Free Baby, Don't Go by Stephanie Bond

compost bins. The one with the red flag is always the active bin.”
    She was almost afraid to ask. “Active?”
    He lifted the lid of the “active” bin and a horrific smell hit her, sending her staggering backward.
    Alicia covered her mouth. “Oh…my…word.”
    “It gets ripe,” he agreed. “The heat and the mealworms break down everything pretty quickly.”
    “Mealworms?”
    He pointed inside the bin.
    Still holding her nose, she gingerly stepped forward and looked inside to see the food waste crawling with small, pale worms. She recoiled and put her other hand on her stomach. Bears…worms…this was a world away from her life in Manhattan. Marcus Armstrong, however, seemed impervious to the stench…and completely at ease with the potential danger all around.
    He picked up the container holding the day’s worth of scraps and dumped it inside, although she could tell from his grunt that the movement hurt his back. But Alicia was too distracted by the display of impressive arm muscle to sympathize with other parts of his body. The man was built like a… What was the phrase?
    A brick outhouse. She finally understood what the Southern saying meant.
    “This container is too heavy for you and the other girls,” he said matter-of-factly. “Two busboys start on Monday, so ask one of them to empty it for you.”
    Her chin went up at being referred to as a girl. “I’m stronger than I look.”
    His mouth went flat as he surveyed her up and down. “Suit yourself.”
    His gaze left her burning in its wake. She suddenly didn’t feel very strong at all.
    “After something new is added to the compost bin,” he continued, “close the lid tight, then give it a stir.” He cranked the large handle on the side.
    She imagined the steamy worm stew inside and bile backed up in her throat.
    “You okay?” he asked, his expression slightly mocking.
    She swallowed hard. “Sure. What happens to the contents?”
    “The bins are delivered to the garden for fertilizer.”
    “That makes sense.” But ecology was a stinky, sloppy business. She preferred recycling “lite”—using eco-friendly shopping bags over plastic, and collecting newspapers.
    He used a water hose to rinse the inside of the food container, then left it upside down to dry. Then he picked up the empty grease bucket and led the way back inside, moving slowly. He set the bucket on the conveyor belt for the industrial dishwasher. Again, he grunted and put his hand to his back.
    “I have some over-the-counter painkillers in my purse,” she offered.
    He waved her off. “Time for a lesson in fire safety.”
    She bit her lip. “Will I be tested afterward?”
    He leveled his gaze on her. “Let’s hope not.” He walked over to the grill and gestured to the surface temperature gauge. “The flashpoint of vegetable oil is just over six hundred degrees. The good news is it starts smoking before it bursts into flames, so you should have plenty of warning.”
    Alicia nodded, faking ignorance. What good would it do to tell him she knew vegetable oil smoked before it combusted? It didn’t seem to matter. She’d read somewhere that some people attracted lightning strikes; she’d decided that she attracted fire.
    “So as long as you keep the grill surface below six hundred degrees and keep the grill area free of flammable items like menus and napkins,” Marcus said, “you should be…fine.”
    “Right,” she said, bored with the Girl Scout lesson. She needed material for her blog. “So, boss, do you have a flashpoint?”
    His mouth twitched downward. “Please don’t call me boss.”
    “What should I call you—Mr. Armstrong?”
    “My name is Marcus.”
    “Do you have a nickname?”
    “No,” he said in a clipped tone. “Could we stay on point?”
    “Yes, boss,” she said, then winced. “Sorry.”
    He exhaled and seemed to be summoning strength. “Do you know how to use a fire extinguisher?”
    “In theory.”
    He leaned over to pick up one of the