Guys who don’t have jobs, that’s who.
I have V for that shit. Just gonna have to chat with her more often.
Tearing my gaze from Emma’s body, I pretend to write something on my notepad. “The, uh, Canción de Sangre.”
“Oooh, song of blood. Sounds dangerous. I like it.” She jots down a note. “I assume it’s big and meaty?”
I slap my hand down on my desk. Emma startles, those pretty brown eyes going wide in genuine shock.
Shit, did I scare her?
“I swear to God I didn’t say that to be gross.” She holds up her hands. “It just came out. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“It’s good,” I manage. “The wine is very…good. Spice and, uh, stuff.”
Fuck me, this girl’s turned me into a blabbering idiot.
It’s her third day on the job. How mushy will my brain be after a week? A month?
A goddamn year?
“Hey, y’all! Can I come in?”
I look up and see my sister poke her head through the door. Without waiting for an answer, she strides into my office, smiling broadly at Emma.
I should be relieved Milly’s here. She could very well be saving me from embarrassing myself any further.
But instead, I’m annoyed. Just like I was when Hank kept popping up at the tasting last night.
It’s all I can do not to groan. Why does my family annoy me so much all of a sudden? If I didn’t know better, I’d say I want Emma all to myself. Which is a joke. I don’t want Emma. At all.
“Emma!” Milly extends her hand. “Great to see you again. I heard you guys are working on your first event together—”
“Who told you that?” I grind out.
Milly turns her smile on me, wagging her brows. “Beau. He wanted me to come by and referee. I mean, offer my services.”
Emma laughs. My heart skips at the sound. It’s deep. Throaty. Real.
Something tells me Emma would never fake it.
I shift in my chair, settling my elbows on the desk. “How great of him. We’re doing just fine—”
“So.” Milly grabs the chair beside Emma’s and sits, turning to her. “As you know, I focus primarily on weddings. But I love to help out with smaller stuff when I can. Y’all are in luck—I don’t have a wedding this weekend, so I’m free to help with the Charleston Heat Luncheon.”
“So lucky,” I deadpan. “Also, why are you calling it that?”
“Because, Samuel, apparently the gentlemen of this party are, shall we say, easy on the eyes.” Milly grins conspiratorially at Emma. “I heard Elijah Jackson prefers to go shirtless.”
“Even at mealtimes?” Emma says.
Milly’s wagging her eyebrows again. “Especially at mealtimes. I’ve seen pictures, and the heat in his kitchen is very real. And Luke Rodgers, it’s rumored he’s grows the biggest zucchini on his farm and in his—”
“Stop,” I beg. “Please? Just—so many food puns, I can’t—topic. Stay on top of me. Stay on topic.”
Milly peers at me. “Did you not have your coffee yet?”
“Out.” I tear both hands through my hair. “Get out before I hurl myself through that window.”
Emma wrinkles her forehead. “Are you really not okay?”
“He’s fine.” Milly waves me away. “So, back to this weekend. I do it all—decor, lighting, china and glassware, flowers, linens. Let’s make this thing magical.”
“Let’s,” Emma says. She glances at me. “Since the group’s coming up from Charleston, they’ll probably dig a change of scenery. What if we played up the whole rustic, wine by the fire on a bearskin rug angle you guys have going up here?”
My brain, that bastard, conjures an image of Emma on the bearskin rug I just happen to have in front of my fireplace at home. She’s naked. Her legs are wrapped around me as I kiss her mouth. She tastes like the Rioja. Juicy stone fruit and heat.
“I love it,” Milly says, eyes lighting up. “We could keep it simple but exquisite—springtime in the mountains. I don’t know if you’ve been out to the Stag Pavilion yet, but it’s got a huge fireplace and these beamed ceilings that really don’t need much embellishment. We’ll have a fire going, and some greenery and white flowers on the tables. Gerbera daisies, peonies. Oh! And tulips.”
Emma’s writing feverishly in her notebook. “I love tulips.”
“I love running my own damn meetings,” I say.
“Mr. Beauregard, I’m speaking.” My sister shoots me a glare. “We’ll do white linens and these cool metal chairs that just came in. Throw some matching blankets on a few of them in case someone catches a chill.”
“Genius,” Emma says, not looking up from her notes.
“I know.”
Emma finally stops writing and glances at me. “Anything you’d like to add, Samuel?”
She’s the one who’s the genius. Her ideas, her mature brand of enthusiasm, the way she confidently offers suggestions and asks questions…
I don’t know why she doesn’t take an eye for an eye and be a jerk right back to me. But instead, she’s including me in the conversation.