Page 22 of Smoked

TESS

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I can’t stop thinking about Wade.

Talk about the most fun and satisfying sexual experience of my life. Sure, it was tight in the sleeper. But I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

And after we fed the fire and sat back down in the lawn chairs with our knees touching and the coals ticking low, we simply enjoyed the rest of the balmy night.

Until I fell asleep.

He woke me at dawn. The brisket was wrapped and resting and the sky was turning pink above the tree line and I had a crick in my neck that would take days to work out. And despite my apologies for slacking on the job, he just patted my knee. "It’s fine. You looked too pretty to wake up.”

He walked me to my car, and we shared the sweetest kiss. I drove home with the taste of him still in my mouth and woodsmoke so deeply embedded in my hair it might be permanent now. And that would be more than fine with me.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table.

the brisket rested beautifully. was like butter when I cut into it

I grin. I've been waiting for this text from Wade since I got home.

Excellent.

Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.

the bark cracked a little on the flat end. might pull the butcher paper tighter next time. also I found your headband in my cab

I chuckle. He followed a critique of bark integrity with evidence that I was in his truck. That's Wade's version of flirting, and it’s adorable.

Keep it. I might need it when I see you again.

He sends a photo of the sliced brisket fanned across a cutting board, the smoke ring glowing pink. Then, a minute later:

Riley says your headband smells like flowers and she's keeping it

I smile.

The rest of the week unfolds through my phone.

He's on a haul again on Monday—some route he's done so many times he describes it to me by which rest stops have decent coffee and clean bathrooms. His texts split into two channels that don't seem to know about each other. The first is barbecue: he sends me an updated rub ratio at six in the morning, then a paragraph about whether he should switch to post oak for competition weekend, then a question about my color-coded cook schedule that turns into five texts about timing margins. He's meticulous, obsessive, and completely in his element. It’s more attractive to me than it probably should be.

And the second channel is pure unadulterated filth.

been thinking about your mouth

It arrives between a photo of his dashboard coffee and a complaint about construction on I-90.

I gulp.

Before I can respond he adds:

and how that sexy tongue had me in fits

Wade...I'm at the grocery store.

good. buy peaches. i'm testing a glaze for the chicken. also that’s what your pussy reminds me of. a sweet juicy peach. I can still taste you.

This man sends me dirtiest confessions in the same breath as his grocery list and I'm soaking my panties in the produce aisle.

He calls Tuesday night from the road. I hear the engine, that deep thrum of the Peterbilt, and the click of his turn signal as he changes lanes. It's the same sound from the voice message he left me weeks ago about resting times, except now I know what the inside of that cab smells like and how narrow the bunk is under my back.