Page 11 of Smoked

Riley is already on her feet.

She's been pacing, alternating between helping me set up and finding excuses to check her phone, and now she's practically bouncing.

"She's here," Riley says.

I glance at her. "I can hear."

"You’ll be nice, right?"

"I'm always nice."

"Extra nice. Like, smile. You have a nice smile when you actually use it."

"Go check the firebox temp. I’ll go bring her around,” I say, shaking my head.

"I'm just saying⁠—"

"Firebox temp. Now." I point.

“You’re hopeless, Dad,” she says, haughtily, as she goes.

I smirk and walk along the side of the house toward the driveway.

Tess gets out of the car and immediately, I think this was a terrible idea.

She's in jeans and a ribbed tank top and a flannel hoodie tied around her waist. She’s dressed to work, and it doesn't matter even a little bit because she's still the most beautiful woman who's ever stood in front of my house.

"Hey," she says, smiling. She's got a tote bag over one shoulder.

"Hey." I clear my throat. "You found it okay?"

She nods. “Sure did. I love the older homes in town. So cozy.”

“It’s my parents house. They’ve long passed, but it was old even back then. Probably one of the first homes built in the area, evidenced by it constantly needing repairs.”

“I can imagine.” She grins. “It’s lovely though.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “Come on back. I'll walk you through the setup."

We come around the side of the house and Riley materializes at my elbow. "Hi, Ms. Fields! I'm so glad you're doing this. Dad's been talking about it all week."

I furrow my brow. "I mentioned it once."

"He reorganized the spice station and everything."

“Pure maintenance."

Tess is smiling at both of us, and I can tell she’s enjoying Riley giving me a hard time.

“Are you going to let us get to work now?” I ask Riley, tilting my head.

She smiles sweetly and nods, skipping back into the house. The devil.

I spend the next two hours teaching Tess how not to kill us. Safety first, always.

Then I move on to fire management—how to read the smoke color, how to feel the draft with the back of your hand, when to add a split and when to leave it alone. She takes notes with headers and bullet points, and at one point when I mention creosote (the bitter tar that builds up when the fire's not burning clean) she asks me to spell it, and I've never been more aware that this woman has a master's degree and I barely finished high school.

Then we work on timing. I walk her through the cook schedule: when the brisket goes on, when the pork follows, the stagger, the rest windows, the turn-in clock that doesn't care if you're ready or not.