Makin' Bacon Read online

  Makin’ Bacon

  Mellanie Szereto

  Makin’ Bacon

  Copyright © 2020 Mellanie Szereto

  Published by Amatoria Press

  Cover art by Dragonfly Press Design

  Word Count: 25,527

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. To request permission to excerpt portions of this book, except in the case of brief quotations for reviews, please contact the author at [email protected].

  This story is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to real persons and/or events is coincidental.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal use only and may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please visit the e-book store of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 978-1-942522-22-5

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Books by Mellanie Szereto

  About the Author

  Divorcée Tate Madison wasted fifteen years of her life with a liar and a cheat. Now she’s returned to her hometown to open The Homegrown Café, find a sperm donor, and spend time with her family and new friends. Encouraged by her fellow middle-aged book-club buddies, she begs a favor from her younger brother’s best friend—father the child her ex-husband denied her. Complications abound when she discovers she’s attracted to the man who wasn’t supposed to be more than an anonymous profile at the clinic.

  * * *

  Pig farmer Jim Cochon knows all about in-vitro fertilization, but he’d rather do things the old-fashioned way with the irresistible redhead he’s wanted to marry since he was five. Too bad she refuses his proposal the morning after their attempt to make a baby. He’ll have to convince her second chances are worth taking when happily-ever-after is at stake.

  Chapter 1

  Tate Madison blew out the lone candle, stuck a bite of caramel-apple cheesecake in her mouth, and spit the inedible forkful of grossness right back out on the plate. The gritty texture clung to her tongue, and the flavor of coconut and cashews overpowered the “cheese” filling, apples, and fake caramel drizzle.

  “Ew, ew, ew! Tasty alternative to the real stuff, my ass.” Why hadn’t she taken her mom up on her offer to make brownies and have a party?

  Now I have no dessert, and it’s the third anniversary of twelve years wasted on a liar and a cheat with the straightest, whitest teeth on the planet.

  “Happy damn birthday to me. Again.” She pushed away from her desk, grudgingly thankful for the one positive that had come out of her failed marriage to a dentist—the habit of carrying a travel-size tube of toothpaste, a mini spool of floss, and a folding toothbrush in her purse.

  After a quick dental-hygiene visit to the tiny bathroom beside her office, she scraped the rest of the wedge and the other seven-eighths of her experiment from the springform pan into the bucket by the service door. Even compostable vegan cheesecake ranked higher than Haydon Spade, D.D.S., in the grand scheme. He didn’t deserve a single thought, let alone another critical look at what she could’ve done differently a decade and a half ago. His deception had spawned lost opportunities she could never recover, and the choices she made would now determine the course her life followed.

  The delivery buzzer spared her another maudlin hike down the bumpy road of middle age as she washed the base and sides of the pan.

  “What other disappointing surprise will I get on this wonderfully sucky day?” She rinsed and stacked the pieces before drying her hands on the way to unlock both deadbolts and open the delivery door.

  Flannel-clad broad shoulders and a beefy butt in denim overalls filled most of the doorway, dwarfing her five-ten-in-flats frame. When the giant turned toward her, her appreciation continued to his impressive biceps, buff chest, and calloused hands. He had to be at least five inches taller than she was, even without his enormous work boots. A week’s worth or more of scruff covered his jaw, giving him a rough-around-the-edges appeal. A brawny stud was exactly what she wanted.

  “Hi, I’m Jim Cochon from Big Jim’s Itty Bitty Pig Farm out by the highway. Are you the owner of the new restaurant? I collect food waste from a bunch of the restaurants in the county to feed to my hogs. Less waste going into landfills. Healthier animals. I’ll be glad to haul away whatever you have free of charge.” He waved toward a massive pickup truck parked near her hybrid hatchback. The bed held a quartet of blue plastic storage drums. “If you’re interested, we can schedule days and times for pickup.”

  Lulled into silence by his deep baritone voice, she nodded.

  Tall, built, good-looking. No wedding ring or a hint of tan line. He’s perfect.

  Although his spiel seemed influenced more by nerves than redneck Ohio farmer, recent studies claimed intellect came from the maternal side. His awareness of environmental impact counted as a plus, in any case. A little bit of nerdiness was never a bad thing.

  “Hey, you’re Beau Madison’s sister, Tate, aren’t you? He said you were moving back to Wellington a couple months ago.” A slow smile, the kind that usually preceded a proposition, feathered the scant mustache over his upper lip.

  Have I got an offer for you, Big Jim. “Yes, Beau’s my youngest brother. How do you know him?” She leaned against the doorjamb for a more thorough assessment.

  “We’ve been best friends since kindergarten. Played football together from Pop Warner through high school. ’Course, I wouldn’t expect you to recognize me. I was a lot shorter and about a hundred pounds lighter when you went away to college.” His gesture suggested he’d been in the neighborhood of four-and-a-half feet tall the last time she had seen him.

  About thirty-five years old. Better chance of a high sperm count than someone my age. But then, any man would have a higher sperm count than a jerk who had a vasectomy and neglected to tell his wife about it. For eight damn years. While she underwent fertility testing and treatments.

