How many other people in the audience were competitors and how many just liked to watch people eat? And who was my assistant?
Bertie plucked assistants out of the crowd and ushered them up to the table, introducing them to the judges, and then moving quickly away to snatch up the next person.
She was obviously having the time of her life.
The buzz and thrum of conversation had a friendly, excited tone to it.
Well, that was what we wanted, after all. These festivals were about getting people together to share their passions, hobbies, and ideas. Yes, it brought money into the town, but in many ways the biggest strength of it was drawing people together.
I saw him before he saw me—tall, dark, walking easy in his work boots and jeans, he moved like a man who had spent his life in deep forests, head tilted just a bit, eyes bright, movement fluid and graceful for a guy in flannel and boots.
Ryder Bailey.
My heart raced faster. My skin warmed. I liked watching him when he didn’t know he was being watched. Took my time to soak in his details.
He hadn’t shaved, and his thick, dark hair was tossed by the wind. He looked like he’d been working, and might have changed his dark gray T-shirt, but not the brown and green flannel shirt he had rucked up to his elbows. His hands were long-fingered and strong, his forearms muscled and nicked with a couple of old scars.
He was a man who worked with his hands for a living, a man who worked with his body for a living, a man who strolled through a crowded room and caught the eye of every person without knowing it.
He reached the edge of the seating area and tipped his head up to meet my gaze.
That direct stare stoked the heat under my skin, and I held my breath so I could savor the fire roaring across my nerves.
How could a man I’d known all my life make me forget what I was doing, forget my job, this town, and everyone in it?
I was here to judge the contest, to keep the peace, to find a murderer, to change someone’s life by making them a god. That to-do list was enough to satisfy anyone.
But all I wanted, all I could think of, was what it would be like to stand up, walk over to that man, and devour him with my mouth.
He blinked once slowly, but it didn’t break the spell. And that soft, almost intimate, and certainly hungry curve of his lips didn’t do anything to put out the fire smoldering in me.
The connection that I could practically feel thrumming gently over my skin like a fingertip slipping up and down my spine was amazing. Addictive.
I wanted more.
I wanted Ryder.
Bertie suddenly appeared in front of Ryder, smiling and talking quickly as she took his hand to lead him to where ever she wanted him to be.
I inhaled, exhaled shakily. I’d been staring. And if anyone was watching me, they’d caught me at it.
Mooning.
Great.
I kept my gaze somewhere safely toward the back of the hall, my face neutral. Bertie walked down to the far side of the stage again just as footsteps on stage approached me.
“Evening, officer,” Ryder said, his voice much too low, too full, too throaty for a concrete community hall in the middle of an old cow field.
“Reserve officer. You might want to take your seat. I think Satan’s about to start the torture.”
He pulled out the empty chair next to me and settled in it, his wide shoulders brushing mine before he shifted slightly to make room.
“What are you doing?”
He rested his forearms on the table and smiled at the audience. “I’m your assistant.”
“No.”
