nodded toward the trailer. “Didn’t expect you to come up with something so soon. Come on inside where it’s cool.”
She thought about refusing, but that seemed a little prissy. What did she think he was going to do—jump her while she dished up lunch?
And would that be such a problem, Darcy?
Porky stared back and forth between them. His ears seemed to perk up when he saw the potato salad container.
The King shook his head. “Forget it, dog. You need to learn to appreciate the joys of kibble.”
She followed him into the trailer, listening to the whir of a hidden air conditioner. It was a lot cooler inside. An overstuffed sofa and chair rested in the corner, the backs covered with a couple of embroidered gypsy shawls. The low coffee table looked like an old workbench that had been worn smooth by generations of hands, with a red-and-blue rag rug underneath. The lamp in the corner was art deco, with bronze lilies curving up to support a stained glass shade.
Damn. She hated having to revise her opinion of a guy like the King. On the other hand, ignoring the fact that he didn’t seem to be total dick was just pure stubbornness shading off into stupidity. She might be stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid.
The King took off his hat and hung it on an iron coat hook next to the front door. His dark brown hair carried the imprint of the hat band until he ran his fingers through it, tossing a couple of locks down onto his forehead. She felt a slight tickle of heat somewhere below her diaphragm, but suppressed it ruthlessly. Business. Strictly business.
“Over here.” He gestured toward the tiny kitchen at the side. The stove wasn’t much more than a hot plate with a postage-stamp-sized counter. A dark wood drop-leaf table with a couple of cane-back chairs was tucked under a window.
He opened a cabinet door over the minuscule sink and produced a pair of white china plates along with two mismatched forks and a serving spoon. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”
She opened the container and lifted her salad bowl from its nest of blue ice packs.
He gave it an appraising look. “Keeping it cool?”
“Tastes better that way.” Not to mention keeping it cool lessened the chances of food poisoning since the mayonnaise was homemade. She might be willing to use commercial mustard, but there were certain adaptations she wasn’t willing to make, at least not until she’d won the bet.
As she popped off the lid, Darcy regarded the salad with a critical eye. She’d prepared three different versions with slight variations on mayonnaise and other ingredients since her mom had emailed her the recipe. This was the best of the lot in her opinion, but she was willing to keep on fiddling if the King made any demands. Of course, that assumed he accepted the basic mixture going in.
She was fairly sure he would. She was also fairly sure he’d make some demands, this being something in the way of a negotiation, after all.
She served up a healthy-sized portion on one of the plates, then handed it to him, along with one of the forks. Presentation wasn’t bad overall. She could see flecks of egg and green bits of dill pickle, along with a few grains of paprika for color. The golden cubes of potato were enrobed in the mustard-tinged mayonnaise, like pebbles in the snow.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not having any?”
“It’s your party.”
His lips edged into a dry smile. “I guess you could say that.”
He slid the fork into the salad. Darcy’s shoulders felt tight all of a sudden. She was an accomplished chef, a culinary school grad, a future chef de cuisine in her own right. It was purely embarrassing to care this much about what the Barbecue King thought of her potato salad. Correction: her mother’s potato salad.
He chewed contemplatively, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Nice balance on the seasonings. Potatoes done right. Dressing is prime.”
She flexed her hands at her sides to keep from balling them into
She thought about refusing, but that seemed a little prissy. What did she think he was going to do—jump her while she dished up lunch?
And would that be such a problem, Darcy?
Porky stared back and forth between them. His ears seemed to perk up when he saw the potato salad container.
The King shook his head. “Forget it, dog. You need to learn to appreciate the joys of kibble.”
She followed him into the trailer, listening to the whir of a hidden air conditioner. It was a lot cooler inside. An overstuffed sofa and chair rested in the corner, the backs covered with a couple of embroidered gypsy shawls. The low coffee table looked like an old workbench that had been worn smooth by generations of hands, with a red-and-blue rag rug underneath. The lamp in the corner was art deco, with bronze lilies curving up to support a stained glass shade.
Damn. She hated having to revise her opinion of a guy like the King. On the other hand, ignoring the fact that he didn’t seem to be total dick was just pure stubbornness shading off into stupidity. She might be stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid.
The King took off his hat and hung it on an iron coat hook next to the front door. His dark brown hair carried the imprint of the hat band until he ran his fingers through it, tossing a couple of locks down onto his forehead. She felt a slight tickle of heat somewhere below her diaphragm, but suppressed it ruthlessly. Business. Strictly business.
“Over here.” He gestured toward the tiny kitchen at the side. The stove wasn’t much more than a hot plate with a postage-stamp-sized counter. A dark wood drop-leaf table with a couple of cane-back chairs was tucked under a window.
He opened a cabinet door over the minuscule sink and produced a pair of white china plates along with two mismatched forks and a serving spoon. “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”
She opened the container and lifted her salad bowl from its nest of blue ice packs.
He gave it an appraising look. “Keeping it cool?”
“Tastes better that way.” Not to mention keeping it cool lessened the chances of food poisoning since the mayonnaise was homemade. She might be willing to use commercial mustard, but there were certain adaptations she wasn’t willing to make, at least not until she’d won the bet.
As she popped off the lid, Darcy regarded the salad with a critical eye. She’d prepared three different versions with slight variations on mayonnaise and other ingredients since her mom had emailed her the recipe. This was the best of the lot in her opinion, but she was willing to keep on fiddling if the King made any demands. Of course, that assumed he accepted the basic mixture going in.
She was fairly sure he would. She was also fairly sure he’d make some demands, this being something in the way of a negotiation, after all.
She served up a healthy-sized portion on one of the plates, then handed it to him, along with one of the forks. Presentation wasn’t bad overall. She could see flecks of egg and green bits of dill pickle, along with a few grains of paprika for color. The golden cubes of potato were enrobed in the mustard-tinged mayonnaise, like pebbles in the snow.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not having any?”
“It’s your party.”
His lips edged into a dry smile. “I guess you could say that.”
He slid the fork into the salad. Darcy’s shoulders felt tight all of a sudden. She was an accomplished chef, a culinary school grad, a future chef de cuisine in her own right. It was purely embarrassing to care this much about what the Barbecue King thought of her potato salad. Correction: her mother’s potato salad.
He chewed contemplatively, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Nice balance on the seasonings. Potatoes done right. Dressing is prime.”
She flexed her hands at her sides to keep from balling them into
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