by Meg Benjamin
Ahead of her, the ground widened out into an open meadow with a couple of buildings. A battered house trailer was perched on the rise at the side, but she couldn’t see anybody around the trailer or in the meadow beyond.
“Destination ahead on the left,” her GPS chirped.
“Yeah, right.” She pulled in beside the trailer, following a road that wasn’t much more than a suggestion. The King was probably smart to leave his truck on the other side. She wished she’d done the same.
“Destination,” her GPS confirmed.
“Oh shut up,” Darcy muttered, opening the door. She grabbed the plastic container off the seat beside her and stepped outside.
The hillside at the edge of the meadow was covered with oak trees and cedar brush. She still didn’t see anyone, but now that she was out of the car, she could definitely smell something. Wood smoke, mostly, with maybe a touch of spice.
She slammed her car door hard and stood waiting. Anybody within a hundred yards of the place should hear the noise and come running. Hopefully, they’d come running without a shotgun.
She heard a sound from the trees behind the trailer—a rustling, then a crackling, like an animal getting ready to burst out. Darcy tensed. She had no idea what kind of critters lived back here—at least a rattlesnake wouldn’t make that much noise, which was the only plus she could think of.
A moment later, a dog came tumbling through the brush. It seemed to be having problems getting itself upright. Possibly because its paws were bigger than its body. On closer inspection, it was more puppy than dog. Eventually it made it all the way around to its feet again and galumped toward her. Darcy was pretty sure she’d never used the word galump before, but she couldn’t think of anything more appropriate.
It came to a stop a few feet away, managing not to step on its long, liver-colored ears as it did. Pale green eyes stared up at her as the dog gave a melancholy woof in her direction.
She heard footsteps, and the Barbecue King appeared beside the trailer. He looked pretty much the way he did when he cooked at the Rose, only now he wore a black T-shirt with the arms hacked off that emphasized his nicely rounded biceps, one with an iron band tattoo. He pushed his black hat back from his forehead, wiping the sweat near his hairline with a bandana from his pocket and grinning.
“I see you met ol’ Porky.”
“Porky?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Hound loves sausage. You can’t leave him anywhere within a couple of feet of one. Well, Ms. Darcy, however did you manage to find your way to my humble abode? And to what do I owe the pleasure?”
He was still smokin’ hot, and she still found that fact faintly annoying. It was usually a lot easier to blow somebody off if she didn’t find that somebody attractive. Hell, she did it all the time. She hefted the plastic container in his direction. “Potato salad.”
“Ah, the challenge.” His grin widened, and he nodded toward the trailer. “Didn’t expect you to come up with something so soon. Come on inside where it’s cool.”
She thought about refusing, but that seemed a little prissy. What did she think he was going to do—jump her while she dished up lunch?
And would that be such a problem, Darcy?
Porky stared back and forth between them. His ears seemed to perk up when he saw the potato salad container.
The King shook his head. “Forget it, dog. You need to learn to appreciate the joys of kibble.”
She followed him into the trailer, listening to the whir of a hidden air conditioner. It was a lot cooler inside. An overstuffed sofa and chair rested in the corner, the backs covered with a couple of embroidered gypsy shawls. The low coffee table looked like an old workbench that had been worn smooth by generations of hands, with a red-and-blue rag rug underneath. The lamp in the corner was art deco, with bronze lilies curving up to support a stained glass shade.
Damn. She hated having to revise her opinion of a guy like the King. On the other hand, ignoring the fact that he didn’t seem to be total dick was just pure stubbornness shading off into stupidity. She might be stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid.
The King took off his hat and hung it on an iron coat hook next to the front door. His dark brown hair carried the imprint of the hat band until he ran his fingers through it, tossing a couple of locks down onto his forehead. She felt a slight tickle of heat somewhere below her diaphragm, but suppressed it ruthlessly. Business. Strictly business.
“Over here.” He gestured toward the tiny kitchen at the side. The stove wasn’t much more than a hot plate with a postage-stamp-sized counter. A dark wood drop-leaf table with a couple of cane-back chairs was tucked under a window.
He opened a cabinet door over the minuscule sink and produced a pair of white china plates along with two mismatched forks and a serving spoon. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”
She opened the container and lifted her salad bowl from its nest of blue ice packs.
He gave it an appraising look. “Keeping it cool?”
“Tastes better that way.” Not to mention keeping it cool lessened the chances of food poisoning since the mayonnaise was homemade. She might be willing to use commercial mustard, but there were certain adaptations she wasn’t willing to make, at least not until she’d won the bet.
As she popped off the lid, Darcy regarded the salad with a critical eye. She’d prepared three different versions with slight variations on mayonnaise and other ingredients since her mom had emailed her the recipe. This was the best of the lot in her opinion, but she was willing to keep on fiddling if the King made any demands. Of course, that assumed he accepted the basic mixture going in.
She was fairly sure he would. She was also fairly sure he’d make some demands, this being something in the way of a negotiation, after all.
She served up a healthy-sized portion on one of the plates, then handed it to him, along with one of the forks. Presentation wasn’t bad overall. She could see flecks of egg and green bits of dill pickle, along with a few grains of paprika for color. The golden cubes of potato were enrobed in the mustard-tinged mayonnaise, like pebbles in the snow.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not having any?”
