Page 17 of Smoked

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Wade says.

She hugs him, catching my eye over his shoulder, and gives me a look so pointed it could puncture a tire.

“Goodnight,” I say, with a chuckle.

"Have fun, you guys," she says, and disappears into the house.

Wade watches the screen door close and exhales.

The brisket's holding steady at 155 and there's nothing to do but check the fire and sit. The string lights make soft halos through the trees as the coals crackle in the dark. We’re snacking on kettle corn from a bag on the cooler between us.

He's telling me about a competition he did two years ago where the guy next to him showed up with a trailer the size of a small apartment and a sous chef whose only job was garnishing the turn-in boxes. "The parsley game alone would've bankrupted me," he says, shaking his head.

I'm laughing when he reaches for another handful of popcorn and a piece of his lawn chair snaps under him. He jumps up before the chair collapses in a heap on the ground.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” I ask, as he stands there squinting at the pile of metal and weave.

He scratches his cheek. "I think that’s the chair’s way of telling me to lose some weight.”

I just smile. “Well the chair can keep its opinions to itself. I think you’re perfect the way you are.”

He grumbles. “You don’t have to say that. I know I’m heavy.” He starts kicking the remnants of the chair off to the side.

"I mean it," I say. "You take up a whole doorway and your hands could palm a basketball.” I shrug. “I like how thick you are.”

He stares at me for a moment, as if he’s not sure what to do with that. And I wonder if I’ve said too much.

"I should go get another chair," he finally says, and I watch him go.

By the time he gets back, the temperature spikes in the rig.

I see it on the gauge before he does—258 and climbing, the fire running hot and fast.

We both head over. "Intake," he says, low and urgently. "Close it halfway. I need to pull a split."

I drop to a knee by the intake vent and dial it down while he opens the firebox door with a gloved hand. The heat rolls out in a wave and I can see the problem, a split has shifted and it's feeding too fast, flame instead of smoke.

"Hold the door," he says, and I grab the handle while he reaches in with the poker and shifts the wood, his thick arm flexing in the orange light. We’re both focused on the temperature gauge dropping back toward where it needs to be.

He closes the firebox and we both stand there, breathing, sweating, watching the gauge settle at 232, then 228, then 225.

He squeezes the back of his neck.

"Nice work, Tess”, he says, and again it has my thighs clenching.

My pulse hammers.

When we sit back down, the night goes soft again…just coals, crickets, and the occasional creak of the house settling. The adrenaline drains into something slower and more manageable.

"Sloane told me you came from Iowa. What made you come out to Montana?” he asks.

I don’t tell a lot of people my story. Mostly because I don’t want them to get the wrong idea about me, but I want to be honest with Wade.

"I had a colleague at my old school in Des Moines. He asked me out and I said no." I pull my sleeves over my hands. "He was polite about it in person. And then he spent a year making my life a living hell."

Wade furrows his brow. “What did he do?”

"He put notes in my file about my professional appearance and how it was unacceptable around children. He coerced a parent to complain about how I present myself. Thought my clothes were too revealing and that I did it on purpose for attention. He made up fake meetings of concerned staff members. When he went to the administration of the school, they caved. They didn’t want any bad press and it was easier to get rid of me than fight it. Later, I found out he had friends in HR—the ones I’d confided in about the situation." I sigh. "Nothing overly dramatic. Just a year of being punished for having a full-figured body while doing my job well, and eventually understanding that I was better off just starting over somewhere else."