Page 3 of Smoked

"Thanks, man. But about sixty of those talents are in my gut," I say, patting my stomach through the apron. "All that quality control's gotta go somewhere."

The guys laugh. Jasper snorts into his beer. Even Lance cracks a smile.

I laugh too, because that's how I roll. I'm the husky guy who makes husky-guy jokes. I've been making them since I graduated high school and realized I was never going to look good with my shirt off, especially next to Ike and the rest of his obscenely shredded firefighting crew. But that was cool, because I could feed hundreds of people delicious food they’ll remember for a long time.

You play the cards you're dealt.

I turn back to the rig and check the ribs. They’re perfect…a beautiful, deep color, the meat pulling back from the bone about a quarter inch, the surface tacky and glistening. I pull the first rack, set it on the cutting board, and start slicing.

People line up and I serve.

I do love this part of it—the faces when they take the first bite, the way a good rib sends a grown man to his happy place. Riley's working the other end of the table, handing out sides and sassing anyone who tries to take more than their share of potato salad.

It's a good day. The sun is high in the clear Montana sky, the mountains a majestic green-gold. I'm standing behind a smoker in my apron, handing a rib to a six-year-old with sauce already on his chin from the sample he stole ten minutes ago, and I think: This is the life. This is the whole dream right here.

Then the smoke changes direction.

The wind's been steady from the west all morning, pushing the smoke across the lawn and away from the crowd. But it turns, and suddenly a thick white billow rolls right across the serving area.

I hear someone cough. A few people laugh and wave their hands. It’s no big deal, just part of the cookout experience.

Then I see the shape of a woman walking back through the smoke toward the cook site, arms full of stuff—napkins, maybe, or a tray. She's headed straight for the rig, and more specifically, straight for the firebox.

Why is the firebox open?

I was feeding it oak ten minutes ago and Riley must’ve forgotten to close the door.

That thing is three hundred degrees of cast iron with active coals glowing inside it.

She can't see. I can tell by the way she's moving…tentatively with one hand half-raised as if she's trying to feel her way through. The smoke is thick enough to blur anything past arm's length, and the glasses she’s wearing have got to be completely fogged up.

As she closes in on the firebox, I move.

I drop the tongs, take three fast steps, and get a hand on her arm. I pull her sideways, and into me hard enough that whatever she’s carrying scatters. She stumbles back into my chest with a startled yelp.

"Hey—hey there." I've got her by the shoulders now, turning her toward me.

She blinks up at me. Her glasses are still fogged, and she's trying to push them up her nose while I'm running my hands over her bare arms, turning them over, checking for the angry red of a fresh burn.

Her hands are fine. They’re small and soft without any marks. Her wrists and forearms are good. Her upper arms are…

…really smooth and my thumbs are brushing over them and I need to stop.

I let go like she's the hot surface and take a half-step back.

"You're good," I say, rougher than I mean to. "You didn't touch anything."

"I—what just happened?" She finally gets her glasses up and blinks at me with big blue-green eyes, trying to get her bearings. The smoke is clearing around us, and for the first time I get a real look at her.

She's…really, really pretty.

Nope, she’s fucking gorgeous.

She has blonde wavy hair that hangs just past her chin, a heart-shaped face that's all soft curves and wide eyes behind those tortoiseshell frames, and a mouth-watering body in a floral sundress that has my blood rushing south in a tidal wave.

But god, she looks young, Maybe Sloane’s age.

I turn toward the firebox.