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!”
He looked at me, looked down at the menu, heaved a sigh that sounded like he was deflating, and then raked both hands through his hair.
“Christ,” he muttered, lacing his hands behind his head, “would my father love you.”
That sounded distinctly like an insult, but I sensed a chink in his armor, so I forged ahead. “With the passed hors d’oeuvres, we’ll start with a sparkling prosecco-based cocktail featuring the silver-label bourbon. It’s called an Old Cuban . . . you’ll love it.”
When his brows lowered, indicating he doubted very much that he would love it, I hurried on.
“And we’ll have a classic mojito using Boudreaux Special Select white rum, which will pair wonderfully with the first course. The main course features braised beef, which will be delicious with the black label—all that smoky, muscular character will really bring out the flavors in the meat—and for dessert we can make a Honey-Hattan with the honey bourbon to pair with the ginger-orange cheesecake. My mouth is watering just thinking of it!”
Jackson stared at me for so long I thought I might have fallen asleep and missed something. Then he said, “You actually do love my family’s bourbon, don’t you?”
He said it like that made me really strange, which was confusing. “Don’t you?”
That angry muscle in his jaw made its reappearance, flexing like mad. “Sure, the same way I love getting a root canal.”
The amount of family drama contained in that sentence could choke an elephant.
I noticed that sometime during our meeting, Rayford had disappeared.
“Mr. Boudreaux, I know what I’m doing. It’s really difficult to pair cocktails with food, especially through an entire meal, which is another thing that’s going to make it so special. I’ll bet good money that none of your guests has ever had a curated bourbon pairing with a four-course dinner. Trust me. It’s going to be fantastic. And the better they think it is, the bigger they’ll open their wallets. Which is really the whole point, right?”
His look was intense and unwavering, with that gripping sense of concentrated attention that was so heavy and intimate it was almost like a touch.
It was almost sexual.
“Call me Jackson,” he said abruptly.
Gently, with a smile, I replied, “If I wanted to call you Jackson, I would have, Mr. Boudreaux.”
His intense look turned burning. “I suppose I deserve that,” he said gruffly. “In my defense, I’d had a terrible day when we first met. I might have been a little more blunt than usual.”