  She sifted through memories of the countless friends who’d hung out with her four younger brothers. On any given day, the Madison household had consisted of enough boys to form its own football team. “Ah, Jimothy Cochon. I remember now.”

  He sighed and a rosy-pink blush invaded his cheeks. “Mom wanted to name me Timothy and Dad liked James. I’m all for compromising, but I wish they would’ve picked one or the other and had another kid.”

  Sorry for embarrassing him, she smiled and reached for the compost bucket. She hardly had grounds to make fun of a name. “It could’ve been worse. Tames. Jamethy. Or a name they’d already chosen because the doctor was wrong about your gender, like me.”

  His grin returned, triggering an unexpected flash of heat between her thighs, despite the late-September chill. “Not sure how anybody could confuse you with a boy. Besides, Tate fits you just fine. Are you free Saturday afternoon? About four thirty? You should come to my hog roast.” His eyebrows dove into a deep vee above his nose. “Oh. You’re a vegetarian, aren’t you?”

  “Gosh, no. Just the café. With all the pizza and burger places around here, something more unique seemed the way to go. I love pulled pork.”

  His smile returned, as did the tickle in her tummy. “Well, then, it�
�s an open-house sort of event I started a few years ago. Beau, Everett, Levi, and Archer—and their families, of course—will all be there. And your dad said he and your mom are planning to stop by after the hardware store closes at five.”

  She handed him her contribution to the healthy diet of his pigs and pushed away from the doorjamb. Gathering her entire family for a meal had proven impossible since her permanent return nearly two months ago, not that starting up a restaurant had allowed much time to socialize. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Great! This is just food waste, right? No trash?”

  “Yes. Vegetable and fruit scraps. Some grains and legumes. Eggshells. Nuts. No meat or dairy. I was going to take it to Mom and Dad’s to compost, but you’re welcome to it.”

  “Perfect. Hang on a sec while I empty this into the tub.” Four long strides carried him to the passenger side of his truck. He hopped onto the running board, dumped the contents into the closest container, and locked down the lid. “I thought you said no dairy. Isn’t that cheesecake mixed in with those vegetable scraps? That’s practically sacrilege. You didn’t throw it away because you think it’ll make you fat, did you? ’Cause you’re not. And everybody needs to treat themselves to something special once in a while.”

  She jerked her gaze from his amazing ass to his adorable face. “No worries. Vegan cheesecake experiment. It was extremely disappointing. Pretty disgusting actually.”

  “Yeah, I can see why you wouldn’t want to eat it. You can’t make a decent cheesecake without eggs and cream cheese.” He hopped down from his perch and rejoined her, the bucket swinging next to his tree-trunk legs as he walked. “I promise to have real dessert at the cookout. Cakes, pies, cookies. Auggie Hofmeier makes the best chocolate éclair torte. You know the bakery on Main Street? He owns it. I’ll make sure the kitchen crew saves you a piece when they plate it. Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays work okay for you? My route goes right past you. Any less often, and the smell can get a little overpowering for somebody who isn’t used to it.”

  “Hm?” She dragged her attention from his remarkable thighs to the unruly hair peeking out from the edges of his John Deere cap. Genetically speaking, she wouldn’t find a better specimen if she spent a year reviewing profiles on the sperm-donor sites she’d found. Although with her luck, he hid a bald patch the size of Antarctica beneath the crown of his hat. “Oh, um, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Yes, those days will work. I like your hat.”

  He tugged off the John Deere cap, revealing a thick mat of squished curls covering every square inch of the scalp she could see, and then smacked it on his pant leg. “Keeps the dust out of my hair when I’m working outside and cleaning out the barn. I have a whole stack of brand new ones at home to choose from. They’ll be waiting for you on Saturday. We’ll see what looks best on you. Gotta protect your face from the sun. Some people call it a curse, but red hair and fair skin suit you.”

  And polite. “That’s very sweet of you.” Confident in her decision, she moved the bucket back into its spot inside the doorway. “I should finish my prep work for tomorrow’s menu. It was good to meet you as an adult, Jim, and I look forward to seeing you on Saturday.”

  The cap once again in place, he gave her another wide smile. “Good to meet you again, Tate. See you at four thirty on Saturday. Would you rather I pick you up here in the alley or at your house?”

  “Um.” Had she missed the part where he’d asked her for a date? “You should come to my hog roast.” That’s what he said, didn’t he? She licked her suddenly dry lips. Fifteen years was a hell of a long time between dates, and riding a bike wasn’t a skill she’d retained well. “Here’s fine.”

  “Great!” He pulled his keys from the front pocket of his overalls as he headed toward his truck. Halfway there, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, I almost forgot. Beau shared your secret with me.”

  Beyond mortified, she wished for the cracked pavement to open up and swallow her. How did Beau find out I’m planning to have a baby?

  “Happy birthday, Tate! Forty-two looks darn good on you.” Jim slid behind the wheel of his pickup and started the engine.

  The pitter-patter in her chest struck before the realization that artificial insemination rarely included an affair with the sperm donor. “Well, damn.”

