The man looked at me like I was crazy. He wasn’t wrong. I was crazy desperate. I rephrased the question. “You grew all this food here in Texas, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t grow it on the moon.”
“Right, of course. Do you happen to have any red onions?”
He jutted his chin toward the far end of the stand. “Them red enough for ya?”
There they were. The beautiful red-purple flesh of the most wonderful onions I’d laid my eyes on all day—the only onions I’d laid my eyes on all day. “I’ll take them!”
I filled a bag and paid the man, unable to shake the nagging feeling that I was forgetting something. But I had everything on my shopping list and had even remembered to ask for receipts to satisfy some sort of contest formality Cash had mentioned.
I chalked my misgivings up to nerves, tossed the onions in the back seat, and raced back to the city, a triumphant shopper of freshly picked, locally grown produce.
I practically skidded into my parking spot with five minutes to unload and find Cash. I slung the bag of onions onto my wrist and placed a box of veggies on either hip. There was no time for multiple trips back to the car. Cash needed his food, and he needed it now! There was no way I was going to contribute to his downfall tonight.
He was going to win. And I was going to be there to see it.
The air was filled with a hundred heavenly scents I couldn’t name as I made my way through the crowd to Cash’s cooking station. His eyes lit up, and he dropped his spatula when he saw me. He rushed over and took the boxes.
“Looking good,” he said.
“Why thank you, sir.” I batted my lashes at him in the most ridiculously over-the-top way imaginable.
“I was talking about the tomatoes.” He gazed into the box, turning over the small, red fruit inside, appreciating their perfection a little too much.
My jaw fell open. “Hey, now—”
“Ha! Gotcha.” He leaned down and placed a kiss on my cheek. “Of course, I was talking about you. I don’t know how you do it, but somehow you manage to look better every time I see you. You’re going to have to tell me your secret one day.”
“Secret?”
“Yeah, how do you improve on perfection? I didn’t think that was even possible.”
My cheeks burned even as the crowd milled about around us. “All right, Romeo, time to get to work.”
He winked at me. “Yes, ma’am. The judges will be making their rounds soon, and I have some chopping to do.” He carried the boxes back to his cooking station.
This wasn’t even my competition, but my stomach tilted uncomfortably at the thought of the judging portion of the contest. I wished we could skip the judges and go straight to Cash being declared the winner.
“Don’t let me distract you,” I said, slipping in behind his station. “It’s time to win this thing.” I sat in one of the folding chairs behind him, enjoying the view. A man had never looked better in a pair of jeans and an apron.
Time flew by faster than Cash’s knife as he sliced, diced, and julienned his way through the pile of produce on his table. The sun was on its way down by the time he finished cooking. I stepped up beside him and laid my hand on his back. “This smells amazing! I can’t wait to snitch a bite once the judging is over.”
His back stiffened, and I wondered if I’d said something wrong. “What’s the matter? Are you nervous?”
He shook his head and answered my question with a single word. “Dylan.” He nodded in the direction of a bearded man with jet-black hair and icy blue eyes. A posse of four other clipboard-carrying judges followed on his heels, scribbling notes as they headed our way.
“Don’t let him faze you. You’re better than anything he can throw your way.” I slipped my hand inside his, and he intertwined his fingers with mine.
Dylan hurried his pace and reached the table before the other judges. He raked his fingers through his hair and seemed to have a hard time meeting Cash’s eyes. “Hey man, I just wanted to let you know that the”—his eyes darted to me, and he cut his words short—“that thestuffthat went on between us won’t affect my judging in any way.”
Cash gripped my hand tighter, his chest swelling with a deep breath. “Why should it? I didn’t do anything toyou.”
“Yeah, right.” Dylan glanced over his shoulder toward the approaching judges. “Um… so, we’re good?”
“Golden.”
“Good. Great.” Dylan didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Mercifully, the rest of the judging panel stepped up to the table and conversation about ingredients, flavors, and cooking methods ensued. I didn’t find it nearly as interesting as the beads of sweat forming on Dylan’s brow, or the wary glances he shot Cash’s way.
