Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

I never felt alone, the way I do now.

Daddy passed from early-onset dementia almost fifteen years ago, but I still miss him every damn day. He and I were thick as thieves, probably because we’re so much alike. We have the same build. Same love of feeding our people. We played the same position, and we even wore the same number, 4, on our jerseys.

But missing him ain’t gonna make shit any better. I’ve made my call, and I’m sticking to it. I’ve tried being the good guy before, and look how that went—I lost my job, my team, and my career all in one fell swoop.

And really, I’m doing Emma a favor. She’s a smart girl. She’ll find a position that’s better suited to her talents. One that allows her to soar, the way I want to soar on my own at Blue Mountain Farm.

The cellar is my happy place.

Ducking my head as I step through the door, I inhale a deep lungful of that familiar smell: oak, fruit, alcohol. All undercut by this smoky dampness I can only describe as history.

The history of the barn, which dates back to the late 1700s.

The history of the wine itself.

And my own history—from my first sip of the good stuff at a team dinner at Del Frisco’s Philadelphia to buying my first bottle at auction to this. A world-class collection that’s a draw in and of itself. I’ve had dozens of guests return to the resort just for the wine. A fact I’m pretty fucking proud of.

Immediately, the ache in my chest loosens. I have no clue why Emma put it there, or why it lingered well into the evening.

No surprise, though, that my cellar would be the thing to shake it.

We had the state-of-the-art space constructed in the barn’s basement. It’s a cavernous cellar, equal parts rustic and slickly modern, with a vaulted stone ceiling and walls paneled in reclaimed wood. Enormous tempered glass boxes, illuminated from the floor, hold the actual wine racks. Each box is carefully organized with particular varietals. Makes it easy for our waitstaff to navigate our enormous list quickly and efficiently.

Also makes the cellar look sexy as hell. When I met with the architect, I told him I wanted to build Tony Stark’s wine cellar if Tony were the secret lovechild of Daenerys Stormborn and Drake.

And that’s exactly the cellar I got.

The lighting is low and soft, giving the space a moody, sexy vibe, and the temperature is set at a perfect fifty-five degrees. There’s a massive antique table in the center, which we use for private parties and tastings. I keep a few of my really special bottles—a Nebuchadnezzar of Ace of Spades champagne, a magnum of my favorite Napa Cab—on a shelf that runs the length of one wall, which we covered in antiqued mirror to reflect the light. We spared no expense. Same as I spared no expense on this collection.

I’ve got three thousand bottles down here. Everything from Silver Oak to hundred-year-old Burgundy. Opening the glass door to my favorite box—big, meaty California Cabernets—I mentally catalogue each bottle’s characteristics: alcohol, acidity, body. It’s been a while since I did a blind tasting, and my vocabulary is a little rusty. I used to do them with my teammates back in the day. A friendly competition where the dollar price of the bottles we brought mattered more than our acumen in identifying them.

I wonder what Emma will pick. She mentioned she liked small producers. Not my specialty. Not my preference, either.

Grabbing a bottle by its neck, I pull it out. Opus One. I vaguely remember this vintage. I drank it with…that chick from HGTV? Maybe in Palm Springs? Or was it Palm Beach? God, I’m tired.

Blue fruits. No, stone fruits. Red? Red what? And the tannins. What about the tannins?

Fuck.

I shove the bottle back into its slot with more force than necessary. The entire rack trembles, making me want to puke for one agonizing heartbeat, then another.

“There a bee in your bonnet?”

I turn to see my sister, Milly, stride into the room, a wine menu and notebook tucked under one arm, phone in hand.

“Nah.” I paste on a smile and turn away from the wine. “Just—”

“A certain sommelier’s arrival got you out of sorts. Or so I hear.”

Out of my four siblings, I meddle the most. So I have absolutely no right to be annoyed by Milly’s line of questioning.

But I am.

I’m really, really annoyed. And I really, really wish Milly would go away. I want to be alone.

“You know how I feel about that.” I nod at her notebook. “Need some help?”

“Actually, Emma already gave me a few great ideas for John and Celeste. I guess they went to Slovenia last week and fell in love with the wine there, so they requested a change in the menu for the wedding. Emma said we should try—wait, here, let me check”—Milly opens her notebook to a bookmarked page—“something called Rebula? And she suggested we give Cabernet Franc a go for the red. Apparently that’s cultivated in Slovenia too. She gave me a few bottles to investigate down here.”