I’m thirty-one years old, for crying out loud. I’ve been in this business for almost a decade. Drunk assholes poking fun at who I am and what I do is nothing new. Usually, I can let their comments, their looks, roll right off my back. I’m good at my job. I’m passionate about it and proud of what I’ve accomplished.
But today’s barbs are sticking. Maybe because something is going down between Samuel and me, something good and real and important, and it’s got me feeling soft and mushy. He’s opening up in a way he hasn’t before, and it’s incredibly satisfying to see how the Charleston Heat guests are connecting with that.
His vulnerability is making my own that much more poignant. That much softer. And since I’m so soft, this guy’s jabs land hard.
What if this profession is a joke?
What if I never make it because finding success as a sommelier only happens for a chosen few?
What if I’m trying too hard?
Eyes burning, I make a beeline for the smoking patio.
A forest of nearby oak and pine trees cast the patio in shadow. The patio itself is set into a hill, bordered on one side with a tall retaining wall made of stone. Rocking chairs and upholstered benches face the unbelievable view. The cocktail tables between them are set with brass ashtrays and matching cigar cutters.
It’s chilly, but the air feels good against my skin. Putting my hands on my face, I feel the literal burn of embarrassment. I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath, loosening the knot in my throat ever so slightly.
There’s no crying in the wine expert world. In theory, at least. It’s unprofessional, and it does nothing except embarrass whoever’s doing it.
I haven’t cried at work since I failed phase two of the Master Sommelier certification test five years ago. Once I passed on the second try and landed the enviable possession of head sommelier at one of Asheville’s top restaurants, I thought I was finally past the hysterics-in-the-bathroom-during-break phase.
Guess I was wrong.
“He’s wrong.” The rumble of Samuel’s voice makes my nipples harden. I look up and there he is, crowding out the late afternoon sky.
Is he reading my mind?
His voice is rough, but his eyes are soft.
“Clearly, I’m a fan of a well-tailored suit.” He gives his lapels a tug. “While yours are not as awesome as mine, I happen to think they’re less Lois Lane and more Sex and the City Samantha.”
My lips twitch, and my throat loosens some more. “You watch Sex and the City?”
“Fuck yeah, I do. Samantha happens to be my favorite.”
“Mine too.”
“Go figure. Probably why you dress like the lovechild of her and a…librarian.”
I laugh. Samuel’s eyes smile as they search mine, and my heart does this lovely fluttering thing inside my chest.
“Point being, you’re not ridiculous. That guy was. You put on one hell of a show today.”
My thoughts scatter. Samuel is actually complimenting me. With actual words he’s actually speaking out loud.
My hand rests against my thigh, and I pinch myself there, just to make sure this isn’t some kind of stress-induced hallucination. Today’s been wildly, unbelievably great. So great that my natural optimism is threaded with a strand of bright red doubt.
When, exactly, is the other shoe going to drop?
“What I do is not a show,” I manage. “It’s a job.”
He holds up his hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I blink. Too startled to say anything else, I reply, “Thanks.”
He shoots his cuffs. Picks at an invisible speck of lint on his sleeve, averting his gaze. “And while I’m being all confessional and shit, I happen to think it’s a job you fucking annihilated. You know it, I know it, even that dickbag knows it. He acted a fool because he’s not used to your kind of greatness.”
I arch a brow, even as that fluttering inside my chest intensifies. “Sounds familiar.”
“Hey. We’re here to talk about you, not—”
Samuel twists at the sound of a voice behind us. Peeking around the bulk of his body, I see said dickbag spilling out of the pavilion. His eyes lock on me, and his gaze lights up with something sharp and lewd.
It lodges an ice pick of fear inside my breastbone.
Not thinking, I grab Samuel’s arm. A charge rips through me—longing? embarrassment?—and I quickly pull back my hand.
I square my shoulders, not daring to look at Samuel, and scramble to give myself a pep talk so I stand tall in front of this jerk. I won’t allow myself to cower.
But before I even open my mouth, Samuel reaches back and puts his hand on my right hip. My body ignites at the contact, fire mingling with the fear in my veins. When he gently guides me to stand behind the shield of his body, my heart turns over.
That is definitely not embarrassment.