“Jet fuel. We like our coffee strong here on the farm. Thought you could use a boost before the big event.”
Hank smiles, his hazel eyes warm.
“Thanks.” I carefully peel the plastic top off the cup, grateful for the distraction. The silky, slightly bitter smell of the coffee fills my lungs. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”
“Took the liberty of adding cream and sugar.” Hank lifts a shoulder. “Because it’s Saturday and you’re on the farm.”
I grin, blowing on the coffee. “And Saturdays on the farm mean—”
“It’s time to indulge. Enjoy.”
“I can get on board with that.”
“Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Milly eyes her brother.
Hank shrugs again. “I’m not afraid of bein’ shameless. Beau said Emma was the best of the best, but now that I’ve seen her in action, I get how incredible it is to witness a master at work. If I gotta be the one to woo Emma to stay, well, I’ll woo my ass off.”
“Woo your ass on down to the cellar,” a voice, deep and firm, says behind me. A shiver darts up my spine. “I’ve got five cases of wine down there that aren’t gonna move themselves.”
I look up and there he is. Samuel Beauregard in all his early morning glory, shoulders rolled back so they seem to take up the entirety of the pavilion’s threshold. I don’t know if it’s the shoulders, the suit—double-breasted, Carolina blue with white check, pink tie that matches the face of his white gold Rolex—the smirk, or the way his hair is still wet from the shower. But damn does he look good.
The kind of good that makes the hum of activity around us come to a momentary standstill as everyone shamelessly checks him out.
He’s looking at me. Eyes searing. My heart trips and falls inside my chest.
I can smell his shampoo. Sandalwood, smidge of musk. Expensive.
But no cologne.
Hank wrinkles his brow. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“This whole thing makes no sense.” Milly loops her arm through Hank’s, casting one last glance at Samuel and me. “C’mon. I’ll help.”
Blinking, I tear my gaze from Samuel’s face and focus on my coffee. It takes more effort than I’m willing to admit.
I bring the cup to my lips, ready to sip when Samuel grabs the cup, calloused fingers rough against the back of my hand. That electricity—the one I felt when we shook hands the first time—zips through my blood again, a spark that starts at the place where skin meets skin.
Glancing up, I notice that his nostrils flare. Once. Twice.
“Careful,” he says, dropping his hand. “Coffee from the main house is hot as fuck. And a burn will really mess with your tongue.”
My lips twitch at the familiar line, even as my heart keeps doing that weird tripping thing. It’s making my pulse blare inside my body, an insistent rhythm. I want. I want.
I want him to touch me again. I want to move closer and sniff his neck. Bite his shoulder.
I want to know if the chemistry that keeps crossing from professional to physical and back again is as hot as I think it is.
So what if it is, though? It’s not like I could ever act on it. I have to keep my eyes on the prize. Not on Samuel’s finely chiseled jawline or the freckles that dot his cheeks and forehead.
Not on how this is the second time he’s looked out for me.
Still, I can’t resist a little pervy banter to start the day.
“Thanks for the heads-up. My tongue might be my most treasured body part. Professionally speaking, anyway.”
He’s smirking again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I hear it’s the best in the business. Although I, for one, am not convinced that’s true.”
“It’s not my job to convince you. My tongue is reserved for our guests and our guests only.”
He lifts a brow. “You won’t share? How ungenerous. Me, I’m the opposite. I always make sure to give before I receive.”
Oh, God, he’s talking about oral without talking about oral, and I can’t help but fucking smile.
This is not appropriate. It shouldn’t be fun. But it is.
It really is. And considering the only fun I have these days is in chat rooms on the internet, I am ripe for the picking.
“Somehow I doubt your tongue is as skilled as you think it is. Takes a lot of practice to get where I am. A lot of time, effort. Trial and error. Classes, tests, tastings…”
“You think I don’t practice?” He shifts on his feet, leaning the tiniest bit closer to me. “I taste plenty, Emma. So much and so often I’ve been told I’m a connoisseur.”
My turn to smirk. “I think you might need some new friends, Beauregard. Ones who tell it to you straight.”
“I think you might need some new friends.” He ducks, lowering his voice to a teasing growl. “Ones who give it to you right.”