Burn for You

He was referring to my cocktail menu again, which, in addition to Romeo and Julep and The Last of the Mojitos, included other literary-inspired libations like Tequila Mockingbird and Huckleberry Sin. And yes, they were all inspired by classic books.

“The classics were my father’s favorites,” I said quietly. “I created the cocktail menu in honor of him.”

Because I was looking right into his eyes, I saw the brief flicker of regret there.

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s because you didn’t bother to ask.”

Jackson and I stared at each other in silence until Rayford discreetly cleared his throat. “Ahem. Should we proceed to the kitchen, sir?”

Jackson gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, giving me a view of his broad back again. He strode away down the echoing hallway, turned a corner, and went out of sight.

“Well,” said Rayford, sounding a little dazed. “I think you’d best go buy yourself a lottery ticket, Miss Bianca.”

When I looked at him with my brows raised, he chuckled.

“Mr. Boudreaux hasn’t apologized to anyone in as long as I can remember. Today must be your lucky day.”

“Rayford,” I said, taking his arm. “Please don’t make me curse. My mama doesn’t like it.”

His chuckles echoing off the marble, he led me away from the library and down the hall.

“. . . and all the pans are in these drawers,” said Jackson, opening yet another enormous drawer to reveal an array of expensive pots and pans, neatly arranged.

He’d shown me through the entire kitchen, stalking from the pantry to the professional-grade range to the cabinets above the sink, and finally the wall of pullout drawers below the row of ovens. The kitchen was almost as big as the library, with its own fireplace at one end and a flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. Everything was gleaming, top-of-the-line perfection.

And Rayford had been right. The kitchen was far warmer than the rest of the house. With the fire snapping and popping in the hearth and the television tuned to a morning news show, it was almost cozy.

“The side patio will be used for a staging area,” Jackson continued, pointing to the French doors that opened onto a wide brick patio shaded by an arbor of wisteria vine. “The south lawn will be tented and set up with the dining tables. The silent auction is scheduled to begin at four with cocktails and passed hors d’oeuvres, and the dinner seating begins at six.”

“Which event coordinator are you working with?”

Jackson mentioned the name of a well-known local coordinator who specialized in large events. I nodded, pleased by the choice.

He said, “She’s got all the rentals already covered, including china, glassware, linens, tables, all of it. Everything will be set the day before, so there should be no one in your way when you get started.”

That sounded good. Things were looking more together than I’d dared hope.

“I’ll need to talk to her about the buffet setup—”

“It’s not a buffet,” he interrupted. “Dinner will be served.”

Starting to sweat, I repeated, “Served?”

One side of Jackson’s mouth tilted up. “I’ve hired waitstaff. And bartenders. All you have to worry about is making the food.”

Oh sure. What a cinch. Easy peasy. Making enough food for three hundred people, keeping it hot without drying it out, and coordinating the simultaneous service of three hundred appetizers, entrees, and desserts—all while managing and directing a large waitstaff I’d only meet a few hours in advance—was absolutely no problemo.

Easiest twenty grand I’d ever earned.

My smile was much more confident than I felt. “Great. I’d like to talk to the coordinator today, if possible.”

“I’ll have Rayford give you her contact information before you leave. And the coordinator from the Wounded Warrior Project wants to speak with you, too.”

So the charity gala was to raise money for wounded veterans. I was surprised it wasn’t for something more superficial, like Billionaires Without Trophy Wives or the Southern Selfish Jerk Fund.

My ex would’ve been a founding member of that last one.

I said, “Oh, you were in the military?”

Jackson ambled over to the big marble island in the center of the kitchen, pulled out a stool, and sat down. He folded his hands and looked at me with his brows pulled together. “About the menu.”

I’d obviously stepped in another steaming pile of none-of-your-damn-business.

Determined not to make the mistake of asking any more personal questions, I joined him at the island, taking a stool on the opposite side. From my pocketbook I removed the menu I’d been working on until two o’clock this morning. I handed him the pages and watched, chewing my lip, as he began to read.

After a few nerve-wracking minutes of silence, he said, “This will do. Wine pairings?”

I said, “No.”

Jackson’s head snapped up. Unblinking, he glared at me. “No?”

“Bourbon pairings. Specifically, Boudreaux Bourbon pairings.”

He stared at me for a long time, his eyes hard. I had the feeling he was about to start growling again, but all he said was a curt, “Explain.”

My heart picking up tempo, I said, “When I told you I loved your family’s bourbon, it was the truth. There’s a good reason it’s the world’s bestselling spirit—”

“Yes. Millions of dollars of marketing,” Jackson said.

I was taken aback by the bitterness in his tone. “No. It’s because it’s the best bourbon money can buy.”

Grinding his teeth together, he looked away. “You already have the job, Miss Hardwick. You don’t have to blow smoke up my ass.”

Face flaming, I retorted, “I never blow smoke into anyone’s orifices, Mr. Boudreaux. Your bourbon is the best, or I wouldn’t put it in my food and serve it to my blasted customers!”

His gaze cut back to mine. We stared at each other, tension crackling like a live wire between us. I got the feeling he didn’t quite know what to do with me, the feisty little nobody with the big mouth. And I certainly didn’t know what to do with him.

I inhaled a steadying breath. Though this man could start an argument in an empty house, bickering with him wouldn’t get me anywhere. And I couldn’t risk him getting teed off enough to fire me. I needed the money too much.

“Look. All this food I’ve proposed”—I pointed at the pages in his hands—“was chosen specifically because it would pair well with and highlight the unique aspects of the various lines of bourbon that you sell.”

“That my family sells,” he corrected acidly.

Well fry my bacon. Talking to this man about bourbon was like navigating my way through a minefield. Whatever the story was behind his attitude toward his family business, it was a doozy.

“Excuse me,” I said primly. “That your family sells. My idea was that since you were putting on this event, as opposed to Joe Billionaire whose family makes urinal cakes, it would be nice to showcase the artistry and craftsmanship of your family’s products. I think it would be a real treat for your guests, make it more personal. I mean, if you’re going to all this trouble to make this event special, why not dazzle them with all the bells and whistles? Show them what the Boudreaux family name stands for. Show them what two hundred years of perfecting the craft of distilling tastes like. Give ’em the steak, not just the sizzle!”