Chapter Thirteen

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holiday. Rules are rules.” Mr. Hill looked anything but apologetic as he glanced over at Marilyn, a pig-shaped pink Popsicle in one hand.

“Can’t we make an exception just this once?” Beck adjusted the strap of Marilyn Sow-roe’s gown. Freshly bathed, coarse hair oiled to a sheen, the pig looked better than he did.

Mr. Hill sighed and shook his head. “Wouldn’t look right for us to offer you special treatment, now would it? You’re welcome to come up with another entrant. A female entrant, that is.”

“And where am I supposed to come up with another pig on such short notice? Took me long enough to find this one.”

“Maybe one of the other contestants has a backup.” Mr. Hill shrugged and licked the sticky syrup off his stubby fingers.

“Forget about it.” Beck huffed out a breath and wheeled around, trying to locate Dwight in the crowd.

In the ten minutes he’d been arguing with the attorney about letting him enter the contest, the grassy area designated as spectator seating had filled up. He tried to estimate the attendance. Had to be at least fifteen hundred. Maybe even two thousand. And if each one of the attendees had paid for a ticket and spent money on food, beverages, and souvenirs…Charlie was right. There was money to be made in performing pork.

He led his pig back to Dwight’s truck and tied him to the edge of the bed. Let Dwight worry about dealing with the troublemaker. If he hadn’t mounted Charlie’s precious Baby Back, the gig never would have been blown.

Free from further obligations, he snagged a deep-fried delicacy from one of the many food trucks parked around the edge of the lot and found a spot at the end of a bench just in time to watch the show.

Presley walked to the center of the stage and grabbed the mic. “Welcome, everyone, to the Rambling Rose’s annual Sweetest Swine competition. The contestants and their handlers have been working all year: creating their costumes, perfecting their prances, and tweaking their talents.”

A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd. Talent? Charlie hadn’t mentioned anything about having a talent prepared. He really should start to read the fine print. It might be a blessing in disguise that Marilyn had been disqualified.

“Before we get started”—Presley walked toward the front edge of the stage—“how about a little ham humor? Can anyone tell me what you get if you play tug-of-war with a pig?”

A little girl in the front row raised her hand.

“Ah, my niece Kenzie. What do you get, sweetie?”

She stepped to the edge of the riser where Presley held the microphone down to her level. “You told me this one before, Uncle Presley. Pulled pork.”

Some people laughed. Some groaned. Some shook their heads and rolled their eyes, Beck included.

“Did you hear that? Pulled pork, people. Good one, huh? Shameless plug here. If you’re in the mood for pulled pork, step inside and one of the staff will fix ya up with a heaping helping. Now, before y’all start squealin’ for the show to start, let me bring out the first contestant. All the way from the beaches of Southern California, put your hands together for Miss Spamela Anderson.”

The sparkly backdrop Charlie had rigged at the back of the riser shook. A guy in red board shorts, a lifeguard buoy slung over his chest, stepped through. With much coaxing and bribing, an enormous pink pig followed. Some sort of red fabric wrapped around her middle and between her legs. People laughed and pointed as the theme from Baywatch blared through the speakers.

Spamela snorted, made a quick circle around the stage, and darted through the curtain.

“Aw, I think she’s feeling shy tonight. Or maybe she had an ocean rescue emergency. Let’s hear it again for Spamela Anderson.”

Before Presley could read his next index card, the curtain separated and a woman with another entrant strutted onto the stage. Beck barely recognized the bedazzled duo. Brittany and her blinding pig sparkled in the late afternoon sun.

“Next up, uh, Sweet Caro-Swine. And she’ll be playing the drums. The drums? Really, Brittany?” Presley dropped the mic to his side while a kid ran out with a huge, flat drum and set it down in the center of the stage.

Neil Diamond’s voice boomed through the speakers, and the crowd clapped along while he sang about hands touching, reaching out, and then there it was…the bamp bamp bamp. When the moment arrived, Sweet Caro-Swine pounced on the drum in time to the beat. Impressive. Even Presley cracked a grin and gave his cousin a sly wink.

The song ended, and Brittany and Sweet Caro-Swine bowed, apparently in no hurry to head backstage.

