That’s when I notice Hank Thompson, Callie’s dad, in the front row, his face cycling through several shades of red. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of ash on the community center floor.
Wyatt, sitting next to me, leans over and mutters, “This is going to be a disaster.”
“Probably,” I agree, still grinning.
Boone, on my other side, snickers. “Can we bet on how long it takes before someone ends up covered in chili?”
“My money’s on five minutes,” I say.
“I’m not taking that bet,” Wyatt says grimly. “That’s easy money.”
The mayor continues reading pairings, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m watching Callie, who’s slumped in her chair like she’s been sentenced to hard labor.
Mrs. Delaney, of course, has her phone out and is not-so-subtly taking pictures of Callie’s reaction. I can practically see the Facebook post forming in her head: “Star-crossed lovers forced together by fate!”
When the meeting finally ends, people file out, but not before half of them detour past our row to offer commentary.
“This should be interesting,” says the post office lady says with a knowing smile.
“Y’all try not to kill each other,” adds the hardware store owner.
“I’m making popcorn for this,” announces a teenager.
Callie stands up abruptly, grabbing her purse like it’s a weapon. She’s clearly planning to make a quick exit, but she gets caught in the crowd of people who are all suddenly very interested in talking to her.
“Callie, honey,” Mrs. Peterson from the bank corners her, “how do you feel about working with the McCoy boys?”
“Like I’m drowning,” Callie replies flatly.
“Oh, that’s nice, dear. Staying hydrated is important.”
I make my way through the crowd toward the front of the room, Wyatt and Boone trailing behind me. By the time I reach Callie, she’s surrounded by half the town, all of them offering unsolicited advice.
“Just remember to keep your sense of humor,” suggests the librarian.
“Don’t let them intimidate you,” adds the postmaster.
“Take lots of pictures,” Mrs. Delaney chimes in, still holding her phone.
Callie’s eyes find mine over the crowd, and I see something like panic mixed with resignation.
“Ladies,” I say, stepping into the circle, “mind if I borrow our teammate here? We need to discuss strategy.”
“Strategy,” Mrs. Delaney repeats, typing furiously. “Very strategic. I like it.”
“There’s no strategy,” Callie says quickly. “We’re just going to... participate. Minimally.”
“That’s not the spirit,” I tell her. “We’re going to dominate this competition.”
“We’re going to survive it,” she corrects.
“Same thing.”
Hank Thompson chooses that moment to appear at Callie’s elbow, his face still that alarming shade of red.
“Callie,” he says, his voice tight with control, “we need to discuss this.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Dad. The pairings are final. Unless you want to bow out, which will not be good for business.”
