Honey and Smoke by Deborah Smith Page B

Your Pa left this place to me. Don’t you go rantin’ and ravin’ about my perfectly fine foyer just because you’re mad at your old cynical self.”
    He threw up his hands. “I’m not mad at … I wish Betty would get here!”
    “Calm down. I see headlights turning off the road.”
    Max swung the front door open so hard that he shook the beveled-glass Insert. Lumbering into the smallgraveled parking area beyond the house’s lawn was a remodeled school bus, painted silver. “Betty’s Barbecue” was scrolled on the side in large maroon letters.
    Betty honked the horn at him and brought the bus to a stop. Crossing the lawn with long, angry steps, Max arrived in the parking lot just as she cranked the door open.
    “You look worried,” she commented, peering at him from the driver’s seat. She looked calm, neat, and gorgeous in slim black trousers and a gold sweater, with lacquered black-and-gold combs pulling her hair back from her face.
    “You’re late,” he announced sharply.
    She drew back, obviously startled. “I said six o’clock.”
    “It’s six-twenty.”
    “That’s still more than enough time.”
    “And you’re not exactly dressed to work.”
    “I’ll put a big white chefs apron over my clothes. What should a barbecue caterer wear—overalls, a straw hat, and a name tag that says, ‘Hi, I’m Betty. Enjoy my pork butts’?”
    “All right, all right, never mind.”
    He leapt onto the bottom steps and glanced impatiently around the bus’s interior. What he saw startled him. The back half of the bus had been converted into a restaurant-quality kitchen.
    But in the front half of the bus were windows covered in chintz curtains. Behind the driver’s seat was a small booth with a table that bore a checkered cloth. The effect was warm and inviting.
    “This is the first time I’ve ever had the diner delivered along with the dinner,” Max told her.
    Betty flicked a switch, and the bus filled with light from large fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling. “Clear out of my way, Major,” she said firmly. “I’m about to charge.”
    “Now you’re panicking about the lack of time.”
    “No, I’ve been doing this work for years, and I’m a professional. I know exactly how much time I need to set up the food.” She unbuckled her seat belt andtossed it aside, frowning at him as she did. “Why are you angry with me?”
    “I think you need to be more punctual.”
    “I think you woke up on the wrong side of the foxhole this morning. You’re in a terrible mood.”
    He jerked a thumb toward the house. “Just haul your tail. Hand me something to carry inside.”
    She stood slowly, put her hands on her hips, and met his eyes with a look of dangerous intensity. “I can handle this alone. Scram.”
    He climbed the steps and planted himself in front of her. She threw her head back and silently defied him, a challenging, stubborn expression on her face.
    “I spent five-hundred dollars. I bought your services for this shindig,” he said between clenched teeth. “I’m in charge.”
    He was standing so close to her that he could smell the rose scent of her perfume and see the charcoal shadow that accented her gray eyes. Now that gray turned as dark as a thundercloud. “This is my ship, and I’m the captain. You’re about to be thrown overboard.”
    “Why are you refusing my offer of help?”
    “Because you’re not offering, you’re ordering. I don’t respond very well to the whims of authority. That’s why I’ve always preferred to be my own boss.”
    “I think that you hate like hell to be anywhere near me, and you waited until the last minute to come here.”
    She hesitated, her eyes searching his. Then she said softly, “You’re right.”
    Tense silence hung between them. Taken aback, he said finally, “You’d never make it as a diplomat.”
    “Every time I’m near you, I feel as if I’m walking a tightrope. I’m terrified that I might fall. And you enjoy making me feel that way.