Page 6 of The Sweetness of Life

You have got to be kidding me.

Not once in all the conversations I had with the editor of the magazine did I ever consider the possibility that Ms. Leigh would be her. When Lexi, a close friend who is the sister of a former teammate, first told me she had someone for me to meet, she called her Shelby Leigh, but it sounded more like ShelbyLeigh—one word, like KerriAnn. After the charity benefit, I tried my best to forget her and her name, but her face—a face so beautiful it’s haunted my dreams—has stuck with me. Once I agreed to the article, I should have realized. I mean, I don’t know a lot of people from Charleston, but I do know one Ms. Leigh, and here she is . . . staring at me as if I’ve somehow ruined her day.

Shaking my head, the condemnation of this situation I’ve found myself in leaves a bad taste in my mouth. More flickers of light appear, and the pain above my left ear takes root and increases. I glance at Michelle, and my left eye twitches a little. She sees the movement in my face, frowns, and goes about getting what I need.

Of all the people the magazine could send! Why? Why did they send her? Don’t they know she’s a critic? A critic! Or should I say dream killer.

Anger surges through me, and my hand grips the football so tight I feel strong enough to pop it.

Wait, shit.

Of course they know! Magazines love to give reviews and recommendations—hotels, restaurants, equipment, which brand is best, and so on. They all know each other, and they all stick together.

Slowly, I unfold my arms and set the ball on the bar. Kyle, who must have finally realized I am about to lose it, steps up.

“So, I take it you two have met?” he says, waving his finger back and forth between us.

“Unfortunately,” she says, shifting her weight to lean against the bar.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap at her. What have I ever done to her? She’s the one who goes around consorting with the enemy and sucking the life out of people.

“And now he needs a vocabulary lesson. Hmm, let’s see . . . unfortunately, as in regrettable, unlucky, or unsuitable.”

My jaw tightens.

I stride toward her, and her eyes widen. Usually, I tower over girls, but she’s already kind of tall, and in those shoes, any level of intimidation I might have conveyed with my size is nonexistent. “You know, you have a lot of nerve coming in here and talking to me like this.” I lean down to get in her face, and her eyes drop to my mouth a split second before mine drop to hers. Her lips are parted as she breathes heavily.

“Trust me, coming here wasn’t my idea at all.” She leans a little closer, leaving us only inches apart, and I’m hit with the sweet scent of honey and vanilla. “I would have never picked this winery.” She about hisses the words at me.

What the fuck?

Her statement is like a slap in the face, and unconsciously, I take a step back. Her chest is rising and falling at a rapid rate, and her skin flushes pink. Pink turns to red. All I see is red. I love this winery more than this girl will ever understand, and I’m officially done with this conversation.

Regret slips across her face and then it disappears. She drops her gaze to the floor but then locks it back on me with renewed defiance. A piece of her hair slips over her shoulder, and I hate that I notice it.

Breaking the stare-down between us, I turn to Michelle. Her eyes are narrowed at Shelby, her lips are pinched together, and she looks madder than a wet hen.

“Michelle.” She shifts her attention to me, and her expression softens. “Will you please show Ms. Leigh to her accommodations? We’re done here.” She nods and slides a hot tea and an ice pack across the counter. Without another glance in Shelby or Kyle’s direction, I pick up the items and walk out, leaving the football on the bar.

How in the hell did I get myself into this situation? Any sliver of hope I was feeling disintegrates, and the wind feels completely knocked out of me.

A chef, they said.

A journalist, I thought.

A critic . . . never.

I settle into my desk chair and press the ice pack over the throbbing spot. God, I hate these headaches. I never thought I’d hate anything or anyone as much as them, but after seeing her again, I may be wrong.

What am I going to do with her here for two weeks? Two. Weeks. That’s how long the magazine expects her to spend here while she’s cooking in one of our kitchens. “Photos. Lots of photos,” they said. Damn it. I’m going to have to be in those photos with her.

Part of me wonders if I would have agreed to the assignment if I had known she was the one they were sending, but in reality, Wolff Winery needs the exposure. Our assignment is to work together to come up with delicious, easy, Southern farm-to-table food pairings to go with my wines. She’s supposed to work the farm, learn all about us, and a crew from the magazine will be following and documenting it all. At the end, she’ll be the one who writes the featured article.

She will write the article.

Shit. Maybe I should have been a little nicer.

Maple Bacon Pecan Brittle