Lorea laughed. “No, thanks. Stress relief for me doesn’t have anything to do with pickles.”
“Here, let me give you some stress relief before you go.” She grabbed a spritz bottle, and I closed my eyes as she sprayed a combination of lavender and melaleuca oils on my face and hair. “Take a deep breath.”
The calming scent of lavender tickled my nose, and I smiled.
“See, that helps,” Lorea said. “Of course, you’ll have to rinse and repeat after you get back from your smelly barbeque joint.”
I laughed. “Now, if only they could bottle that smell . . .”
Lorea frowned. I waved at her as I headed out the door. “I won’t be too long.”
I rolled down my window as I approached the intersection for the Smokehouse BBQ and inhaled when the aroma of wood smoke filled my nose. A large rust-colored smoker belched out smoldering trails of mouth-watering aromas. The place was a dive, but the succulent ribs falling off the bone and dripping with his signature “smoke sauce” had given Clay Anderson a cult following.
With limited parking, I slid in next to a decked out Harley Davidson Road Glide. I regarded the dark blue and silver insignia on the Screamin’ Eagle version. I had an eye for Harleys, and I hadn’t seen this one around town before. I paused to admire it with more deserving attention. I grew up riding dirt bikes through the fields to move pipe, and the wide-open stretches of flat deserts provided plenty of great recreation for motorcycle enthusiasts in this part of Idaho. To say I had a thing for a fancy ride was putting it mildly.
If I hadn’t been so sensible, my first ride would have been a Harley with a purple glitter helmet. Instead, I drove a used Mercury Mountaineer with plenty of space in the back for hauling wedding décor. My fingers grazed the leather saddlebags attached to the bike, and then I curled them inward and wondered who the lucky owner might be. My parents didn’t know about my secret desire to date a biker. Briette had always teased about setting me up with a Harley owner, but it had never happened.
The biker would be in for a treat if this was his first time at Smokehouse BBQ. Clay’s burnt ends, a marvelously slow-cooked beef brisket with a bark full of so much flavor it could make any barbeque enthusiast cry, was the Thursday special.
The restaurant was actually an old house remodeled into a barbeque joint, and I squeezed between two ranchers in the entryway and walked toward the front to place my order. A glance through the four booth seats and three tables didn’t satisfy my curiosity regarding the owner of the Harley, as I didn’t spot any leather-clad bikers.
Two senior citizen couples, a few golfers, and a heavy-set man chomping through some ribs and brisket sandwiches made up the lunch crowd at the moment. The bike could belong to anyone, but I held out hope that I hadn’t spotted him yet. With a ride like that, he had to be interesting. Clay was skilled at moving people through the joint, though, and the weather was warm enough for the outdoor patio to be in use. I’d have to check.
A line of take-out orders flanked the cash register, and I lifted my fingers in a wave as Clay shimmied through the kitchen with a billowing pan of Smokehouse pork.
“Hey, Adri. I’ll throw some pickles in the juice for ya,” Clay hollered. “What else would you like today?”
“That pork looks delicious. I’ll have a Clay’s special sauce sandwich.”
He grinned and gave me a wink. His ruddy face perspired, and he continually wiped it with a white towel as he dodged the sizzling grease that enveloped the sweet potato fries and pickles.
After I placed my order, I meandered over to the patio door but was still unable to sate my curiosity. No one occupied the deck chairs under the bright red Coca-Cola umbrellas, so I turned back toward the empty corner booth I had passed. Only it wasn’t empty anymore.
I came up short as I locked eyes with a man whose deep blue gaze fastened on me. Thick black hair curled at his temples and rimless glasses sat lightly on the bridge of his nose. The muscles in his forearms tightened as he lowered a copy of The Idaho Mountain Express, Ketchum’s most reliable newspaper. I guessed he was about thirty and noted the absence of a wedding band. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Sorry, did I take your spot? Clay likes to keep this house full.”
“Oh, not at all. I—uh . . .” I stuttered and looked around to find that the ranchers had just taken residence at the last table and a group of tittering ladies were heading out to the patio.
“Rack of ribs, burnt-end special for Luke, and a side of onion rings and slaw,” Clay hollered.
Blue-Eyes stood at the call, proving his name was Luke. I tried not to stare, but he was well over six feet and made an imposing figure in the low-ceilinged barbeque joint. He wore carpenter jeans and hiking boots with a moss-green, V-neck tee that accentuated his muscular build.
“Why don’t you sit down? There’s room for both of us.” Luke thumbed toward the booth.
“Are you sure?”
That smile appeared again as he nodded. “Definitely.”
The booth could comfortably fit four, so I considered his offer. I turned to watch him pay for his order and felt my stomach flip. Luke headed toward me with his steaming plate. I was just about to sit down when Clay hollered, “Order’s up, Adri.”
I nodded at Luke as I approached the counter. Clay slid a tray full of hot fried pickles alongside a sandwich overflowing with carnivorous delight. I hurried forward, glad for the interruption to my awkwardness.
“Thanks. I really needed some comfort food today.” I pushed two dollars in his tip jar, grabbed a stack of napkins, and turned back around.
Luke
