savory happening on your plates.”
Our eyes lock. Something urgent and sweet arrows through my center.
“Genius,” Greyson says. “It’s a beautiful pairing, truly.”
Emma’s at my side now, filling more glasses. Jen, a waitress, is right behind her. So I raise my arm and give Emma a nod. Lips twitching, she passes underneath it. Her elbow brushes against my belly, painting a brushstroke of heat across my torso.
I’m trying honesty on, and it feels nice.
“Nice casual mention of socarrat,” Emma says when we’re back at the service station. She’s uncorking bottles for the next course, so I start lining up the appropriate decanters.
“Hey. Really good socarrat is a great way to enhance sobre mesa. Which, coincidentally, happens to be my favorite thing in life. Well”—I smirk—“my second favorite, but you get the idea.”
She arches a brow. “Damn, Beauregard, bringing out the big guns today.”
“Told you I’m good at this.”
“You’re the best.” She meets my eyes. “Same as I’m the best at wine. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t sobre mesa the art of conversation over a meal? The way people connect and talk and, yeah, basically touch the divine while lingering over dinner?”
“It’s a lost art here in the States, and one I’d love to bring back.”
She pauses. The heat of her gaze coats my entire left side in this buzzy, prickly warmth. I’ve had women stare at me. A lot. Nothing new here. Except—
Except Emma’s attention gives me sense of pride. I’ve worked hard to get where I am today, just like I worked hard on the field. But right now, I’m being acknowledged for my work in this world, at this event.
It’s pretty fucking great.
“You do know that staring is rude, right?” I manage. When what I really want to ask is Will you let me make you a meal so I can show you how nourishing real food can be?
Speaking of getting crushed. A voice in my head screams no over and over again.
I listen. For now.
“You’re full of surprises, Beauregard.” I hear her smile in her voice. “And you know what the essential requirement for a solid sobre mesa is, right?”
“A pack of cheap French cigarettes. Obviously.”
She’s struggling with the wine tool again now that her thumb is tender. Wordlessly I take the tool and the bottle, the fingers of her gloved hand touching mine as she lets me take over. I curse the glove for being there because I want her skin. Her alive-ness, if that’s even a word, because I’m suddenly feeling achingly alive myself.
“Well, obviously that, yes. But honesty too. A willingness to dig deep and bare your soul.”
Pulling out a cork, I nod at the table. “Go see what seven wants to do about a refill. His glass is empty.”
“On it.”
She pours. I feed. Halfway through the next course she’s beside me again. Before I can move to get out of the way, she’s ducking underneath my arms again and shooting me a saucy, happy, satisfied grin. When the decanter I’m pouring from is empty, she’s at my side with a full one ready to go.
I thank her, and she shimmies.
The girl fucking shimmies, a barely-there shake of her hips that’s as playful as it is effortless.
No way putting myself out there is making her feel giddy too?
No fucking way.
Still, I can’t help thinking that Emma could easily edge me out. Elbow me aside, roll her eyes, grab things out of my hand.
Instead, she’s literally dancing while helping me out. Encouraging me. Injecting this heady sense of joy in what would otherwise be a routine luncheon at Blue Mountain Farm.
I suddenly feel like the world’s biggest asshat for behaving the way I have this week.
Someone else who’s a complete asshat? The guy at fourteen. From the gleam of thirst in his eyes, he witnessed Emma’s shimmy, and he very much enjoyed the view.
Emma notices him noticing. Her mirth fades. My grip on the decanter tightens. Hers is empty. I run for a full one and hand it to her. She moves to take it, but I keep my hold on it firm.
“I’ll ask him to leave,” I murmur.
She shakes her head. “Don’t. The meal is almost over. Hopefully, his friends will take him home and let him sleep it off. No need to cause a scene.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “He’s the one who’s making a scene.”
“I don’t disagree. But we’re almost at the finish line, and I really want this event to be a home run for everybody. If he becomes a real