“It’s your party.”
His lips edged into a dry smile. “I guess you could say that.”
He slid the fork into the salad. Darcy’s shoulders felt tight all of a sudden. She was an accomplished chef, a culinary school grad, a future chef de cuisine in her own right. It was purely embarrassing to care this much about what the Barbecue King thought of her potato salad. Correction: her mother’s potato salad.
He chewed contemplatively, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Nice balance on the seasonings. Potatoes done right. Dressing is prime.”
She flexed her hands at her sides to keep from balling them into fists. “But?”
He shrugged. “I’m not crazy about dill pickles in my potato salad, but that’s a personal quirk—I’m more a sweet relish man myself. And if you’re going for crunch I’d say celery.”
Darcy narrowed her eyes. “Celery isn’t standard.” She’d read enough potato salad recipes by now to have a pretty good idea of what constituted the basic ingredients.
The King shrugged again, grinning. “Call it a licensed variation.”
She managed a dry smile of her own. “I can live with that. So overall?”
“Overall…” He set the plate down on the counter. “Overall it would pass muster at a standard barbecue. Tastes like potato salad’s supposed to taste.”
Her jaw tightened. Standard didn’t sound like much of an endorsement. And she happened to know this was damn good potato salad. “Is that a yes or a no?” If he shrugged again, she might have to hurt him.
He raised his eyebrows. “I said it tastes like it’s supposed to taste. That’s a compliment. So yeah, you did what I told you to do.”
“For the record, you didn’t tell me to do anything. You challenged me. And I won.” She folded her arms across her chest.
H
is grin widened. “My, my, you are a prickly little thing, aren’t you? Not used to faint praise, I guess.”
Darcy decided to ignore the little thing bit. Not remotely accurate and clearly meant to distract her from the main point. “I’m merely stating a fact. This was a challenge—my potato salad in exchange for you showing me how to cook barbecue. You just acknowledged that I accomplished my end of the challenge.” She felt like flexing her tight shoulders, but she also felt like he’d notice if she did. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that she cared what he thought.
He held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not arguing with you, sweetheart. You did what I said to do. So are you ready to cook some barbecue?”
White teeth flashed against golden skin as he smiled, and she felt that diaphragm tightening thing again. Really annoying. “I’ve got to work tonight. If you’ll give me a schedule, I can set something up with Joe.”
“Ah, a schedule.” He shook his head. “Not as easy as it sounds. You put the meat on when the fire feels right. You take it off when the meat feels right. Sometimes that might be a couple of hours, but sometimes four or five. All depends on the size of the cut and the type of meat you’re working with. You’ve got to develop a feel for what you’re doing.”
Unfortunately, he was right about that—all cooks developed a feel for their work. “I understand that. Only I’m trying to schedule this around working full time as a sous chef. I figured you did most of your cooking at night, right?”
He shrugged. “Like as not. I usually put the meat on in late afternoon or early evening, then get it wrapped for the truck around midnight or so. But there’s prep to do before I put it on.”
“Prep as in…”
“As in basic butchering, putting the rub on the meat so it can sit for a couple of hours, getting the meat on and off the grills.”
She nodded. “So if I did breakfast and lunch at the Rose then came up here mid-afternoon, would that do it?”
He frowned. “You’re doing my sides, remember?”
“I remember.” She raised her chin. “I’ll do them the night before.”
For the first time he looked less than absolutely confident. “When are you going to sleep, sweetheart? Sounds like you’re going to be spreading yourself pretty thin.”
She shook her head. “I’m a cook. I’m used to it. Besides, it’s my choice.”
His grin was dry. “That’s right. It’s your choice.”
She sighed. Why had she ever thought this would be simple? “So say I show up here at three or four in the afternoon a few times a week. Would that work?”
He nodded. “I’ll be back from running the truck in Konigsburg by then. It’s when I do the meat for the next day. Don’t suppose you’re interested in getting a little food truck experience too?”
She managed a tight smile. “Don’t suppose I am. This schedule’s going to be tight enough as it is.”
“All right then.” He folded his arms. “Say we start on Monday. Okay by you?”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“I’ll need a couple of gallons of potato salad and another couple of coleslaw. For now, I’ll handle the beans since they go on the smoker with the meat.”
Darcy blinked. Why hadn’t she thought of this? “Coleslaw? You want coleslaw?”
“Well, yeah. People get two sides, choice of potato salad, coleslaw or beans.”
“Do you want to see a test batch of that too?”
He gave her another slow grin. “Nope. I’ll trust you on the coleslaw. No crap like horseradish or blue cheese, though. Just the regulation stuff.”
“Cabbage slaw?”
His forehead furrowed. “Is there any other kind?”
“Broccoli. Apple. Celery root. You can make it out of just about any kind of root vegetable. Even jicama.”
He leaned forward bracing his fists on the counter. “Jicama. Lord help us. Do not put jicama into anything that I’ll be serving off the truck, understand? Just coleslaw. Normal, everyday coleslaw.”
