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ChapterThirty-Three
TESS
If I do say so myself, the setup for our first barbecue is fantastic. My main goal was for the flow to be functional. Organized. Practical. I could almost hear Spencer whispering in my ear. Except I’m not thinking about Spencer Crane. Or his smoldering eyes.
At least not much.
Cases of soda and water are iced down in tubs just outside the kitchen. Against the wall of the dining hall are three oversized rectangular folding tables. The first is for the plates, napkins, cups, hand sanitizer, and wipes. The middle table has packages of hamburger buns, bags of chips, and cookies from The Bread Box. Each bag has two sets of tongs to encourage easy self-service. The condiment table sports the usual dispensers of ketchup, mustard, and relish.
There’s also an enormous vat of pickles, and coolers filled with slices of fresh tomato and onion. I set out even more sets of tongs, to keep things as contact-free as possible. Hopefully no one will just dig their hands in.
At least not much.
Everything is ready by the time Mrs. Lockhart arrives. She’s wearing a white pantsuit, which wouldn’t bemyfirst choice for a camp barbecue on a dusty ranch. But hey. I’m not the mayor. I also shake my head at her black patent leather purse. It’s the size of a small suitcase. Then again, so is her beehive-updo.
Rolling in shortly after Mrs. Lockhart is a food truck with a giant red hotdog across the roof. She ordered it earlier this week to drive in from the city. We figured two guys serving foil-wrapped hotdogs would ease the line of people waiting for Clive to grill. Also some people—like me—prefer hotdogs over burgers anyway. The truck chugs by us slowly, and I see the name painted in colorful letters on the side.
THE STEAMING WIENIE.
For real?
I stand there gaping in a cloud of exhaust as Mrs. Lockhart directs the food truck to the barbecue area. And I don’t even have time to react because a cherry red sports coupe is pulling up now. Spencer parks ten yards away from me, then climbs out of the driver’s side.
Oh. My. Mustang.
He’s wearing jeans and a fitted green T-shirt. Next to the red car, he’s pretty much Christmas.
He nods at the food truck rolling away, leaving clouds of dust in its wake. “The Steaming Wienie?”
“I know. Don’t even.”
“The kids are gonna die laughing,” he says.
I bite back a giggle. “There’s no epipen for that.”
When he arches a brow, I punch him in the shoulder. It’s rock hard. He’s all lean muscle under his T-shirt and jeans. Or his Oxford and khakis. Or his running tank and joggers. I keep forgetting, because he isn’t one of those beefy giants who oils up his chest and enters body-building competitions. Not that there’s anything wrong with bodybuilders. I admire anyone who goes after a passion. That’s just not my brand. Spencer’s my brand.
WHEN DID SPENCER BECOME MY BRAND?
Change the subject, Tess.
“That’s Frank’s Mustang,” I blurt out. It’s an obvious statement, but I’m afraid of what else my tongue might say. “I mean,THEMustang.” I take a beat. “The one from the bet. Why are you driving it? Did you … win?”
Spencer darts his eyes at the car, like he’d already forgotten it’s here. “Oh, right. No.” He blinks. “Frank forced me to take it out for a spin. He told me to bring it here. Said he’d bring by my car to trade later. He probably just wants to torture me.”
He shrugs and my heart sinks. I know all too well how it feels to think everything you’ve been working toward might be for nothing. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about.”
I glance at Mrs. Lockhart, who’s across the ranch, distracted by The Steaming Wienie. Keeping my word to her is important to me. But so is Spencer. “I couldpretendto date you,” I say. “That way, we wouldn’t be breaking any real rules. Of course we’d have to be careful. But if Frank sees us…”
Spencer shakes his head, cutting me off. “This is my problem, not yours. I won’t put you in a position to lie for me. Or to risk your job. You’re too good at this, Tess.”
I reach out and touch his forearm. His skin is warm, and a zing races along my fingers, up my arm, straight to my heart. It’s official. I’m doing the absolute worst job of not fraternizing with Spencer.
All I want to do is fraternize with him.
“Yoo hoo!” Mrs. Lockhart calls from across the ranch. “Come see if I’ve got The Steaming Wienie in the right spot! Tess? Spencer?”