“Hey, girls, don’t hog the stage. Get it, folks, hog? Seriously, I crack myself up.” Presley slapped his thigh and pulled out the next index card. “We’re going back in time for this next competitor. All the way back to the 1950s. Please welcome Piggy Sue to the stage.”

Beck closed his eyes and shook his head. He had to be seeing things. But then he opened them again and…nope. The crazy pig had on roller skates. He didn’t recognize the guy dressed up like Buddy Holly. He’d only met a handful of the local people, so that didn’t surprise him much. What did surprise him was the poodle skirt, beehive wig, and, oh yeah, freaking roller skates.

Piggy Sue let her handler lead her around the stage on her skates. Beck wouldn’t have described her moves as smooth, especially on the final turn when her legs splayed underneath her and her handler had to grab someone from the back to help him carry her off the stage. But…roller skates. So far Piggy Sue had his vote.

He sat through dozens of pigs, some more impressive than others. Oinkrah Winfrey had potential, but Mary Louise Porker lay down and wouldn’t get up. Presley had to ask for a few volunteers to come up from the audience to physically remove the poor pig.

Finally, only one contestant remained.

Presley cleared his throat and moved to center stage. “We’re down to the last entrant. I’m sure y’all remember her from last year as Riblet McEntire. This year she’s stepped up her game. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Lady Hog-Ga.”

The sun had set enough that the strobe lights had their intended effect. They bounced of the sparkly silver backdrop, and Beck had to shade his eyes from the dazzling display. Charlie and Baby Back spun onto the stage. The piles of material and bling he’d seen Charlie hard at work on earlier had looked nothing like the spectacle on stage. Huge three-foot wings spread out from a harness on the pig’s back. A studded mask covered her face with slits cut out for her eyes, and her socks had been decorated to look like spiked heels. The speakers played a medley of Lady Gaga’s current tunes while Baby Back and Charlie performed a well-executed, synchronized dance routine across the stage.

The crowd erupted into whistles, applause, and shouts of encouragement. Beck joined in. That performance deserved a standing ovation. And Charlie looked damn good in her blingy, hot-pink ensemble. All traces of mud and slop had been washed away, and her low-cut spandex leotard left little to the imagination.

After several minutes, Presley regained control. He announced the top three and brought them out on the stage.

“In third place, for those almost-perfect pirouettes…way to go, Piggy Sue.”

That left Charlie and Brittany and their respective pigs. Beck wanted Charlie to win, but he also kind of wanted her to lose. If it weren’t for Baby Back’s appealing backside, his Marilyn Sow-roe might have been a contender.

How could he be harboring serious regrets about missing out on a pig beauty pageant? If only his dad could see him now…

Presley tapped on the microphone then lifted it to his lips. “In second place, for the fourth year in a row—”

“Again?” Brittany stomped to the front of the stage, grabbed the sash out of Presley’s hand, and barreled down the steps, poor Sweet Caro-Swine struggling to keep up.

“That means your reigning Sweetest Swine keeps her title! Congratulations, Baby Back—ahem, I mean, Lady Hog-Ga.”

Charlie and Baby Back dropped into a curtsey. The crowd clapped and whistled. Some threw pink roses. Others threw…pork rinds? That’s what it looked like anyway. Charlie met his gaze. Beck gave her a solid thumbs-up. She deserved the win. He’d never seen anything like this in his life, and God willing, he never would again.

She blushed and looked away. But not before some sort of reluctant smile graced her lips.

* * *

Beck tapped on the closed office door. He and Charlie hadn’t crossed paths most of the day, but it was time to make nice and apologize.

“Come in.”

He cracked the door and poked his head through.

“Oh, it’s you.” She barely looked up.

“You expecting somebody else?” The bar had stopped serving about a half hour before. Though at two o’clock in the morning, maybe she had been waiting for someone.

The sigh that whooshed out of her gave him all the answer he needed. “Just going over tonight’s numbers.”

“Look, I’m sorry about the pig. I was only trying to fit in.”

“Sit down.”

He lowered himself into the chair in front of the desk before she could change her mind. “I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.”

Charlie reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. She filled two tumblers with about an inch of the dark-amber liquid and passed one to Beck.

“Cheers.” She clinked her glass with his and tossed her head back to down the shot.

He leaned back, relaxing into the well-worn chair. This wasn’t what he’d expected. Quite the opposite of the ass-chewing he deserved.

