I don’t move. I just listen, the corner of my mouth twitching with affection. This whole thing might be completely ridiculous, but hearing them now, I kind of get why we all keep coming back.
When the challenge is announced—candlelit cooking—I hear a loud groan from beside me.
“No,” Beau complains, almost panicky.
“Yes,” I say, entirely too cheerful. “Cooking under pressure with random ingredients and judgmental quilting ladies watching? It’s my dream date.”
Beau suggests having a fire extinguisher ready. If I remember correctly there will be a second cooking challenge in a day or two.
Team Tune-Up is already mid-argument by the supply table. I catch the words “tongs,” “unforgivable garnish,” and “not again, Luis.”
Near them, Lucy Brandt and the new guy are standingstiffly beside their ingredients like they’re not sure who should touch what first. She gestures to a zucchini. He shrugs. Their whole vibe screamswe’re trying, but we don’t know how to flirt.It’s oddly sweet. They both reach for the salt at the same time, knock it over, and then try to apologize over each other.
They’re either going to completely bomb this challenge, or win by pure luck.
We’re handed a box of ingredients, which looks like it was curated by a particularly exotic farmers market fairy. There’s a bunch of shallots, a bruised mango, fresh thyme, two types of cheese with labels I can’t pronounce, and—oddly—a single pomegranate. There’s also a slab of bacon. Beau stares at the shallots like they insulted him personally.
He reaches for a pan and immediately drops it with a metallic clang. “That pan attacked me,” he mutters.
“You okay there, Gordon Ramsay?” I tease, grabbing it before it spins off the table.
From the other table, the Maybes, our favorite on-again, off-again couple, clink their bell peppers together in a weirdly intense high five, as if they’ve conquered the food pyramid. “Let’s not ruin this like last year,” Gregory says loudly.
“We didn’t evenenterlast year,” Gretchen shoots back. “We were taking one of our…long breaks.”
Beau fumbles with the cutting board. I take the lead, assigning tasks with the same authority I use to wrangle a wedding arch in high winds. I show him how to dice the shallots, keeping my fingers curled in a way he immediately forgets, slicing a paper-thin cut on his thumb.
“War wound,” he says, holding it up.
“Cooking cooperation,” I say, wrapping a Band-Aidaround his thumb. “Now, stir that sauce like your reputation depends on it.”
We’re halfway into sautéing when Beau reaches for a spice jar and knocks it over. A puff of paprika blooms into the air and directly into his mouth. He sputters and shakes his head. Then some of the spice sprays from his mouth in a crooked arc as comedic as a fire-breathing dragon with poor aim. It paints the counter and his shirt in orangey-red. His face twists in a grimace, eyes watering as he fans the air in front of him.
“Well,” I say, waving it away, “either this risotto is going to win us the challenge, or it’s going to exfoliate our lungs.”
He gives me a sideways look, still wiping paprika off of his face.
“Good news,” I add, handing him a wooden spoon, “this could be our dramatic downfall arc.”
A few feet away, Team Let’s Go Viral announces they’ll be making soufflés “for fun.”
“If their soufflés don’t collapse,” Beau comments dryly, nodding toward Team Let’s Go Viral, “I might.”
Just then, Cassie tosses her perfect ponytail and spews something about “the flower girl and the woodsman.”
I smile sweetly. “Every festival needs a couple of overachievers.”
Peaches strolls through the judging area, sniffs a sprig of thyme, then swipes a baby carrot from under the table. Dignified theft, if I’ve ever seen it.
We plate the salvaged risotto, garnish it with whatever green we can find that doesn’t scream regret, and try not to sweat.
“Hey,” Penelope Smithers leans in as she passes. “You two better practice your kissing for the competition. Make it look convincing, sweethearts. Remember, to win, you haveto be the most compatible, well-matched, emotionally connected couple.”
Penelope, Pen for short, and her husband Marty own the town diner the Griddle and Grain. Marty bakes, and Pen griddles. They also function as unlicensed therapists for customers who sit at the counter.
My hands freeze over the plate. It’s a joke, probably, but it lands as poorly as a spark in a dry forest. Beau coughs into his elbow, suddenly fascinated with the risotto. Meanwhile, something flutters uninvited in my stomach, and I have to focus hard on breathing normally.
Peaches sneezes under the table, punctuating the moment.
