Chapter 3
A Week Later
Heat pressed in before Kyla swung her boot clear of Marisol’s pickup.
The air felt thick with hay and burned brisket from two aisles over.
It moved close around her collar and dampened her shoulders before she even hit the ground.
She dropped to the gravel, rolled her neck once, and hauled the folding table out of the backseat.
The cooler took more work. Her arms stretched wide and her elbows ached while she wrestled it down. She gritted her teeth until the plastic hit the ground. For one second, she missed having kitchen runners. This market did not come with help.
She snapped the table legs open and set it upright.
She checked the latch that always fought her before she found her place in the narrow strip of shade between the honey vendor and the hand-dyed wool.
The morning sun already bit through the thin white canopy.
She hooked her thumb beneath the cooler latch, lifted the lid, and watched steam rise from the test tamales. They remained warm from the stove.
To her left, the honey vendor’s grandkids lined up plastic bear jars and argued in a soft local drawl. The wool lady had already planted herself on the other side. She gave Kyla one brisk nod and a sharp look that sized her up as an outsider.
Kyla met the stare without blinking. She set out her inventory in silence. One hundred tamales. A small batch of mango-habanero sauce.
A hand-printed sign that read New! Pork or Veggie $3.
One roll of singles. Three stacks of change. She never had enough napkins.
Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck while she stacked foil-wrapped tamales on the cutting board. She pressed them into a pile so none of them tipped. A faint shake moved through her fingers, but she blamed caffeine.
The knot low in her stomach refused a name. She checked her apron, pulled her shirt down over her jeans, and adjusted the fabric over her hips. Those extra pounds did not make her soft. They gave her leverage.
Today she would belong here if she sold out and kept her chin up while people heard the city in her vowels. No one needed to know she had been awake since four. She had spent hours testing ratios and tracing the scent of chiles through the farmhouse kitchen until memory put Lola near her shoulder.
New town. New name. No one handed her a place. She built one and then fought to keep it. No Montana irritation with opinions about shirts would rescue her from that work.
She slid both hands beneath the cutting board to center it. Behind her, one of the honey twins let out a squeal and darted into the aisle with a face sticky from syrup. A grin came to her mouth before she could stop it, but it vanished the moment she looked up.
Titus leaned against a fence post twenty feet down the row with his boots crossed at the ankle. He was shirtless. He had not even thrown a shirt over his shoulder. Sun ran over his chest and picked out every line ranch work had put there.
His arms crossed over his torso. His face gave away nothing, but his attention stayed fixed on her as though the market existed only to deliver this view.
Her stomach dropped. Nerves ran through her thighs, and her tongue caught against her teeth. Something beneath her ribs pulled tight. He treated clothing like a suggestion whenever the day turned hot.
She had seen how the market grandmothers stared, but he was not looking at anyone else now. His eyes stayed on her. One side of his mouth lifted in a patient wait to see if she would color under the attention.
She wondered if he did it on purpose. Every aisle she had crossed that morning, he had surfaced. He appeared near the goat cheese booth and again in the produce tent. Now he stood where he could see her first table and every inch of this attempt to make a place for herself.
Her hands turned clumsy, but she kept moving. She straightened her sign and nudged the napkins into the center of the table. She acted like nothing about him pressed between her skin and the rest of the world.
She frowned at the sweat slipping down her elbow and blamed the weather. When she checked again, his gaze had not shifted. That hunger sat there in plain sight. Open air gave her nowhere to hide. Kyla squared herself toward her food and ordered her pulse to settle.
She did not care how he looked with sun on his skin. She was here to sell. She wanted to prove that she belonged.
The canopy did nothing for the feeling that slid down her spine. That came from Titus Brooks in full daylight. She pretended to fuss with the sauce labels while the sound of boots crossed the gravel toward her. Even before he reached her, the air changed.
Titus carried the scent of woodsmoke and sage. The whole day drew into sharper focus when he stepped close enough to block the sun from her cutting board.
She tucked a loose curl beneath her scarf and straightened the tamale stack. Next stall over, the wool lady scraped her chair across the concrete. Kyla took comfort in the rough sound.
