Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Have a moment?”

“Of course.”

“My office.”

Notebook and pen in hand, I follow him up to the suite of offices on the second floor. His is surprisingly cozy, tidy too, with the same reclaimed wood walls and beamed ceilings as downstairs. Samuel takes a seat behind the massive desk in the center of the room.

He does not invite me to sit.

“Elijah Jackson is coming to the resort this weekend.” He opens a drawer, takes out a leather folio, and tosses it onto the desk. “Beau wants us to put together a lunch-tasting combo for him and his guests on Saturday.”

I smile, excitement fluttering inside my chest. Okay, working with Samuel has not been awesome. But the clientele Blue Mountain Farm attracts most certainly is. So is the idea of introducing one of my favorite chefs of all time to my favorite wines.

“The Eli Jackson?”

“Yup.” Rummaging through the folio, his gaze flicks up to meet mine. “You a fan?”

“Love him. His breakfast bowls? And the fact that he fell in love with his wife by making her food while she wrote her first romance novel? I mean, he’s an icon in every sense of the word.”

Samuel grunts. “So you read that Garden and Gun profile too.”

“I read everything food and wine related that I can get my hands on. The profile was a good one, right?”

Samuel’s eyes flick to mine. They’re intensely, almost supernaturally blue in the strident morning light. “Don’t sound so surprised that I read. I know you think I’m just a dumb jock—”

“I never said that.”

“That gleam in your eye last night when you showed me the label on that bottle of Dom? Yeah, that definitely said ‘you’re dumb.’”

“No.” I cross my arms. “It said ‘I want to open your mind, but since you’re so hell-bent on thwarting me at every turn, this is the only way I know how.’”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I reserved the Stag Pavilion from eleven till three. Eli’s bringing his guy friends, fifteen guests total. Goes without saying we need to pull out all the stops.”

My pulse kicks up a notch. This is my chance to show him that I really am a team player.

My chance to prove I’m trustworthy.

I take a seat in one of the chairs facing Samuel’s desk and cross my legs, settling my notebook on my lap.

“Absolutely.” I click my pen and start writing. “It’ll be something fabulous. Something different. Because he’s well versed in southern classics, I say we stay away from that kind of thing. No one does grits quite like him—”

“You have yet to taste my grits.”

It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “So why try to top his mastery? It’d almost be an insult.”

Samuel’s eyes flick over my stockinged legs. That muscle in his jaw tics.

“I thought the same thing.” We meet eyes, and my pulse kicks up another notch. “I gave Chef Katie a call this morning and floated the idea of doing a Spanish-style meal. I’ve always been a big fan of paella—”

“Me too,” I say, my pen flying as ideas begin to take shape. “And you’ve got some pretty sweet wines from Spain in the cellar, so the pairings will be a breeze.”

Samuel smirks, cocky and knowing and…actually kinda cute? “Exactly. And it just so happens our rice supplier is Luke Rodgers of Rodgers’ Farms in South Carolina. He’ll be at the lunch on Saturday. So not only do we get to do a southern riff on the dish with locally sourced ingredients, but we’ll also be giving a guest a nod of appreciation.”

“Perfect. I know Chef just harvested her first crop of peas from the garden, and a big-ass paella is the perfect place to show off our produce.” When Samuel raises a brow, I grin. “Yes, I called Chef this morning too. I wanted to go over any changes to today’s menu so I’ll know which wines to recommend with each course.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you always so thorough?”

“Yes. The paella—what are you thinking? Seafood? Chicken? Chorizo? All of the above?”

Samuel blinks, like he’s surprised by my questions. I bet the jerk expected me to run roughshod over him.

I allow my grin to deepen, meeting his gaze head-on. See? Team player.

I only run roughshod over men in the bedroom. Looking at Samuel, I wonder if he’d like that. Sometimes the guys who are as alpha as he is are secret submissives behind closed doors.

“You’re the food guy.” I hold out my hands, pen laced between my fingers. “Tell me what you want, and we’ll make it happen.”

“Chicken,” he says automatically. “Chicken and chorizo.”

I scribble in my notepad. “Love it. Classic combo that will be a total crowd pleaser. What about adding a crema to it? One of the best paellas I’ve had was at this place out in Santa Barbara. They paired theirs with this cool, tangy white sauce that was out of this world.”