Page 40 of His North Star
After our ride, we went to the buffet line, filling our plates with barbeque chicken, corn on the cob, corn bread, and baked beans. We found a table with two places open side by side and settled in to enjoy the traditional cowboy grub.
“This is good,” Ty mumbled.
It made sense that this place was popular among tourists. Their food was just as good as Grandma’s. “Have you tried the beans yet? That smoky bacon flavor is unreal.”
“No, but you’d better not eat too many,” Ty warned. “I don’t want to be hotboxed on the way home.”
Did he really just say that out loud? With witnesses? “Ty,” I said harshly, heat flooding my cheeks.
The couple across from us, about ten years our senior, snickered.
“What?” he asked innocently.
I growled in a low voice, “That was rude.”
He finally looked up, remembering we had an audience. With wide eyes, he said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I leaned over and whispered, “Be prepared for payback. I’m going for seconds.”
“No,” he groaned.
Ty’s comment was out of line, but no less true. I didn’t want to be dancing with a bubbly tummy. Instead, I grabbed another corn cob. Before I could make it back to our table, the woman who’d sat across from us caught my elbow.
“You two make an adorable couple. You remind me of my husband and me.”
“Oh, we’re just friends,” I replied. And not for long if he said anything about me and beans again.
“If you say so.” She winked at me. “I’m off to find my husband. He owes me a dance or two.”
What if Ty was my brother, and she just assumed we were together? Strangers should keep their opinions to themselves. Me and Ty? Not. Happening. Ty made that crystal clear in high school.
I sat next to Ty. He stared at my plate. “Thanks for sparing me.”
“You’re welcome. Will you return the favor?” Because Ty was worse than I was when it came to beans. I at least had the decency to keep it quiet.
“No way. Those were way too good.”
“You’re mean,” I whined.
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “I’ve always said you were the better half of us.”
My heart swelled at his words. It was a straight-up lie, but I wouldn’t correct him.
“That couple”—I pointed to where they had sat—“thought we were together.”
“Really?” A goofy grin lit up his face.
“Really.”
He didn’t say anything else, just dug back in to his plate.
“Are we going to talk about how funny that is?”
“Nope.” He took another bite.
Okay, then.
When we’d had our fill, the woman in charge announced huckleberry cobbler would be served in a few minutes. But the dancing was starting now in the field right behind us.
