Wade
I wake up with Tess's hair in my mouth and one of her legs thrown over mine.
The hotel curtains are doing a lousy job. The morning sun is blazing a thick stripe across the second queen bed—the one we never touched last night—and over our bags piled against the wall. The window unit is humming a flat, rattling note, and I glance at my phone.
Thankfully, it’s only eight-thirty, and we have plenty of time before we have to be at the fairgrounds.
Good, because I don't want to move.
She's curled against me, face pressed into my chest, one hand resting on my belly, possessively, as if it’s her favorite pillow.
Last night was out of this world. The woman I've been hiding from in the dark worshipped the part of my body I’m most insecure about, and told me how much my weight and what I can do with it turns her on.
My cock stirs, because just thinking about Tess naked under me, with those big beautiful tits and filthy little mouth, is a guaranteed hard-on.
But I should probably get myself ready.
I press my lips to the top of her head and ease out from under her, slowly enough that she only shifts and sighs. I tuck the blanket around her shoulders.
In the bathroom, I stare at the mirror. Same big gut, same farmer tan, same blue-collar guy. But there are faint pink lines where Tess’s nails raked over me, and there's a mark on my pec from where she bit down when she came the third time, after we’d rested.
I grin like an idiot.
The fairgrounds are a circus when we get there.
I'm backing the rig between two teams in matching T-shirts, their canopies already up, logos printed on everything on their site. The outfit to my left has a trailer with its own generator and a guy who’s doing nothing but wiping down stainless surfaces.
The one to my right has four guys in embroidered shirts and a banner that says SPONSORED BY across the top in letters bigger than my truck.
I park my beat-up stick burner between them and try not to estimate what their equipment costs.
Tess is out of the truck before I kill the engine, clipboard in hand. She's got her hair pulled back in two cute buns and she's wearing cutoffs and a fitted T-shirt with the sleeves cuffed.
She’s so much prettier than a smoke chaser as Riley would say. Groupies that hang around the rigs. Except Riley thinks they’re just there for the meat samples. She’s not completely wrong.
"Site sixty-two, east-facing, good draw," she says, reading off the sheet we picked up last night. "Wind's out of the southwest, which means—"
"Smoke pulls right across the walking path. Judges'll smell us before they see us."
She grins. "Exactly."
We work. Canopy up, tables out, the coolers positioned where I can reach them without turning, the Cambros staged for resting. Her color-coded schedule is taped inside the canopy leg before I finish leveling the firebox.
By midafternoon, the Kansas City Barbecue Society officials come through for meat inspection—checking every team's cuts to make sure they meet weight and trimming standards before anything goes on the fire.
Then we crowd into the cooks' meeting, a briefing where they walk us through the rules, the turn-in schedule, and remind us that the ten-minute windows are absolute.
I already know all of it, but hearing it out loud still tightens something in my chest.
A guy behind me taps my arm during the briefing and points at my tattoo—the crossed meat fork and slotted turner with the flames. "Nice ink," he says. "But you know a pitmaster would never fork a brisket."
I turn slightly. "I was twenty-two and didn't know any better," I say. "Now it's a permanent reminder of my youthful stupidity."
He laughs.
Forty feet from our site, a sponsor rep in a branded polo is setting up a demo tent for a hardwood company.
He's got sample bags, business cards, and a table full of product, and he'll be there all weekend, watching every rig on this row. I try not to look at him for too long. It’ll make me nervous knowing he’s also who I need to impress to do this full-time.
By late afternoon we're ready. The site is tight, the firebox is seasoned, and everything is staged. We eat sandwiches from a cooler Tess packed and watch the other teams do the same restless pacing we're doing. At least these guys still feel the nerves, too.
A competitor from the next site over walks up later. He’s in his fifties, probably, with a silver beard, and an apron that's seen more smoke than mine. He leans on the edge of our canopy and looks at the rig, then at Tess taping a note to the prep table.
"Your girl's got you organized," he says, nodding approvingly. "My daughter did the same thing for me back when she used to cook with us. Enjoy it while you can—mine went off to college and now I can't find anything."
Tess's hand stops mid-tape.
I laugh it off not wanting to make a thing out of it. "She keeps me in line, that's for sure."