She counted down in silence and then looked up. Her apron stayed straight and her jaw remained set.
Titus stood close enough to take over half the booth. His chest stretched broad. He wore his lack of a shirt like a challenge. The market noise blurred to a low wash at the edge of her hearing.
His mouth lifted. “Didn’t figure I’d see you here this early, Chef.”
“Prime real estate,” she said, matching his low tone. “I’m not splitting customers with the kids selling cinnamon rolls. Unless you came for breakfast.”
She tipped her chin toward the covered pan. He gave no answer. Instead, Titus reached across her and found the warmest tamale from the center of the stack.
He peeled the foil back at an easy pace and kept his eyes on her. Steam rose between them. A stripe of sauce streaked across her wrist, but she ignored it.
He bit into one end and chewed. Sauce marked the corner of his mouth in a red smear. He cleaned it away with his tongue and never once looked away.
Kyla kept her face flat. “I did not know you were moonlighting as a food critic. You plan to eat or just stand there.”
A quiet humor moved through his face. “Tamales this good do not need a review, Chef. How many do you have left.”
She gave him the truth. “One hundred. I will sell to anyone with cash.”
He reached into the change cup and counted out bills. His hand looked dry and smudged with dust. It was a working man’s hand, rough at the edges. “I will take seven.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Seven. That is specific.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth and then rose again. “Depends whether you are joining me. Might need eight.”
Her body went hot. She grabbed a paper sack and loaded it in silence. He did not rush her. Every breath between them stretched thin.
He slid the money across the table. His fingertips moved over her knuckles, callused and unashamed. The touch left her palm tingling. Kyla cleared her throat and wiped her fingers on her apron. “Market special. The seventh one is free. Do not eat them all at once.”
This time he smiled. “Deal.”
He took the sack and kept his attention on her until the space became taut.
Her cheeks warmed, but she met his stare.
She could keep her cool and let his games slide.
Then his thumb brushed over the ridge of her finger one last time.
He tucked the sack away, tipped his chin, and kept his eyes on her.
They stood in a public market in full daylight. None of that changed the fact that she wanted him closer. The want came sharp and embarrassing.
She grabbed a stack of napkins. Somewhere in the next aisle, a baby cried. Honey and hay pressed in around her. She reminded herself why she had come.
She turned sideways to make room for the honey vendor and expected empty space at her hip. Instead, she ran straight into something solid and far too close. Titus had moved back into her orbit. Both of them stood jammed between jars and market noise.
Kyla tried to move away. They both stopped. Their hips met, denim to denim, and the line of his thigh slid along hers. Every muscle through her side tightened. Her heartbeat climbed so high she could taste it.
A honey jar slipped behind her.
Titus moved fast, his arm going around her waist. His palm spread wide at her side and found the narrow strip of skin where her shirt had ridden up. He did not move away. His grip settled firmly, and his thumb slipped beneath the hem.
Heat climbed her neck. Her focus narrowed to the place where his hand met her skin. A toddler shrieked nearby, but the rest of the market dropped away. Her belly clenched. His thumb moved along the ridge above her jeans in one slow pass.
She should have stepped away. Instead, she stayed where she was with her breath trapped high. His scent cut through everything else. She kept her eyes open, but every sense dragged toward him.
He looked at her with a steady stare, and the question in it met an answer her body had already given. She pulled in a breath, and it shook. A flush spread to her collarbones.
His thumb circled once where her bare skin met denim. He did not press, but he did not soften the touch either. He stayed there, easy and immovable. Her shirt bunched higher against his hand, and she let it happen.
She forced her mouth to work. “Let go, Brooks.”
One brow kicked up. He released her on his own time. Each finger slid away slowly enough to leave the shape of itself behind. Even after his hand left, the place stayed hot.
The market returned in pieces. Voices rose and a dog barked. At her waist, every nerve stayed alive with the memory of his hand.
Kyla registered every inch of the loss. Fresh heat rushed into the place he had touched. She gripped the edge of the cutting board and tried to steady herself. The sudden distance left her clumsy.
She grabbed for a paper sack and fumbled it open. The paper crackled in her hands. She pressed her thumb to the old burn scar on her forearm to get herself back under control.