The couple behind her laughs again, and this time Ivy's mouth curves, just barely, before she catches herself and flattens it back into neutrality.
"I'll be at the soft opening," she says.
"Looking forward to it."
She turns to leave, then pauses, glances back. "Move the burner. Seriously."
"Yes ma'am."
She walks away, clipboard tucked under one arm, and I watch her go, the braid swinging between her shoulder blades, her boots crunching over gravel.
Maya grins like a fox.
"That went well," she announces, her voice pitched low and conspiratorial, like she's delivering state secrets.
I glance at her, wiping my hands on my apron. "She called my plating chaotic."
"And yet," Maya says, drawing out the words with theatrical satisfaction, "she ate your food. Every bite. Didn't leave a scrap on that plate."
"She also threatened me with a fire hazard," I point out, nodding toward the burner that's apparently been offending her since the moment she arrived.
Maya waves this away with one flour-dusted hand, utterly unbothered. "Because she cares. If she didn't care, she'd just let you burn the whole tent down and write it up in her little clipboard afterward." She reaches over and steals a piece of chorizo directly from the skillet, popping it into her mouth with zero shame. "You're growing on her. I can tell."
"Like mold," I mutter, cracking another egg with more force than strictly necessary.
"Mold's a fungus," Maya says, chewing thoughtfully, grinning around the words. "Fungus is valuable. Decomposes things. Makes soil rich. You're fine."
I crack another egg and try not to think about the way Ivy's face softened when she took that first bite.
Ten o'clock.The market hits full swing, the crowd thickening, voices layering into a low hum of negotiation and greeting. I'm plating steadily now, the rhythm easy, the banter automatic. A woman buys three portions to take home. A man asks if I do catering. A teenager wants to know if I'm hiring.
I'm in the middle of explaining the soft opening menu when a gust of wind punches through the park, strong enough to rattle the tent poles and send napkins skittering.
The banner snaps loose from one corner and flaps wildly.
I lunge for it, miss, and the loose edge catches the burner's flame.
It doesn't explode. It just starts smoking, a lazy curl of gray that thickens fast, and somewhere behind me a rooster, an actual, living rooster that someone's brought to the market in a crate, starts screaming.
The crowd turns, half-alarmed, half-delighted.
I yank the banner down, stomp the smoldering corner, wave smoke out of my face. The rooster keeps shrieking. A kid laughs. The soap vendor shouts something about fire safety.
And then, because the universe has a sense of humor, I knock the paprika jar off the table.
It hits the ground, shatters, and a crimson cloud explodes upward, coating my boots, the table leg, and the bottom six inches of my jeans.
I stand there, paprika-dusted and smoking, the banner crumpled at my feet, the rooster still losing its mind in the background.
Maya's voice yells through the chaos, bright with barely contained laughter.
"You good?"
I look at the skillet. Still hot. Eggs still intact. Chorizo still edible.
"Yeah. I'm good."
I scoop the eggs onto a plate, drizzle the hot sauce, scatter chives. Hold it up.
