Gatlinburg Getaway (Destination: Desire) (5 page)

He tsked. “I won’t be sending you back on an empty stomach. You’ll think better with some food in your belly. Trust me.”

She couldn’t help but ask, “Is the best lunch in town served on this porch too?”

“Nah.” His smile was good-natured, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Cooking isn’t one of my best skills—I do a few things well, but that’s about it. I can grill any kind of meat and make some mean coffee, killer French toast, and a pretty decent pho.”

There was a specialty she wasn’t expecting. “You make pho?”

“Yep.” He rose and took her cup inside. He returned in under thirty seconds and locked the door behind him. “I’ve been to Vietnam a few times to visit what’s left of my mother’s family. Her sister taught me to make pho.”

“That’s awesome.” Since her family had come to the US generations ago, she didn’t have that kind of tie to another country or culture. “What were they like? Were they upset or glad she’d married an American and left her homeland?”

He offered her a hand and drew her to her feet. Pinpricks of heat rippled up her arm, which still surprised her, but was a pretty nice feeling. After she picked up her purse, he laid a palm on the small of her back and escorted her down the steps. “A lot of Vietnamese fled after the war, so I think they understood. Two of my uncles went to Australia as refugees with their wives and kids, so there’s only my mom’s sister and oldest brother and their families left in Vietnam.”

“Three boys and two girls. That makes for a decent number of siblings. I have three sisters, myself.”

“I’m an only child, though my cousins were basically raised as my sisters.” He shrugged and turned back toward town when they reached the sidewalk. “My parents apparently wanted a lot of kids, but didn’t conceive for a long time after they married. Then Mom died in childbirth.”

Sympathy squeezed her heart. Her father had died when she was still in diapers, so she got what it was like to have a hole in your life where someone you’d never really known should fit. “What happened?”

“Hemorrhage,” he said, his voice subdued. “They couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. Shock set in and…that was it.”

“I’m sorry.” She set her hand on his arm.

“Me too. I’m sorry I never met her, but my aunt did a great job of mothering me, so I can’t complain. My dad’s brother and his wife took me in after Mom passed.”

She wasn’t normally the type to pry into other people’s affairs, but the intense attraction led to intense curiosity about the man who made her insides melt at a single touch. “What about your father?”

He shook his head, his expression rueful. “That’s a story for another time. I’m not even sure why I’ve said as much as I have. Believe me, the sad stories of my refugee family members and tragic birth aren’t usually stuff I discuss with strangers.”

“Then we’re even.” She bumped her shoulder into his. “I don’t normally go to strange men’s houses after knowing them for under an hour. That’s the kind of thing you hear about on the evening news attached to a story about how the woman was too stupid to live anyway.”

He snorted. “A lot of people don’t even lock their houses around here, so our definition of what’s safe or not is a little different.”

“You locked yours,” she pointed out.

“Habit. I grew up here but went to college in the big, bad city.” His hand settled between her shoulder blades as he steered her around a corner. “We’ve gotten sidetracked. We need to get you fed.”

Since he was headed in the general direction of her hotel, she didn’t protest. “What do you recommend?”

“Mema Hunt makes the best barbeque in the county.”

The words had a reverence to them, like he was talking about a legendary figure. That made her grin.

“Mema?” she asked. “That’s an odd name.”

“Not a name, a title,” he corrected. “It’s what folks around here call their grandmother. She’s everyone’s honorary mema.”

That sounded nice. Camille’s last remaining grandparent had died not long after she was born. Which seemed to be a sad trend, what with her dad going shortly before his mother. “Does Mema Hunt even have any real grandchildren?”

“About a half dozen of them, and thirteen great-grandchildren so far.” He left the sidewalk behind and walked across what looked like an abandoned lot toward a stand of trees.

Her sandals weren’t exactly made for hiking, so she picked her way through the knee-high weeds, hoping she didn’t step on anything sharp and that the undergrowth wasn’t hiding any dips in terrain that made her tweak her bad leg. Where the hell were they going? “Does she have some kind of food truck?”

“Nah, nothing that fancy.”

She stared at his retreating back. A food truck was fancy? What rabbit hole had she fallen down? She might need to revise her opinion of his sanity. Or her own, since she was the dumbass following him.

Once she broke through the tree line, she saw what he meant. A glorified shack sat on the edge of a picturesque babbling brook. The smoke coming from the top of the building made it believable that this place specialized in barbeque. Plus, the smell was mouth-watering. Her stomach grumbled, letting her know it wanted to be fed now. When she went around the side of the shack, she saw it had a service counter and a huge wooden patio attached to the front. White plastic tables and chairs were spread across the deck.

She frowned when she reached Dalton’s side. “Is there a menu?”

“Nope.” He stepped up to the counter.

No menu not only meant she had no idea what they served, but also no clue how much it cost. Considering the fare was served out of a shack, she was assuming it wasn’t too pricey, but still. What kind of business sense did that make? “Not even on a chalkboard?”

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, thickening his accent until he was almost incomprehensible. “You’re assumin’ anyone ’round these here parts knows how to read or write.”

She snorted and elbowed him. “Okay, it may be my first trip south of the Mason-Dixon Line but I don’t buy all the stereotypes.”

“Some of them are true.” He widened his eyes. “I’ll let you figure out which ones.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be here long enough to peel back the layers of the Southern onion.” She gestured to the young woman standing at the counter. “Maybe we should order then. You go first.”

“Hey, Bobbie Jo. How’s your mama?” He smiled, and the woman all but melted at his feet.

She propped both elbows on the slab of wood between them, showing off an impressive amount of cleavage in her tight tank top. “She’s good. Still dealing with that psoriasis.”

He made a sympathetic noise and edged back from the counter. “I hope Doc Haden’s taking good care of her.”