  Jim hefted the last tub of restaurant scraps from the lowered Tommy Gate onto the scooter board and rolled it into the processing room, hoping the exertion burned off the attack of post-meet regrets.

  Note to self. If you don’t want the woman of your dreams to think you’re a redneck, don’t wear manure-covered work boots, bib overalls, and ragged plaid flannel to introduce yourself. And leave the cruddy John Deere cap in the pickup.

  His mouth had come down with a terrible case of the runs as well, not that he didn’t have a tendency to talk a lot to most people. Living alone did that to a person.

  In his defense, he’d expected a seventy-something, New-Age, tarot-card-reading hippie to be the owner of the vegetarian café on Depot Street, not the smart, classy, and gorgeous Tate Madison. Building working relationships with the food-service businesses in the surrounding counties kept his feed costs down and community connections strong, but he would’ve preferred a planned reunion with his redheaded lifetime crush. Even at five years old, he’d dreamed of marrying his best friend’s older sister. Thirty years was a damn long time to carry a torch and then blow the first impression.

  “Hey, Jim, you in there?”

  Glad for a distraction, he turned toward the familiar voice and raised a hand in greeting. “Come on in, Everett. What brings you to Big Jim’s? Inspection’s scheduled for next month.”

  The other man’s laugh echoed off the concrete floor and cinder block walls as he walked into the room. “You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”

  “I run a clean operation. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I wish all our inspections had as few violations as yours.” The oldest of Tate’s younger brothers tucked his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and hooked his thumbs in the front belt loops of his jeans. “My girls are wanting to show swine again next year for 4-H. I told ’em I’d check with you about getting their order in early. Competition for the best piglets is fierce.”

  Sifting through the breeding schedule in his head, Jim ticked off the weeks on his fingers. “George and Martha’ll have a litter ready to go in early March. I can spare four from their brood. Nice temperament and good musculature. How’d Worf and Jadzia’s piglets do for the girls this year? They’ve produced really healthy litters together. Almost zero mortality rate. Excellent growth and almost no disease. Plus, he’s on her before she even starts showing signs of being in heat. I haven’t had to inseminate once in the four years they’ve been mated. I’m adding at least two of their next litter to my breeding stock.”

  “High scores and the best prices at auction. The buyers look for your hogs and I trust your recommendation. Let’s say four from the Washingtons and four from DS9 if you can spare them. I’ll have Laura call you about billing and delivery.” Everett donned his sunglasses and turned toward the exit. “Better let you get back to work. Good to see you, Jim.”

  “Later, Rett. Tell the family I said hey. Oh, and see you Saturday.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  The heavy clunk of the outer door announced his visitor’s departure and served as a reminder that he had no one waiting for him up at the house, and the handful of workers who helped him run the farm had gone home for the day. He would eat supper alone, unless he brought a thermos of soup and a sandwich to the barn—something he’d done fairly often since his last girlfriend had dumped him three years ago. At least the sows still liked his company when he accidentally called them by the wrong name, not that he’d ever mistake his pigs for Tate Madison.

  Cooking, cooling, and storing over a hundred gallons of food waste gave him plenty of time to rehash the slip of the tongue he’d made too many times to shrug off. No matter how har
d he tried to fall in love, his subconscious never let him forget the first girl he’d lost his heart to. Now that she was available and home, dating someone else hadn’t entered his mind, let alone crossed it. Hopefully, he wouldn’t screw up his chance with her on Saturday.

  Gotta wash my truck and buy her flowers before I pick her up. Maybe a pair of potted mums from the garden center. Yeah. Some orangey-red ones to match her hair. What else can I do to make her see she’s special?

  Definitely too soon to give her an engagement ring.

  Chapter 2

  “No, I don’t prepare my split pea soup with a ham hock or ham.” Tate squeezed until the tines of the olive fork she’d taken to carrying in her apron pocket stabbed into her palm. How did people navigate through life without knowing the meaning of vegetarian? Patience is a virtue and kindness is free. “I use a bouquet garni and homemade vegetable stock for flavoring.”

  “Really?” The old woman frowned. “I’ve never heard of pea soup with flowers. What kind do you put in the bouquet? Because some are poisonous, you know. And I don’t want any of that Mary Ju Ana in my food, either.”

  The blonde behind her in line grinned and patted the old woman on the arm. “Bouquet garni, Mrs. Crenshaw. It’s a bundle of herbs. Parsley, thyme, bay leaves, or whatever will complement the dish. No marijuana. You put the bundle in soups and broths for flavoring, like you do with a sachet to freshen your unmentionables drawer. I supply Ms. Madison with all her fresh herbs and her vegetables when they’re in season.”

  Riley Fenniman, you’re a lifesaver.

  The older woman’s grip on her pocketbook loosened, along with her grimace. “Well, in that case, I’ll try the split pea soup. That comes with cornbread muffins, doesn’t it? The sweet kind, not those bland ones they serve when I visit my grandson’s family in the South. They’re like eating buttermilk pancakes without any syrup.”