Hungry Heart: Konigsburg, Texas, Book 8

by Meg Benjamin

  She folded her arms across her chest. “You’ve got quite an operation here, chef. A lot for one man to handle.”

  He blinked. So far as he could remember, nobody had ever called him chef before. It wasn’t a term that turned up too much on the barbecue circuit. On the whole he found that he liked it—at least he did when Darcy used it. “I’ve got a routine. It works. Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “If I get off schedule, like I did today, it can take me a while to catch up. But as long as I’ve got the truck downtown by eleven, I’m okay.”

  She leaned back against one of the support posts. “I put the potato salad and slaw in the refrigerator in the trailer. So what do you show me today?”

  “Rubs. Maybe another sauce.”

  “Rubs.” She nodded. “Let’s do it. By the way, I brought you some beet salad.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not crazy about beets.”

  “You’ll like these.” She rested her hands on her hips. “I made them.”

  There seemed to be a you’ll like them or else at least implied. It occurred to him that he’d never win a staring contest against those blues eyes, particularly when you considered the effect they had on his lower body. He sighed. “Come on. Let’s go fix some meat. I’ll set the timer for the fire, and we can put the meat on after supper.”

  The King apparently liked to believe that his rub was some kind of secret formula. Darcy identified the smoked paprika, mustard powder, salt and cayenne right off the bat, although she had to admit that the herbs were a little harder to pinpoint. She felt pretty confident about the coriander, though, and the oregano. The sugar, garlic powder, and onion powder were pretty much a given.

  They’d applied the rub to two packer cut beef briskets, which the King had wrapped in plastic and put back in the refrigerator. Then he’d lifted out the meat for tomorrow, leaving it on the counter so that it could lose its chill before he put it on the fire.

  Now she sat at the picnic table at the side of his kitchen shack and watched him as he speared a golden beet on his plate. Porky lay nearby, chewing on a rawhide snack. The salad was a lock—they served it regularly at the Rose for lunch and she knew damn well it was primo, even for beet haters.

  He chewed contemplatively, his forehead furrowed. “Passable,” he said finally.

  She grinned. “Get bent. Those are rockin’ beets and you know it.”

  He shrugged. “For beets they’re edible. That’s about as far as I’m willing to go. And given the way I feel about beets, that’s a major acknowledgement, believe me.”

  She sighed. “Those are roasted fresh beets. They don’t come out of a can or a jar. Which probably makes them different from most of the beets you’ve run into up until now.”

  He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “Contrary to popular opinion, I have actually eaten food other than barbecue in my life. I’ve even walked into a few restaurants that didn’t smell like wood smoke. And I’ve known some first-class cooks.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned your grandmother.”

  “She was definitely one of them.” He took another small forkful of beets. “Could be worse, I guess.”

  “Gosh, thanks.” She took another bite of the leftover sausage he’d warmed up in the microwave, tasting fennel seed, pepper and some chilies. “So are you from around here—Hill Country, I mean?”

  He shook his head. “Houston. Home of pork barbecue and atomic hot sauce.”

  “Which you cook?”

  “Which I grew up eating. It’s East Texas barbecue, which is a lot different from Central Texas barbecue, which is what you’re eating right now. Except for the beets, of course.” He raised an eyebrow “Are these, like, leftovers from the Rose?”

  She frowned slightly. He didn’t seem to like talking about his past—which made it sound a lot more interesting all of a sudden. “Yeah. Joe doesn’t care if we take stuff like this home. There wasn’t enough left to make it worth repurposing.”

  “What’s the white stuff on top?”

  “Goat cheese. Why don’t you like to talk about yourself?”

  He pushed his hat to the back of his head as he grinned. “Sweetheart, I love talking about myself. You want to hear my recipe for beans? I’ll even give you a running narrative of how I came to put it together.”

  She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table so that she could look at him. “I’ll settle for hearing how you got into cooking barbecue. Your folks have a restaurant or something?”

