“The chorizo and chicken paella at Bonita?” Samuel is blinking again, brow furrowed.
“Yeah.” I pull back, surprised myself. “You’ve been?”
“Probably my favorite restaurant on the West Coast.”
I’m smiling now. “It’s that good.”
“It is that good. The gin and tonics? Christ.”
“Oh yeah—love that one they do with the rosemary and cucumber. And the tapas? Insane. On my last trip out there, I may have emptied my bank account eating at that place four nights in a row. By the last night, all the bartenders were looking at me funny, but I was too drunk on gin and high on albóndigas to care.”
He’s doing that thing where he cocks his brow. Makes him look a little less angry, a little more approachable. “You got high on meatballs?”
“I’m only going to answer that question if you promise not to turn it into another gross food pun.”
“Unfortunately I’m unable to make any such promise.” He leans back in his chair and rests his clasped hands on his flat stomach.
“Then the conversation about meat and balls ends there. Such a shame, because those were some pretty delicious ones.”
It’s an entirely inappropriate conversation to have at work. We’re flirting with a line we probably shouldn’t cross.
We’re flirting, period. And that’s a line we definitely shouldn’t cross. But we’ve got some good energy going right now. Plus, it’s fun trading banter with Samuel. He’s quick and bold, and when we’re exchanging bad puns, it means we’re not exchanging barbs.
Which gives him the chance to actually listen to what I’m saying.
It’s obvious Samuel likes what he’s hearing.
For the first time, we’re on the same page. Not only that—he’s engaging me in meaningful (albeit slightly pervy) conversation about my love of food and wine and travel. I can’t tell you how many people have made me feel like a joke for being passionate about things like gin and paella. Like I’m ridiculous for loving the things I do.
But right now, Samuel Beauregard of all people is smiling as we chat about those very things.
The man actually smiles, a cocky flash of white teeth and gleaming blue eyes that seems to melt the ice between us so quickly it’s as if it was never there to begin with.
“I’m struggling not to make a crack about your cornbread,” he replies. “So let’s keep talking about the menu. How about we add balls—pardon, albóndigas—as an appetizer?”
“Throw in some manchego croquetas and I think we have a solid start to what’s going to be an epic meal.”
Samuel runs a hand across his scruff. “Manchego. That shit is so good. Should we add some tasso ham? Just because we can? Our butcher smokes a mean ham.”
“Done. I love that we have our own butcher on-site. I’m thinking we pair the croquetas with…hmm…”
I look up. He looks at me.
“Albariño,” we say at the same moment.
“The acidity will complement the cheese really nicely,” I say.
“The lemon-lime note will make a fried dish like that feel less heavy. I was thinking the—”
“Juan Luis?”
Samuel nods. “Great little wine. I discovered it years ago and have had it on the menu ever since.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say, smiling so hard my face hurts. “Although I have to say I was surprised to see it pop up in your bible. It’s a sleeper—not many people know about it. And it’s cheap. Relatively speaking, anyway.”
His lips twitch as he surveys me across his desk. “And you thought you had me pegged.”
Chapter Ten
Samuel
“All right,” Emma says, uncrossing and crossing her legs. “Since we’re doing something light and different for the tapas, let’s go BSD for the paella pairing. You have some really nice Riojas that would work beautifully. Which one is your favorite?”
Sweet savior in heaven, why does she gotta have those legs?
I also wanna know why she can’t be easier to hate today. Yesterday she made me look like a humongous idiot, so wanting her gone was easy. But today she’s playing by every freaking rule. She’s full of good ideas and better energy, and she’s not only asking for my input, she’s also excited about what I have to say.
For the first time, I feel like we’re real partners doing really great work.
I never felt that sense of camaraderie with Olly and Coach Kravinsky. Granted, after my injury I spent the better part of a season either in bed or at physical therapy, so I wasn’t with the team for months on end.
But still. This chemistry I have with Emma is something I didn’t experience with my coach or my backup, ever. Which means—
Well, it means what, exactly? I know better than to trust Emma.
But what choice do I have? Beau is forcing me to trust her by working together on this event.
Those legs. Must. Stop. Looking. Or I’m gonna get hard. Who gets a stiffy at a work meeting?