I’ve got it, thanks,” I say, scooting out of the booth on my own. I grab my bag, and we head for the door.

I notice the servers and hostesses practically kowtow to Samuel as we pass.

I also notice how he turns the heads of nearly every woman in the restaurant. A few of the men too.