  He gave her another slow grin, but not before she’d seen the sudden wariness around his eyes. “I’m the first one in my family to go pro, so to speak, although a lot of people I know cook backyard barbecue. A few years ago I decided to see if my ’cue was as out of sight as I always knew it was. Got a license for the food truck and set up a smoker. First thing you know I’ve got myself a barbecue empire. Just right for a king.”

  She gave him a slow smile of her own. “I assume that’s the short version. Did you build your kitchen up here before you started with the food truck?”

  He shook his head. “Used the kitchen in the trailer for a while. I had an old freezer too, out in what used to be a storage shed, where the kitchen is now. And the smoker was outside on the ridge. What you call ‘shade tree barbecue’.”

  “How long did it take you to earn enough for the set-up you have now?”

  He smiled again, but by now she knew what to watch for. Whatever he was going to tell her wouldn’t be the whole truth. Maybe not even half.

  “It was a while. A couple of years or so. I had to figure out what I wanted first, how the set-up would work. It’s not easy getting plumbing in out here. The former owner had some water lines installed, but I had to make a lot of modifications.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Expensive?”

  He shrugged. “Some. It worked out, though. Just the way I wanted.” He pushed himself to his feet. “You want a beer? I’ve got some in the cooler.”

  Annnd, we move on. “Sure. I’ve got time for one before I head back.”

  Porky half raised his head as the King walked back toward the kitchen, then subsided into his afternoon nap.

  The King glanced at her curiously as he opened the door. “Do you work nights too? After you come out here?”

  She shrugged. “Some nights I do. Joe likes to be free on the weekends so he can go hear MG play. I pick up dinner Fridays and Saturdays.”

  He came back from the kitchen carrying a couple of longnecks. “But not Sunday?”

  “Like I said, we just do brunch on Sundays. I have the afternoons off. Plus we’re closed on Mondays. Why? Do you usually do something special Sunday afternoons?”

  “Not usually. Next Sunday’s liable to be a little different, though.” He sat down beside her on the picnic table bench. “I’m doing a catering gig. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “It’s a little hard to explain.” He took a swallow of his beer, resting his elbow on the table. “You know Chico Burnside?”

  “The big guy at the Faro? I know who he is.”

  “Turns out he does ’cue—pork and cabrito. He’s trying to put together a team for the big July Fourth cook-off in town.”

  “A team?”

  “A barbecue team. Barbecue cook-offs take more than one person.”

  She held up a hand. “Okay, one quick question before we go any further with this, what’s cabrito?”

  “Goat. Baby goat, actually. Kid.”

  Darcy grimaced. “I haven’t liked most of the goat I’ve tasted.”

  “You might like this, but you’ll have to taste it some other time. There’s no category in the Konigsburg cook-off for cabrito.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure I understand what’s happening next Sunday. Is this a competition too?”

  “Not exactly.” He took another swallow of his beer. “More like a preliminary. We’re each going to cook up something in the backyard at the Faro and get a sense of how well we�
�d work together as a team.”

  “You’re trying to see if he’s any good?”

  “Yeah, basically. It’s a given that I’m good. And I’m not willing to be on a team with somebody who’s just a weekend griller.” He gave her a dry smile.

  Darcy considered what she knew of Chico Burnside. He didn’t strike her as any kind of dilettante. “If he’s good, will you do the contest with him?”

  “Why not? It’s about time I got some recognition for my pit master skills. Aside from the enthusiastic applause of my adoring groupies, that is.” He smiled again, his teeth white against his tanned skin. His eyes were velvet dark in the gathering twilight. She felt a tightening deep inside, a warming in her blood.

  “Adoring groupies? Why haven’t I noticed them?” Her voice sounded a little breathy all of a sudden. Steady. He’s just a guy, for Pete’s sake.

  He was. On the other hand, she now remembered just why she’d thought he was hot. The slightly long, dark hair hung around his face, framing the strong bones. The brown eyes had flecks of green and gold. He leaned against the table watching her, his body a long, lean stretch of muscle.

