This routine plays out a dozen times in the next half hour, and each time, people pull out their phones to take photos. Cookie and Violet are becoming the main attraction, and judging from the line forming at their table, we're going to be here a while.
“They're naturals,” Heather says, appearing at my elbow with two bottles of water. She's wearing jeans and a library t-shirtthat somehow makes her look both adorable and incredibly sexy. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she's got a clipboard tucked under one arm.
“Cookie's going to be insufferable after this,” I warn, accepting the water. “All this attention is going straight to her head.”
“She's earned it. Look at that line.”
Heather’s right. At least twenty kids are waiting for their turn with the Book Detectives, and their parents are browsing our combined displays while they wait. It's exactly the kind of community engagement my marketing team dreams about.
“You nailed it with this,” I tell Heather, sliding an arm around her waist. “Combining our booths was perfect.”
She leans into me, and I don't miss the approving looks from several people passing by. Small-town life means everyone knows about us now, thanks to Mrs. Henderson's surveillance activities. But I meant what I told Heather—I don't care who knows. I'm proud to be with her.
“Mr. Maddox!” Melody appears, slightly breathless. “The pie-eating contest starts in fifteen minutes. Are you ready?”
I groan. I'd almost forgotten about that particular commitment.
“Yay! You decided to do the pie-eating contest?” Heather's eyes light up with barely contained glee.
“Against one of my ballplayers and Mayor Snyder,” I confirm. “This is going to be a disaster.”
“This is going to be amazing,” she corrects, grinning. “I'm getting front row seats for this.”
Fifteen minutes later, I'm seated at a long table on a raised platform, a whole cherry pie in front of me. To my left is Tommy Martinez, our twenty-year-old pitcher, who probably weighs a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet but apparently can eat his weight in food. To my right is Mayor Snyder, who's alreadyloosening his belt and looking like he regrets ever signing up for this gig.
A huge crowd has gathered, easily a hundred people, maybe more. I spot Heather in the front with Julie and Amy, all three of them holding up their phones to record this humiliation. Violet and Cookie are by their side, having abandoned their detective post to watch.
“On your mark,” the announcer calls out. “Get set... EAT!”
I dive in face-first, literally, because apparently that's the technique. Cherry filling explodes everywhere. It's in my hair, on my shirt, possibly in my ears. I can hear the crowd roaring with laughter.
Tommy is a machine, mechanically shoveling pie into his mouth with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. The mayor is struggling, red-faced and clearly wishing he was anywhere but here. I'm somewhere in the middle, trying to balance speed with not choking.
“Come on, Uncle Logan!” Violet's voice cuts through the noise. “You can do it!”
That's all the motivation I need. I ignore the sweetness overload and the ache in my jaw. With one final massive bite, I slam my hands on the table. “Done!”
The judge rushes over to verify my plate is clean. Tommy finishes three seconds later, and the mayor is still working on his third slice when time is called.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your winner—Logan Maddox!”
The crowd erupts. I stand up, cherry pie dripping from my chin, and raise my arms in victory. It's ridiculous and messy and probably not dignified for the general manager of a baseball team, but the joy on Violet's face makes it worth every sticky, uncomfortable second.
Heather approaches with a stack of napkins and wet wipes, her eyes dancing with amusement. “You look like you murdered a cherry pie.”
“I decimated it.” I take the napkins and try to clean up, but it's hopeless. “This is going to be in my hair for days.”
“Totally worth it though.” She stands on her toes and kisses my cheek, getting cherry filling on her lips in the process. “My hero.”
“You're just saying that because I'm covered in pie.”
“I'm saying that because you just made that little girl's day.” She nods toward Violet, who's jumping up and down and telling anyone who will listen all about how her uncle won. “And yeah, also because you're covered in pie. It's a good look for you.”
The afternoon continues in a blur of activity. I clean up as best I can and change into the spare Rockets shirt I'd thankfully brought. Around three o'clock, I notice a small group approaching our booth. Ryan and Candice Murphy lead the way.
“Logan, Heather,” Ryan greets us warmly. “Great event. The community turnout is impressive.”
“It's been incredible,” Heather agrees. Her hands flutter to her hair, smoothing strands already in place, before clasping them at her waist.
