Southern Hotshot (North Carolina Highlands 2)

But because I’m trying to change, dammit, I give Emma the night off instead. “Both managers will be on the floor that night. As much as we’d like to believe our little planet up here will stop spinning if we’re not around, I think the two of us can take the night off. I’ll just keep my phone at the ready.”

“I was going to say the same thing.”

“Great.”

She nods, then hesitates. Nods again. “Do you? Have a date?”

My stomach dips. I shouldn’t read too much into the fact she asked the question. But I do. Is she jealous? If she is, does it mean what I think it does?

“Yes.”

“Good for you.”

“Thanks.”

Charged silence stretches between us.

Emma lets out a breath. “Well, I should get back upstairs.” She lifts the plate. “Thanks again for breakfast.”

She turns and goes. Her heels mark a steady, deep-throated beat against the cellar’s flagstone floor. Do not look up. Do not look at her ass—

Fuck, too late. I’m looking. And her backside is just as glorious as it’s been the other eighty-five hundred times I’ve checked it out.

I’m overwhelmed by the urge to ask her to turn around and sit down and share another meal with me right now. But that goes against her wish to keep things friendly.

But what’s more friendly than eating together? And what if I can show her how sharing a meal with me is a far superior experience to sharing one with the douche she’s seeing Friday night? Yes, I can’t say for certain if he’s actually an asshole or a douche. But envisioning her date being a total dud makes my jealousy burn a little less brightly.

I only had my fingers and tongue inside her a week ago. Now she has a date? Had she met the guy before she allowed me to see and taste her? Because Emma’s not someone who plays with men. She’s not the type to string someone along. Is she?

Before I can think better of it, I leap to my feet. Emma turns around at the same time.

“Samuel—”

“Emma—”

Our eyes lock across the cellar. Her lips twitch.

I nod. “You first.”

“I was going to say you should make breakfast for the staff one day. Keep it simple—a tray of these lemon and thyme scones would be perfect—and I can do a little Irish coffee or something to accompany it. If we’re feeling especially sassy, I could do lemon drop martinis.”

Grinning, I reply, “Because what’s sassier than martinis in the morning?”

“Exactly. We can all eat and drink together. You know, as a chance for everyone to get to know you better.”

My pulse thumps. One hard, decisive beat. “How about now?”

Not what I was going to ask, but I’ll go with it.

“You have time to make that many scones?” she asks, brows raised.

“No. But I have you to help.”

Emma smiles, and I feel something crack open inside my chest.

“I’ll get the vodka,” she says.

I close my laptop and head for the elevator.

Chapter Twenty-One

Samuel

The lemon scones are delicious. So are Emma’s martinis. They’re strong, the sweetness softened by just the right amount of tartness.

The conversation, however, is awkward as hell.

“So, Xavier,” I say, chowing down on my third scone. Because I can’t do awkward, I keep eating. It’s not a good look. But at least it keeps my hands and my mouth busy. “Tell me about…you.”

Fourteen pairs of eyes seem to blink in unison as they watch me make horrific attempts at real conversation.

Breezy, how-are-you-I-don’t-really-care-to-know conversation I can do. Bullshit is an art I’ve perfected over the years. So is sticking to business.

But genuine conversation? The personal kind that leads to a real connection?

I’m re-learning how to do it from Emma. But saying I’m rusty in that department is a kindness I do not deserve.

I’m downright awful at it. Daddy is rolling over in his grave right now.

But I gotta keep trying.

Xavier wipes his mouth and smiles. It’s different, somehow, from the polite smiles he’s always given me. It’s amused, kind, and a little embarrassed, not because he’s awkward but because I am.

He’s sympathizing, and I appreciate that more than he knows.

“How about this,” he says. “We did this ice breaker back in college called two truths and a lie. You give three facts about yourself, and everyone has to guess which one is the lie.”

I clap my hands together, making one of our hostesses Bianca jump. “Yes. Thank you. Let’s do it. Who wants to start?”

“I will.” Emma grins from her seat beside mine. “Okay, three facts: one, I dropped out of law school to become a cellar rat. Two, the most expensive things I’ve ever bought myself are a car and a pair of killer stilettos. Three, the best wine I’ve had all year is a Riesling from a Spring Mountain producer.”

“Two,” I blurt. “Definitely two.”

Emma’s grin becomes a smile. “Anyone else?”