“High praise from Mr. Pie,” Dylan says.
Chase shoots him a dirty look.
“We’ll go over your station later,” he says to me, professional cool snapping back into place. “We open in an hour. Try not to get in the way.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, even as a little spark of heat catches low in my belly. It is profoundly unfair that a man can be that competent and that infuriating at the same time.
Tricia squeezes my arm. “You’re going to be great. Let’s get you a tour before the rush.”
We spill out into cold sunshine. The patch hums awake—a tractor coughing to life, kids bouncing on one of those inflatable pillows.
Tricia points out the highlights. The Enchanted Forest sign makes my heart do a little turn. I can’t wait to see it lit after dark.
“Your signage looks amazing,” I tell her. “And your marketing — the photography, the voice. It’s warm but not cheesy.”
She blushes, delighted. “We’ve been working hard. It helps when there’s good stuff to photograph.”
We loop back past the front office. Taegen films a quick Reel. Lanie corrals a volunteer schedule with quiet efficiency. Quinn stands at the gate, scanning tickets.
The line to the Snack Shack thickens.
“Time to work,” I say, rolling my shoulders. The nerves sharpen—a good edge. The best dishes are made on that edge.
Back in the kitchen, I claim a corner station near the window. I lay down my supplies in preparation: laminated dough ready to fry, custard in piping bags, cardamom sugar, caramel warm and glossy. I move fast—faster when I feel eyes on me.
Chase doesn’t hover. In fact, he barely seems to notice me.
He moves with practiced easy.
His actions are economical in the way that only comes from thousands of reps. Pie shells are pulled, fillings poured, and pies slid into the oven with precision.
He calls out low requests to his crew—“pull six quarts from the walk-in, rotate the cider, two more pans”—and the crew moves like they were born in this room.
I love the bustle of kitchens. I love this one even when the head chef is determined to pretend I don’t exist.
We hit the first rush head on.
Orders pour in. Donuts, cronuts, coffee, cider, corndog with a twist. Whatever that is. For a while there’s no room for anything except speed.
I fall into the rhythm. Fry, drain, toss, fill, glaze, hand off. Smile at a grandma who says, “I saw you on the internet, honey.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Chase answering a skeptical dad’s question about pie with a discussion on apple varieties that ends in three slices sold and a handshake.
He doesn’t look my way. I don’t let myself look too long either.
Even though there’s nothing bad about looking at Chase. Even if his dark gaze is more of a glare when it’s directed my way. And it’s a good thing his jaw looks good set like that.
I just hope he doesn’t crack any teeth grinding them like that every time I’m spotted by a fan.
The rush ebbs. I shake my arms out and take a heavy gulp of water.
A paper towel roll on the top shelf lists dangerously, shoved awry by a stack of sheet pans someone didn’t place properly.
“Careful,” I step forward past the teenager standing in front of it.
The shelf tips.
It happens fast. A metal shiver, the unpleasant scrape of bracket against screw, the tipping point I can’t catch.
