We share a look of pure terror.
“We’re screwed,” I conclude.
At the judges’ table—draped in red—sit our fate:
Big Bob, five-time champion of Elm Hollow’s Blueberry Pie–Eating Contest, already tucking a napkin into his flannel collar.
Mrs. Gable, the eighty-year-old who asked about Cohen’s “package,” currently eyeing him like a cougar with a senior discount.
And of course, Mayor Nino, sipping water as if he’s sampling rare wine.
I open the mystery box.
It’s the work of a deranged nutritionist.
Oysters. Dark chocolate. Chili peppers. Asparagus. Honey. Figs.
While we stare at the ingredients like they’ve insulted our families, chaos erupts around us.
Daisy has transformed.
Hair tied up, sleeves rolled, knives flashing—she’s filleting, slicing, sautéing like a Michelin-starred hurricane.
Silas stands beside her, obedient.
“Salt, Si! Higher flame! Chop the parsley—fine, I said fine!”
He complies without a word, staring at her with stunned admiration.
“Wow,” Cohen mutters. “Did not have ‘Daisy the Culinary Menace’ on my bingo card.”
“She worked catering gigs in New York between auditions,” I recall. “We’re doomed. They’re going to win. And Lucy and Lars look terrifyingly competent too.”
Lars is opening oysters with his bare hands. Not even using the knife.
“What do we do?” I ask, panicking.
Cohen looks at me. Then at the ingredients. And suddenly… he laughs.
“All right, Sloane. We make a mess. That’s what we do.”
He steps in behind me, hands at my hips, and gently moves me toward the cutting board.
“You take the figs and honey. I’ll try opening these rock-shell things without severing an artery.”
We start working. And it’s… weirdly nice.
We’re a disaster. Cohen drops an asparagus spear. I get honey on my elbow.
But there’s a rhythm.
He hands me the knife by the handle.
I hand him a towel.
“Here—taste this,” he says, dipping his finger into melted chocolate.
He brings his finger to my lips.