“Normal, everyday coleslaw. Got it.” Looked like she’d be calling her mom again.
Harris watched Darcy’s SUV edge carefully up the track away from the river. He really should get the road graded—even his truck had problems getting up it when the weather turned bad. And he had to park it down by the bridge, which meant he had to carry the food across every day. On the other hand, getting somebody all the way out here to grade the road would cost a fair amount plus being a real pain in the butt. And he’d need to do something about the bridge if he expected to get the truck back and forth every day.
He sighed, settling his hat back on his head as he turned toward the lean-to. The fire should be ready in another half hour or so. He needed to get the meat ready to go on the grills and then make sure the truck was ready to go for tomorrow, the routine he went through four days a week when he wasn’t doing special jobs.
Special jobs. He grinned as he headed back across the meadow, dodging Porky’s unwitting attempts to trip him. The hound had no sense of dignity, let alone grace. Maybe when he got a few years on him he’d be a little more reliable.
Darcy Cunningham was one special job herself. She looked sort of like a punk rocker he’d dated back in Austin, minus the safety pins and black eye makeup. Today the tips of her spiked hair had been bright blue—they vibrated when she was concentrating. She probably didn’t realize that. It was a significant tell.
She also had a chip on her shoulder the size of a live oak, but he figured that was probably part of her working attitude. Most restaurant kitchens were boys’ clubs. A woman who’d made it to sous chef at a big-time restaurant like the Rose would need some attitude to keep her head above water and to keep the boys from making her life miserable. Darcy Cunningham had attitude to spare.
He figured she probably had some ulterior motive for getting him to teach her about barbecue, maybe trying to cut him out of the job at the Rose. But he also figured that wouldn’t happen. She might be one hell of a chef, but she didn’t have the equipment he had—the smokers and the wood in particular—and without that equipment all the expertise in the world wouldn’t make her a pit master.
Still, it looked to be an interesting couple of months. That potato salad of hers had been celestial. It had taken all of his considerable skill at dissembling to keep from showing her just how impressed he’d been from that one bite. Assuming she could come up with something roughly comparable in the way of coleslaw, he should be able to build up the following for his barbecue truck by several dozen, at least until Darcy decided she’d learned enough about barbecue for the moment and took herself back to the Rose’s kitchen full time.
He started down the path that led to the lean-to. The smell of smoke filled the air, luscious but probably more than there should be at this point. He’d have to adjust the dampers to make sure he wasn’t getting more smoke than he needed.
Porky stationed himself at the edge of the concrete slab, watching Harris hopefully. He’d learned to associate the smokers with sausage, which was what made his life worth living.
The covered concrete slab sat under a corrugated tin roof in a grove of live oaks, open on the sides to let in the air and let out the smoke. His four Texas Hibachis sat in a row, all of them leeching smoke through their stacks. He raised the hinged doors on the sides, holding his hand briefly above the grills to judge the heat.
Very briefly, in fact. Looked like it was time to bring on the briskets. He turned back toward the kitchen building. The meat had been getting acquainted with the rub for a couple of hours in the refrigerator. It should be ready to go by now.
With any luck, he’d get a chance to get to know Ms. Darcy a bit better before she got sick of him. He grinned again as he headed back down the trail. Yes indeed, knowing Ms. Darcy a little better would definitely brighten up the next few weeks, particularly if that knowing involved fewer clothes and a lot closer contact.
Porky followed along at his heels, hopeful that he
might be allowed inside the kitchen for once. A largely vain hope. Harris paused at the door to the kitchen. Men who came across as musing about the joys of jumping Ms. Darcy were probably what had caused her to develop her attitude in the first place. Coming on to her wasn’t likely to make her feel more positive toward him, considering how often that had probably happened to her in kitchens before. Maybe he could try something different—although given the way his body reacted every time she waltzed into his line of sight, that might be more difficult than it seemed.
He sighed, pushing into the kitchen, while blocking Porky’s latest assault. Considerations of personal relations would have to wait. The coals were ready, the meat was ready, and that was all he needed to concentrate on for at least the next three hours. Barbecue waited for no man.
“Coleslaw?” Darcy’s mother sounded dubious. “What kind of slaw are you looking for? Vinegar-based? Cooked dressing? Or you could always get the dressing out of a bottle—some of those aren’t that bad.”
Darcy rubbed her forehead. She was taking a quick break from getting the kitchen ready for the dinner service. Usually they had fewer people to deal with for dinner than for lunch, but dinner was when Joe like to try out new recipes, always a slightly stressful chore.
“I need the same kind of coleslaw as the potato salad. The church potluck kind of thing. I’m not sure what’s standard.” Plus, she didn’t want to have to dig through the thousands of recipes she’d probably turn up on the Web.
“So you’re going to make your own dressing? Any idea what you’re looking for?” She couldn’t tell exactly, but her mom sounded a little like she was gloating.
“Vinegar. It’s for barbecue, and I want something acid to cut through the richness.”
“All right. I think I’ve got one from your Aunt Lorrie. Let me check and then email you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“So what about the potato salad?” her mom cut in before she could hang up. “Did it work?”
