Page 28 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
My smile was much more confident than I felt. “Great. I’d like to talk to the coordinator today, if possible.”
“I’ll have Rayfor
d 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!”
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!”
