Page 6 of Stirring Up Love
“I see that.” The man’s voice was as rich as honeyed coffee, smooth and deeply masculine, and a shiver pirouetted up her spine. She walked her fingertips back to her feet—one, two, three, four—letting the measured pace steady her pulse. Slow and sinuous, she rolled up from the waist, and telegraphed grudging thanks to Meg for dragging her to yoga all spring.
“Couldyouuse a hand?” She extended her arm toward him, brows arched.
He chuckled and grabbed ahold, palm pressed to hers, and a frisson tingled at the base of her spine. A tattoo wound its way up his forearm to wrap his bicep in black designs. She rolled her tongue against her cheek, defense against the allure of the ink.
Tightening her grip, she leveraged him to his feet, and he gave her fingers a squeeze before letting go. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Her voice came out scratchy and rough, and she surreptitiously forced a swallow.
“So, barbecue, huh?” He lifted his chin toward the carved wooden sign hanging at the back of the tent.
With his gaze averted, she took the chance to touch a palm to her temple. Catching a drip of sweat, she pressed her edges down, willing her hormones to follow suit. “Yep, best barbecue in the state.”
“That so?” His voice held a hint of challenge, and his hotness meter fell a few notches.
“According to all my satisfied customers, sure is.”
He gave her a brief smile and did a slow glance around at the stalls nearby. Other vendors were setting up their wares and sipping coffee from travel mugs. Tossing greetings into morning air already weighed down by soupy midwestern mugginess. “Anyone ever challenge that claim?”
Okay, time for this dude to move on. “Nope, I’m the only barbecue joint in town.”
She stuck her hands in her back pockets and sized him up. Only a couple of inches taller than her—no big surprise, since she topped five nine in flats—and about her age, midtwenties she’d guess. Stubble dusted his jaw, glinting with burnt umber and cinnamon, and dipped down to cover a prominent Adam’s apple. His scruffy beard and windblown hair brought to mind pirates and pillaging and all sorts of other yummy things.
Letting her gaze drift down from his faded T-shirt to his scuffed sneakers, she made a slow crawl back up, one eyebrow arched in an impersonation of the Rock she’d spent an entire summer perfecting in the bathroom mirror. “Not like I couldn’t handle a little competition.”
“You might get your chance. I hear there’s a new vendor.”
She hitched up her chin and looked him dead in the eyes, ignoring the hammering of her heart. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed at his jaw, and she caught a glimpse of rounded bicep as he squinted down the row of tents. “Tim Brower gave up his booth. Had to go downstate, take care of his mom.” His brown eyes swung back to hers. Slow, casual. “Something about a broken hip?”
“TimBrewster, you mean?”
“He’s the one.”
Instinctively, Simone cocked her head to listen. Sure enough, she didn’t hear any telltale bleating. Tim usually brought along a doe and kid to draw in customers for his goat-milk products. His cheese and yogurt were to die for, but she wasn’t sold on the skin-care line.
Udder juice on your face? Blech.
“Anyway, I better get going, unless you need a hand flipping the table?” Mystery guy raised his thick brows.
“I’m good.” She let her tone fall flat, and he stepped back, out of the tent.
Squinting against the rays, he sent one last crooked smile her way, looking less Robin Hood and more Sheriff of Nottingham by the minute. “All right. Guess I’ll be seeing you around, Simon.”
Simon?She glanced down and discovered her name tag had been knocked askew, maybe during her wrestling match with the table. Theesticker was missing. Must’ve peeled off in the humidity.
When she snapped up her head to tell him off, the tattooed stranger was halfway down the row of booths. He strode away on legs a smidge too long for his frame, headed straight toward Tim’s spot.
Son of a—“Billy, you know about this?” She rounded on the father-son team next to her. Folks said their sweet corn couldn’t be beat; come harvest time they’d sell out by noon.
Bill Lewis the younger pulled a sucker out of his mouth.Better than a cigarette, he always said when people teased him about the habit. “What?”
“That ...” She cast about for a word sinister enough to describe the interloper intent on stealing her customer base. “Thatstranger—” she said, because in a small town, roots meant everything. “There’s a new guy here to sellbarbecuesauce, of all things. Did you know Tim gave up his booth?”
Billy slurped his sucker back into his mouth and spoke around the soggy stick. “Nope, first I’m hearing of it. Dad?”
Mr.Lewis shrugged, busy arranging heirloom tomatoes in a wooden crate. He wore a faded flannel button-down despite the heat, sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows.