“Oh, he is.” She finally spared Camille a look, and gave her the kind of once-over that meant she was eyeing the competition.

Camille grinned guilelessly, not the least bit cowed by Bobbie Jo’s glare. You didn’t survive in an industry like hers by being easily intimidated. If Dalton was interested in this woman, so be it. She’d gotten a pair of contacts, a great cup of coffee, a few laughs, and an incredible view of denim hugging his very nice ass.

Not a bad day, and sadly still more action than she’d had in a long while.

“I’ll have a brisket sandwich. And did Mema make any of her famous potato salad today?”

“For you?” Bobbie Jo purred. “Of course, I got some for you.”

He made a little choking sound. “I’ll have the potato salad. Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’ll have what he’s having.” Camille squinted up at him, and he reached out to wrap an arm around her waist, hauling her close.

“Where are my manners?” he drawled. “I should introduce y’all. Bobbie Jo Raines, this is Camille Kirby.”

“Hi there.” Camille offered up the sweetest, most innocent smile she could muster. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The other woman wrinkled her nose as if she’d smelled something nasty. “Where y’all from?”

“California.”

She smirked. “Tourist, huh? How long are you in town for?”

“A while,” Camille replied vaguely, just because the death stare she was getting deserved a bit of reprisal. And she might have fitted herself a bit more firmly to Dalton’s side than was necessary for the act, but a delicious heat was spreading through her at being in contact with him from shoulder to knee. Her long-dormant hormones were doing a happy dance.

“We’ll be over there.” He tipped his head toward the far side of the deck. “Thanks, Bobbie Jo.”

“Do I need to worry she’s going to spit in my food?” Camille murmured as they walked away. “She’s really into you.”

“I know.” He pulled out a chair for her. “She’s been angling for a date since my divorce was finalized.”

“I’m sorry.” She sat, unused to the gentlemanly act, but she had a feeling he wasn’t acting. “About the divorce, not the boobilicious woman wanting a piece of you.”

He chose the seat next to her instead of across from her, and their legs bumped. It was going to be like that for the duration of the meal unless she scooted away. She stayed put.

“Be sorry about the woman. She’s pretty relentless, but I love Mema’s ribs too much to stay away from this place.” He hunched his shoulders in a shrug. “I never come here alone anymore. She popped out from behind a tree as I was leaving once, drunk as a skunk, and copped a feel.”

Her mouth fell open. “No way.”

“Grabbed my junk and everything. Relentless, I tell you.”

“Holy shit.” Those were the only words she could muster. Seriously?

“I know, right?” He laughed, appearing a bit embarrassed. “So I come here with a chaperone, and I flatly refused to take her as a patient when she asked to switch over from my uncle. I don’t need to be fending her off in the middle of an eye exam.”

“She’s a sexual assault charge waiting to happen.”

He huffed out a breath. “I’ll leave the restraining orders to someone else. Most of the time, she doesn’t bother me. Just flirtation and that one hammered-fondling incident.”

“I’m glad I could be here to protect you, since you were my knight in shining armor earlier.”

He clapped his hands to his chest and batted his eyes. “My heroine.”

The look on his face was so ridiculous, she couldn’t help but laugh and shake her head. “Okay, we saved each other. Call it even. Let’s talk about something other than Ms. Fondler.”

“Sure.” His gaze dropped to the tabletop. “Tell me about the scar on your leg. I saw it when we were on my porch.”

Wearing capris meant when she sat, they rode up a bit. Depending on how her legs were positioned, he could have gotten a good look at the bottom of her scar. Scooting her chair back a little, she tugged up the left side of her capris, showing him her knee in all its ugly glory.

His eyebrows rose. “Damn.”

“Auto accident.” She twisted her lips. “A guy decided to commit suicide by car, and swerved across the expressway. Hit me head-on. He died on impact and almost took me with him.”

“Christ Almighty,” he breathed, blanching. “I’m so sorry, Camille.”

“He did manage to take my knee with him. Took half a dozen surgeries and over a year of rehab to get back on my feet.” She shrugged, smoothed her pants down, and tried to ease the sudden tautness from her muscles. There’d been a few guys over the years who’d freaked and run at the sight of her scar and the realization that she was and always would be damaged. Imperfect. Limited. But that was their problem, not hers. “While it doesn’t hinder me too much, technically I’m not able-bodied. The bionic parts also guarantee a pat-down from a TSA agent every time I go through airport security.”

“Fun times.” A half-smile quirked his mouth and he reached out to cover her hand with his.

She forced lightness to her tone. “It’d be a lot more fun if I were a lesbian. At least I could get some unintentional girl-on-girl thrills.”

Leaning toward her, he said, “Can I just say I’m really glad you’re not into girl-on-girl thrills?”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. His lower lip was surprisingly full, and the desire to nibble on it gripped her. Sexual tension spun between them, humming like electricity along a live wire. She drew in a shuddery breath, warmth seeping through her. But there was one thing she had to know before she let this attraction turn into anything more than that. “So, the knee isn’t an issue for you?”

He blinked and the moment was broken. “No, should it be? Has it been?”

“For some.”

His brows snapped together, and she saw a flash of anger in his midnight gaze. “After what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived? Shallow assholes.”

“I agree.” Crinkling her nose, she leaned back. “I can feel Bobbie Jo staring at us. It’s weird.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “I’d say ignore her, but I know how hard that is to do.”

Heavy footsteps hammered across the deck and Bobbie Jo slapped two paper plates in front of them. “Here’s your food.”

“Thank you.” Dalton managed to sound far more gracious than Camille would have. “Would you happen to have some silverware?”

The waitress tugged two sets of plastic utensils wrapped in napkins from her apron and tossed them into the middle of the table. “Here.”