  Oh, geez. Maybe it was time to go.

  He rested his hand on her wrist, and she felt the warmth of his skin all the way to her toes. “I was hoping you’d go with me next Sunday. You could be another judge. Not that you’d be biased in my favor or anything.”

  His smile flashed again, and she cleared her throat. “Nope. No bias here.”

  “Will you come?”

  She licked her lips. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  “Good.” He lifted his hand, brushing the hair back from her temple with his fingertips.

  Not a good idea. You shouldn’t get involved here. But all of a sudden she couldn’t exactly remember why she shouldn’t.

  He leaned forward slowly, maybe giving her a chance to run. A chance she wasn’t going to take. His lips brushed hers, lightly, as his hands cupped her face. He rubbed his thumbs across her cheekbones, dark eyes watching her carefully.

  The flecks of green had deepened, making his eyes even darker now. She leaned forward, placing her hands on his shoulders, bringing her mouth against his more firmly. The contact seemed to send an arrow of heat through her body, making her nipples ache, her pulse warm again.

  His mouth opened against hers and she let him inside, rubbing her tongue against his, feeling it rasp against her teeth. She sucked his lower lip for a moment, nipping him lightly, hearing the catch in his breath.

  His hands dropped to her breasts, cupping, then rubbing them, his palms brushing her nipples to hard points. She felt cool air against her back as he pushed her shirt up, his fingers fumbling with the catch on her bra. His lips drifted down the side of her throat, leaving a trail of heat as he did.

  She pushed his shirt up, running her fingers through the slight dusting of hair across his chest, then down along the ripple of muscle over his stomach.

  His hands cupped her breasts, pushing the bra aside. He leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking, his tongue laving the aching peak.

  Somewhere behind them something beeped loudly. Porky came awake with a woof.

  “Shit.” His hands dropped to her hips, his forehead pressed against her breasts. “Shit. Fuck. Goddamn.”

  “Timer’s beeping,” she muttered. “And Porky’s awake.”

  He nodded, his forehead still resting on her collarbone.

  “Fire’s ready. And you’re behind with the meat as it is.”

  He raised his head to look at her. “I didn’t plan this.”

  “I know.” She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant—the timing with the meat or the timing with the two of them. She brushed a hand across his cheek, pushing his hair back from his face.

  “I don’t want to stop.”

  “I don’t either.” She slid back a few inches, moving her hands to his shoulders. “But like you once said, barbecue waits for no man.”

  “Shit,” he repeated. “Caught in my own trap.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, pulling his shirt down. Judging from the bulge of his arousal, he was telling the truth when he said he didn’t want to stop.

  Neither did she, but she’d been cooking long enough to know food wasn’t exactly forgiving. And the King’s livelihood was at stake, after all.

  “Come on.” He nodded toward the lean-to. “You can help me put the meat on.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I need to head back up that road while there’s still light.”

  “Well, shit again.” He frowned back at her.

  She shrugged. “I’ll be back again in a couple of days.”

  “Not tomorrow?”

  She shook her head. “Monday’s the day I do all the stuff I can’t do during the week, like laundry.”

  He gave her a long look, unsmiling. “Was that the wrong move, Darcy? Because I could swear you were a willing participant. If you weren’t, if I went over the line, I apologize.”

  She stepped beside him, reaching up to pull his mouth down to hers. Her pulse pounded in her ears again, her fingers spearing into his hair, tangling in the strands alongside his face. For a moment she let herself taste him, letting her own arousal build, then pulled back just before it would have been too late. “Does that feel like the wrong move to you?”

  He shook his head, running his thumb along her swollen lower lip. “No, ma’am. It definitely doesn’t. What about you?”

  “Willing participant, believe me. Only right now we’ve both got shit to do.”

  He closed his eyes, his lips spreading in a rueful grin. “Goddamn. I never thought I’d say it, but fuck barbecue.”

