Page 4 of Smoked

"You almost walked into an inferno,” I tell her. "That firebox was open. You walk into that blind, you’ll get burns that take months to heal and scars you’ll keep forever."

I hold up my forearm and show her the patchwork of old burn marks across my knuckles and wrists. "Trust me on that."

She stares at my arm, then at the open firebox, then back at me. "I couldn't see through the smoke. My glasses⁠—"

"Then you stop. You don't keep walking. You stand still and call out, and somebody comes to get you." I can hear myself, clipped and tight, and I know I'm running hot from the adrenaline still buzzing through my chest. "You never walk blind into a live pit. Ever."

For a second she just stares at me. And then her chin tilts up and her eyes sharpen behind her lenses. "First of all, thank you," she says, her voice steady. "Seriously, thank you. That could've been bad. Second, I'm not a child wandering onto a construction site. I was sent back here to deliver some serving trays, the wind shifted, and I couldn't see past my own nose. It's not as if I was doing cartwheels next to an open flame."

Wow. It’s been a while since anyone’s called me on anything. I mean, I'm the guy with the fire and the knives and thirty years of experience handling both.

This woman, who is five-foot-nothing and covered in smoke, just told me off in a sundress.

She’s right. I may have gone overboard. But it’s only because I’d hate to see her get hurt.

"Fair enough," I reply. "But next time, holler."

"Next time, close your firebox thingy."

I chuckle. She's right about that, too.

"My kid screwed up. She was supposed to close that," I mutter.

"Blaming your child, I see.”

“She's been doing this her whole life. She should know better. Safety’s very important to me. Obviously.” I run a hand through my hair.

“Listen, I understand,” she admits. “It’s just not everyday I get manhandled at a charity cookout.”

She laughs, and it makes my insides all…gooey.

“Sorry about that.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. You saved me from harm. According to folklore and literature, I owe you.”

“Nah,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, trying not to blush.

But she's studying me now, and I’m sure she’s taking all of me in—the apron and the gut underneath it and the sweat on my forehead. I wait for the assessment to finish and for whatever polite thing she's going to say before taking off.

Instead, she looks at the rig. "So you're the one responsible for all this?"

"Sure am."

"The ribs are mind-blowing. I mean, I had one about ten minutes ago and almost cried it was so good. How long have you been doing this?"

"Barbecuing? Since I was sixteen. Competing? About five years."

"You compete?" Her eyes light up behind those glasses, and I feel it in my stupid chest.

"Regional circuit. State a few times." I wipe my hands on my apron, trying to be casual. "Got a big one over Labor Day I'm prepping for."

"Are you going to win?"

“That’s the plan.” I scratch my jaw. "Execution's the tricky part when you're a one-man show going up against crews of four."

"Can't you get a partner?"

"Tried. Turns out most people don't want to stay up all night feeding a fire for free."