Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

He also keeps looking at me, which makes my enjoyment dim ever so slightly, because I get the feeling I’m the one making him laugh. Not because I’m witty, but because I’m ridiculous. In his eyes, at least.

It’s totally not okay for someone to laugh at me that way, but it’s an unfortunate reality of my job. Over the years, I’ve learned that the sooner you stay away from people who just don’t get it, the better.

Also helps to keep their water glass full and their wineglass mostly empty.

Making a mental note to keep his pours light from now on, I look away.

My gaze lands on Samuel, who’s staring at me from the other side of the table. My stomach dips at the softness I see in his gaze. When he’s looked before, it’s been wolfish. Like he wants to eat me.

But this—this is open and honest and interested. Like he wants to know more.

About what? Wine? Me?

And why are butterflies taking flight inside my torso?

Chapter Twelve

Samuel

Fuck me, she’s on fire.

Emma’s burning with real, ardent passion, pride too, and I can’t stop staring.

“She’s incredible,” one of the guys at the table murmurs to his neighbor.

She’s better than that. She’s extraordinary. She’s knowledgeable and relatable and funny and warm.

She makes you feel something about the liquid in your glass that, on any other day, would just be wine. But today? Today the stuff is a story. A bridge between the past and present. A way to connect with people we love.

It’s the meaning of life itself.

I have never, in all my years drinking the world’s best wine, felt so much about a glass of grape juice, as Hank calls it. And I’m not even drinking it. I’m watching everyone else soak up the flavors while listening, rapt, to Emma’s explanation of why it’s important and what makes it special.

All the while thinking it isn’t the wine that’s the star here.

I should be threatened. Scared. I know this script all too well. She’s stealing the show. My show. The one I’ve poured years of my life into perfecting.

Only, I’m enthralled.

More. I want more of this, whatever it is. Her bravery, maybe? She’s taking a deep dive into wine and nuns and history, wearing her heart on her sleeve as she gives the table full access to who she is and what she loves.

She’s allowing them to know her in a way I never, ever let people know me. And I’m witnessing, firsthand, how the table connects with her vulnerability, and how it allows her to genuinely, joyfully connect with them.

This is what I’ve been missing.

Holy shit, how did I not see it sooner? I’m protective by nature. I’ll protect my family at any cost.

I guess I’ve been protecting myself too. I thought I was doing the right thing, pasting on a smile so I could get through life without being pummeled again.

Beau once told me it’s natural to want to protect yourself when you’re a pro athlete, because the world—the media, the fans—believe nothing about our lives should be private. Like being an elite athlete means you aren’t entitled to freedom anymore or something.

Is that why I’m so reticent?

Unlike Emma. Lord, does she make being open—transparent—look good.

She makes being known look like happiness. The kind of happy I saw in my parents’ faces when I was young and times were good.

I want that. So damn bad. What if I trusted her and tried it on, her vulnerability? Dropping the bullshit smile and showing the world something else? Something real? I just—yeah, I’m scared shitless. Opening yourself up to joy also means opening up to pain.And I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.

Speaking of pain—I’m about to visit some on that prick at seat fourteen. He’s been sneering at Emma all damn day.

Maybe the wine does taste like history. Or maybe it just tastes like tomorrow’s hangover.

What’s with the bun? She think she’s got a real job or something?

Emma’s not letting it ruffle her feathers, but I can tell by the way her shoulders stiffen every time he makes a snide comment that it bothers her. Eli and the other guys seem to be too absorbed in their own conversations to really notice.

But I notice. And that dickbag is one minute from getting hauled out of here by his hair.

Thankfully, the rich, starchy smell of the paella distracts him. Checking my watch, I glance at Chef Katie, who gives me the thumbs-up.

We’re on time, which means the paella course is almost ready.

I glance at Emma who, like the veteran restaurant employee she is, glances back and forth between Chef and me.

I nod. Emma nods back and heads for the table on the other side of the pavilion serving as our makeshift service station.

I head for Chef. All the while stealing glances at Emma. She’s got her wine tool in one hand and a bottle of Canción de Sangre in the other. She nudges the edge of the screw beneath the foil. Tries to pull it back but ends up jerking her hand away, catching her thumb on the screw instead.