  She laughed, then turned quickly before either of them could think better of it. “See you later, chef.”

  “Count on it.”

  But as she headed down the path to her car, she swore she could feel his gaze, sizzling against her shoulder blades.

  Chapter Ten

  Chico set up his smoker in the backyard of the Faro around eight in the morning on Sunday, well before the restaurant opened at noon. Tom Ames had spent some time and money making the yard something other than the dump it had been when they first opened the Faro. Now it had a redwood fence on three sides along with a couple of king-size picnic tables and a shaded cement slab that served as a patio at one end. They booked occasional private parties for the yard, but they mostly used it for themselves. Chico figured they’d set up a playpen out here for Deirdre’s baby when the time came. Then everybody could take turns babysitting.

  He could have done what the King was probably doing—started cooking at home and then brought the pork to the restaurant after it was mostly done. But he knew if he started the smoker in his backyard, he could count on three or four cousins showing up by midmorning, all of them wondering why they hadn’t been invited to dinner.

  He wasn’t interested in explaining the whole thing to his family yet, particularly since they’d be offering him a bunch of barbecue suggestions he didn’t need or want, plus volunteering to be part of the team. Much as he loved them, he had no intention of cooking barbecue alongside them. Not if he wanted to maintain his sanity for the duration of the cook-off.

  By eight-forty the coals were ready, the combination of wood and charcoal burned down to a sullen heat. He threw on a couple of handfuls of peach wood chunks that he’d been soaking for a while, allowing the first burst of smoke subside while he carried the pork butts from the Faro’s kitchen where he’d been letting them bask in the rub. He could put them on to smoke all day without worrying about it. In fact, the longer they sat, the better they’d taste. Assuming he could keep from messing with them—lifting the lid for a peek would screw up the cooking time. He probably needed to find something else to do so he wouldn’t.

  Clem stepped out of the kitchen as he laid the meat on the grill. “You’re here early.”

  He shrugged. “Got to give the ’cue enough time to get bodacious.”

  “You do
ne any thinking about sides?”

  He straightened, closing the lid on the smoker. “I figure that’s up to you and Tom. He’s the one who set up this little picnic.”

  She gave him a dry smile. “I’ll send Leon up to the Stop and Go. Have him pick up some potato salad from the cooler, assuming he can find some that hasn’t been sitting around for too many days.”

  Chico narrowed his eyes.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll whip up something for you. Maybe I’ll see if I can get Joe LeBlanc to bring something from the Rose, which probably means having Darcy Cunningham bring something since she’s his salad chef.”

  His eyes stayed narrow. “Why would LeBlanc send anything?”

  Clem smiled again. “Didn’t you hear? I invited Joe and MG to this shindig.”

  He felt like groaning all of a sudden. “More chefs? Who else is coming?”

  “Oh hell, who knows? Tom asked some people—probably Nando and Kit. Deirdre might have asked some of the Toleffsons. Tom told you to cook for twenty, right?”

  “Yeah. I thought he meant people from the bar.”

  Clem shook her head. “This is strictly a private party. Although the smell of barbecue will probably be driving people crazy all day long. You’re not seriously worried about this, are you?”

  He shrugged. “Not about the food.” Andy Wells, on the other hand, he was definitely worried about.

  Clem folded her arms across her chest, eyes narrowing. “So what’s with you and the schoolmarm?”

  Right on schedule. “She’s not a school teacher.”

  “Nice deflection. How did you meet her?”

  His jaw tightened. “I picked her up on the highway one night.”

  Clem shook her head. “Not funny.”

  “Not meant to be. How is this any of your business?”

  She shrugged. “I figure I’m going to be fielding questions from all your many fans once they see the two of you together. If I knew more about her, I could help you out.” She paused, then gave him a slow smile. “I’m on your side, Chico. You know that. And I really can help you deflect all the people who are going to drive you nuts about this. Let’s face it. She is not the kind of woman they expect to see you with.”