“Charlie, I—”

“Drink your shot, Beck.”

He swirled it around, then lifted the glass to his lips and drained it.

“Thanks. Sully and I used to toast together after a big night, and this one’s going down in the record books. We cleared more than last year, and I don’t even have all of the numbers yet.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you. I know I’ve only been here a few days, but it’s clear my grandfather knew what he was doing when he hired you.”

A half laugh escaped through her lips before she bit down and cut it off.

Beck leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk. “I’m serious. You’re the driving force behind this place.”

“If you think I’m a force, you should have met Sully. I was scared half to death of him for the longest time.”

“What happened?”

She tilted her head and focused her gaze on something over his left shoulder. “He saved me.”

“You mean like a church thing?”

“What?”

“Like he laid hands on you or something?”

“Gosh no. Never mind. Forget I said anything. It was a long time ago.” She lifted the bottle and nodded toward his glass. “Want more?”

“Just a little.”

She poured another half inch into his glass, then put the bottle back in the desk drawer. “So where did you get the pig?”

“You mean Marilyn Sow-roe? Guess I need to rethink the name, huh?”

“Was it one of my guys? Shep? Presley?”

Beck shook his head. He could tell what she was getting at, but he wouldn’t give up Dwight. “Nah. Just an honest mistake. I’ll pay more attention next time.”

The edge of her mouth quirked up before she could stop it. “Doing a balls check wouldn’t hurt either.”

She’d made a joke. A good sign. “I tried to tell the judges that Marilyn identified more with her inner diva. They didn’t go for it.”

“And thank goodness. That white dress was amazing. If you’d hadn’t been disqualified, I don’t think Baby Back would have won.”

He smiled at the memory of Baby Back dressed up as Lady Hog-Ga. “There’s always next year.”

“You think you’ll be around that long?”

He waited a beat before answering. He wanted to tell her he’d already made up his mind. That his dad would work something out with her so he could manage the Rose long distance and Beck could get back to his real life in New York. But the look on her face made him think she didn’t want the confirmation. So instead, he shrugged his shoulders and emptied his glass.

“Stranger things have happened, right?”

“Mmm. Around here, strange seems to be the norm.” He couldn’t agree more. She shuffled the papers in front of her into a stack, making sure they lined up before she slid them into a file folder.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

“I know.” Her eyes met his. She chewed on her lower lip, like she was thinking about saying something.

“What?”

“A few of us are going down the Guadalupe tomorrow. I know you’re probably busy getting settled and don’t have time. I mean, it was just a thought and not even a good one. Forget it, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do, and—”

“I’d love to go.”

Her chin lifted, and her gaze snapped to his. “You would?”

“You’ll be there, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then consider it a date.” He leaned over to set his glass on the desk.

“Oh, no, it’s not a date.” She stood up so fast she sent the ergonomic desk chair into the makeshift credenza behind her.

He grinned at her reaction. “Are we going to do this again? I didn’t mean a date date. Just that I’d see you tomorrow.”

Her gaze danced around the room, not staying in one spot for more than a second. “Oh, yeah… I know.”

The awkward silence that bubbled up between them made him want to laugh. Made him want to hightail it to the safety of his rental SUV. Made him want to do something stupid, like yank the hot-pink T-shirt over her head and finish what they’d started a few days before.

He stood. “So I’ll see you tomorrow. What time do you want me to meet you?”

She stepped around him to open the office door. “It’s easier if we pick you up on the way out of town. Say eleven?”

He nodded. “See you then.”

The office door clicked shut behind him, and he wanted to pat himself on the back for his self-restraint. Another part of him wanted to barge back in and take her right there on the desk. Labor Day weekend suddenly felt very far away. But at least he’d see her again tomorrow. His gut clenched, a tightness radiating out from his core.

Floating on a river probably meant swimsuits. That created a couple of problems. First of all, he’d have to see Charlie half-naked all day. Based on what he’d seen of her so far, that would do nothing to help him maintain his self-control. Second, he didn’t have a swimsuit with him. He’d either have to cut off a pair of his new jeans or find somewhere to buy a halfway decent swimsuit before eleven in the morning.

He ran a hand down the leg of his jeans. Damn, he’d just been getting used to them.