Southern Submission (Southern Submission (A Southern BDSM erotic romance)) by Bellatrix Turner Page B

tee-shirts nicely, but the
constant smudges and splashes defeated the purpose.
    “Oh, so I should talk
to him?  Maybe he wants to open a restaurant, needs a head chef?”  I
was playing dumb, but I didn’t think it was working. 
    Lisa smirked at
me.  “I don’t think he wanted to talk business with you, sugar. 
Wouldn’t he be a nice change from your usual broke bartenders?” 
    I blushed again. 
“Whatever!” 
    “Just keep it in mind
when he comes back!  Cause he’s gonna come back, mark my words!”
    ***
    Sure enough, he was
back the next day.  I’d actually managed to get away from the riverside
park where the festival is held long enough to shower and change clothes, but
my fresh and clean appearance fell apart in the time it took me to get from my air-conditioned
car back to our tent. 
    We’d done quite well in
the rib judging, earning our first top ten finish, and we had high hopes for
the shoulder judging.  By the time the judges left at 2 pm, we were all
exhausted emotionally and physically.  All six of us were slumped at the
big table in our tent, nursing beers, when Tad appeared again.
    He stuck his head in
the tent and grinned when he saw me.  “Mind if I come in, ladies?”
    Lisa and I jumped to
our feet.  She introduced him to the rest of the girls while I grabbed
another beer from the cooler.  As I returned, she finished by saying, “And
I think you’ve met Alex, right?  Alexa Arnott, this is Tad Marshall.”
    Tad’s eyes sparkled as
he grinned at me.  “Sure have.  I was hoping to get an introduction
this time.  Thanks, Lisa!” 
    I passed the tall man
the beer with my left hand and shook his right.  “Nice to meet you,
Tad.  You enjoying the festival?”
    “Enjoying it more once
I met you!  How did the judging go?”
    “Well, we moved up with
our ribs this year and got seventh, but I think they didn’t like what we did
with the shoulder.  Might’ve had a little too much bark and the meat was a
tad bit dry, but we’re constantly learning.”  I sighed and took a long
pull on my beer.  “I’m always excited to compete in these things, but by
the end I’m just glad it’s over!” 
    Tad hooked a plastic
chair with his foot and dragged it near mine and we sat down.  “I can only
imagine.  So you’re not a barbecue chef for your day job?” 
    “No, I’m a pizza cook
in Midtown.  We’re all in food service, but none of us are ‘cue
pros.  It’s kind of a strength, but it’s a weakness too.  Personally,
I think if I did this seven days a week, I’d lose my fresh approach. 
Cooking every couple of months for a competition gives me a little distance to
think about things.” 
    The conversation flowed
easily for the rest of the night, and before I knew it, we’d made tentative
plans to “stay in touch.”  But I’ve heard that before, and honestly, I’ve
changed my mind about pursuing a guy, too.  I tried to put Tad’s lean good
looks out of my mind as I started my normal work week.  He was way too
preppy, way too normal for me.  I dated long-haired tattooed
bartenders and scruffy underemployed musicians, not rich East Memphis
developers’ sons!
    ***
    We were just beginning
to put the kitchen back together after the Friday night rush when John, the
gangly teenager who ran the register, stuck his head back in the kitchen. 
“Hey Alex.  Some dude here to see you.”
    I was carrying a stack
of empty pizza sauce lexans back to the sinks.  I called out, “Be up in a
minute!”
    I carefully balanced my
load on the mountain of dirty dishes, washed my hands, and wondered who it
was.  Not Tad, surely?  He was so not my type, and I hadn’t heard
from him all week.  Just in case, I ducked in the manager’s office and
snagged a clean Pizza Perfecto! shirt from the box under the desk.  They
were supposed to be for new hires, but the one I was wearing looked like one of
those ink-blot psych tests, except done in pizza sauce. 
    Sure enough, it