Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

I think I’m actually trusting Emma. And not because Beau’s making me but because she deserves it.

Try it on. Maybe I should try accepting that Emma isn’t biding her time, waiting for the opportunity to manipulate me. To lie about her intentions.

My heart lifts the way it always does at the sight of a table of loud, happy people. The waitstaff has begun to set out the paella, and the smell is incredible. A little spice from the chorizo, starch from the rice, earthiness from the homemade chicken stock Chef and I spent the past two years getting just right.

I’m not the only one who appreciates just how fragrant and pretty the plates are.

“Y’all see that char on the rice?” Luke says, lifting his plate to get a better look. “Perfect.”

Elijah nods, and my chest swells. “Damn fuckin’ right it is.”

“Chef Katie is all kinds of talented with a paella pan.” I fill Greyson’s glass, the scent of vanilla and stone fruit rising from the wine. Glancing across the table, I catch Emma looking at me. She tips her head.

Keep going, she’s saying.

So I take a deep breath and gird my loins and put myself out there.

“Because I like to feed my ego, I’m gonna drop some knowledge on y’all.” The table laughs. Emma smiles. “The crispy, toasted rice you got there on your plates is called socarrat.”

“Socarrat,” Eli repeats, tipping back his wineglass for a sniff. “The stuff of dreams.”

I nod. “Exactly. Y’all give it a try. Notice how it’s a little sweet? That’s because the rice caramelizes in the pan. Add in that satisfying crunch, and you’ve got pure heaven. Well, for foodies like me, anyway.”

Emma holds up her decanter. “This Rioja balances out that note of caramel nicely—taste the vanilla? A little more sweetness to go with all that savory happening on your plates.”

Our eyes lock. Something urgent and sweet arrows through my center.

“Genius,” Greyson says. “It’s a beautiful pairing, truly.”

Emma’s at my side now, filling more glasses. Jen, a waitress, is right behind her. So I raise my arm and give Emma a nod. Lips twitching, she passes underneath it. Her elbow brushes against my belly, painting a brushstroke of heat across my torso.

I’m trying honesty on, and it feels nice.

“Nice casual mention of socarrat,” Emma says when we’re back at the service station. She’s uncorking bottles for the next course, so I start lining up the appropriate decanters.

“Hey. Really good socarrat is a great way to enhance sobre mesa. Which, coincidentally, happens to be my favorite thing in life. Well”—I smirk—“my second favorite, but you get the idea.”

She arches a brow. “Damn, Beauregard, bringing out the big guns today.”

“Told you I’m good at this.”

“You’re the best.” She meets my eyes. “Same as I’m the best at wine. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t sobre mesa the art of conversation over a meal? The way people connect and talk and, yeah, basically touch the divine while lingering over dinner?”

“It’s a lost art here in the States, and one I’d love to bring back.”

She pauses. The heat of her gaze coats my entire left side in this buzzy, prickly warmth. I’ve had women stare at me. A lot. Nothing new here. Except—

Except Emma’s attention gives me sense of pride. I’ve worked hard to get where I am today, just like I worked hard on the field. But right now, I’m being acknowledged for my work in this world, at this event.

It’s pretty fucking great.

“You do know that staring is rude, right?” I manage. When what I really want to ask is Will you let me make you a meal so I can show you how nourishing real food can be?

Speaking of getting crushed. A voice in my head screams no over and over again.

I listen. For now.

“You’re full of surprises, Beauregard.” I hear her smile in her voice. “And you know what the essential requirement for a solid sobre mesa is, right?”

“A pack of cheap French cigarettes. Obviously.”

She’s struggling with the wine tool again now that her thumb is tender. Wordlessly I take the tool and the bottle, the fingers of her gloved hand touching mine as she lets me take over. I curse the glove for being there because I want her skin. Her alive-ness, if that’s even a word, because I’m suddenly feeling achingly alive myself.

“Well, obviously that, yes. But honesty too. A willingness to dig deep and bare your soul.”

Pulling out a cork, I nod at the table. “Go see what seven wants to do about a refill. His glass is empty.”

“On it.”

She pours. I feed. Halfway through the next course she’s beside me again. Before I can move to get out of the way, she’s ducking underneath my arms again and shooting me a saucy, happy, satisfied grin. When the decanter I’m pouring from is empty, she’s at my side with a full one ready to go.