He pats the canopy pole and ambles back to his site.
“Why didn’t you correct him?” Tess asks.
I shrug. “I didn’t want to embarrass him.”
But the way Tess is eying me, I can tell she knows that’s not entirely true. Still, she doesn’t say anything.
The sun drops behind the Bridgers and the brisket goes on at 9:40. The fairground lights buzz on, turning everything orange and industrial, and the other teams' generators hum to life around us. Somewhere down the row, someone's playing country music from a portable speaker.
We settle into the new chairs I bought for us under the canopy and I hand her a water bottle. We talk about timing and bark and when to wrap. I tell myself it’s because I want to stay focused, but something feels off inside.
Tess sends me to sleep in the truck around ten-thirty.
It’s the first three hour shift and the whole reason I needed another person.
I still argue for about ten seconds before the fatigue wins, and the last thing I see before I close my eyes is her silhouette against the firelight, adding a split to the firebox just as a pro would.
I sleep hard and dreamless, and when my phone alarm goes off I feel almost human. The fairground is quieter now—most teams have someone sleeping in a trailer while another watches the fire, exactly the way we planned it.
I can see the glow of other fire-pits dotting the row, the occasional shadow of a pitmaster checking a thermometer. It's the part of competition I actually love: the overnight, when the whole thing strips down to you, the fire, and the smoke.
Tess is still in her chair, scribbling notes, and when I duck back under the canopy she shows me the temps she's been logging every twenty minutes. The brisket's deep in the stall, and all is well.
Mostly.
"That felt great," I say. “So glad you’re here, Tess. Now it’s your turn to sleep.”
"In a minute." She pulls her legs up and closes the notebook.
I sit next to her, gazing out into the night.
“Maybe you should tell me about your ex, Riley’s mom,” she says. “What happened there?”
I exhale and lean forward, elbows on my knees. I've only told this story twice—once to Ike and once to a grief counselor Riley's pediatrician recommended when she was four.
"She left when Riley was about a year old," I say. "She tried. She wasn't cruel and she didn't cheat. She just figured out after Riley showed up that she didn't want this life…being a mom, being a family, me, any of it. I told her I'd take it on myself. And she took off.”
The fire pops. I add a split and close the door.
"Riley doesn't remember her at all." I sit back. "And now it’s just ancient history."
“That must’ve been hard. Losing a wife and someone to help with Riley.” She puts her hand on mine.
"It was. But it got easier with time, and Ike always had my back if I needed help. And when Sloane came along, it was even better,” I say. “I owe them a lot.”
“They’re the best,” she adds.
I stare at the firebox, the coals glowing through the vent. "For a long time after that I thought I might want more kids."
I don’t know why I say it. And I roll my shoulders to try and walk it back. "I mean, I was thirty. That's a normal thing to think at thirty. But it does seem pretty ridiculous at this point, so."
She frowns. "Why ridiculous?"
"I'm forty-five, Tess. I've got a teenager, a semi, and a smoker that could probably use a new baffle plate. Adding a baby to all that is..." I trail off with a sound that's supposed to be a laugh, but comes out sadder than I intend.
She nods. "I want a kid," she says. As if she's been thinking about it for a long time and the words have been ready. "I want to adopt."
I turn to look at her.
"I told you about my sister, Cora, who works for Doctors Without Borders…” she starts.
“Well, she comes across so many orphaned children. It would be amazing to welcome one of those children into a loving home.” She smiles.
"I've been reading about the adoption process for almost a year.
It's complicated and long, and Cora says I'm insane, and I know I'm twenty-five, single, and it might be ten years away. But it's something I’d like to pursue."
And I can see it…the house full of noise, toys, and homework on the kitchen table. Tess in the doorway hollering about dinner, and a kid running through the backyard.
But I’d be pushing sixty. She wouldn’t want to build a family with an old man. She needs someone her own age.
"I think you’d make a great mom, Tess,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the sadness in my voice. “Now go…sleep. The ribs will need your attention before you know it.” I pat her knee and she kisses me once, quickly, before crossing to the truck.
I should be watching the coals. Instead I'm staring through them.
What am I doing?