“I’m not.”
She barely had time to look up before I leaned in again—no hesitation this time, no careful pause. I kissed her again like a decision had already been made, and we were just living inside it now.
Her hands slid into my hair, and she laughed softly against my mouth, the sound warm and full. The park might as well have vanished. The booths, the lights, the crowd—all of it faded until there was only this. Us. Right where we were supposed to be.
When I pulled back, just barely, I bent low and rested my forehead against hers.
“Now,” I murmured, “I am.”
Her breath was uneven, forehead resting against mine. She shook her head, lips trembling. “We’ll talk about everything later?”
“Later,” I agreed, brushing my nose against hers. “After this.”
Her shoulders relaxed as if she’d been holding herself rigid. She nodded once, steady on her feet now, then turned back toward the booth.
And just like that, we were in it. Together.
Cara appeared at Eliza’s shoulder, her eyes bright, a knowing smile on her face. “You’ve got this,” she said softly. “Both of you.”She squeezed Eliza’s arm, gave me a quick nod, then slipped away into the crowd. “I’m going to find Grandma before she starts telling strangers our life stories.”
Cooking with Eliza felt like exhaling. Like my lungs finally remembered what they were for. She took over the pastry without asking, and I handed her the rolling pin. She smiled at me—small, happy, beautiful—and something warm settled deep in my chest. We moved around each other easily, hands brushing, bodies learning the space, the rhythm of us finding our way back.
I glanced up once and caught Graham watching from across the park. Our eyes met. For a second, his jaw tightened, a scowl cutting across his face—then he looked away, sharp and bitter, as if he couldn’t stand to see us together.
I didn’t care. He had no power over her anymore.
All I saw was Eliza, right where she belonged—beside me. That’s all that mattered.
We slid the mini pot pies into the ovens together, careful and synchronized, as if we’d been doing this for years instead of minutes. Little white ramekins lined up in rows, each filled with golden chicken, soft vegetables, and gravy rich enough to make you believe a meal could change your life. Eliza had brushed the pastry lids with egg wash, her movements precise and confident, her focus settling into that calm, capable place I loved seeing her in. The ovens hummed to life, heat blooming around us, the air already smelling of butter, thyme, and comfort.
When the first batch came out, the crusts were puffed and bronzed, their edges flaking just enough to make a mess of the parchment. Steam curled up as we cracked them open, releasing that deep, savory scent that made people slow as they passed. Heads turned. A small line formed without anyone announcing it.
Judges came through first, clipboards tucked under their arms, trying to look neutral and failing. Eliza set the ramekins down with quiet pride, explaining the dish without overselling it—classic, cozy, simple. One judge closed his eyes after the first bite. Another nodded, scribbling quickly. A third went back for a second forkful, as if she hadn’t meant to, but couldn’t help herself.
Then came everyone else. Locals, kids on tiptoe, couples sharing bites, someone murmuring, “This tastes like Sunday dinner when I was a kid...”Eliza caught my eye then, her mouth curving into a soft, stunned smile, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing—or that she’d let herself hope for it.
I watched her glow in the middle of it all, steady hands, bright eyes, finally taking up the space she deserved. And as tray after tray emptied and the line kept growing, I knew—no matter how the votes shook out—we’d already won something important.
The afternoon thickened with anticipation. Judges moved from booth to booth, clipboards tucked to their chests. Volunteers refilled water pitchers and reminded people how to vote. The air carried layers of scent—warm pastry, sugar, roasting meat—until the whole park felt wrapped in comfort. Eliza brushed her hands together and leaned in close enough that her shoulder bumped mine, grounding me. I smiled down at her, and she smiled back, nervous and brave all at once.
A swell of cheers rolled across the park, and Cara appeared at our booth, grinning, a small paper tray in her hands. “You have to try this,” she said, already laughing. “Piper went full overachiever.”
Eliza took the cupcake first—vanilla bean cake, impossibly light, filled with spiced pear compote and topped with a swirl of browned-butter cream cheese frosting and a delicate shardof caramel. She froze mid-bite. “Oh,” she said softly. “She absolutely murdered this.”
“Right?” Cara said. “There’s edible gold leaf on top. Gold leaf. I watched someone whisper to it before eating.”
Another cheer went up near the stage, louder this time, and when Mabel announced Piper as the Sweet category winner, the park erupted. Eliza clapped hard, laughing, pride lighting her from the inside out. “Of course, she won,” she said, like the result had been inevitable all along. “She can’t help herself.”
I spotted my grandparents near the edge of the crowd—Grandpa nodding like he knew we were going to win, Grandma already dabbing at her eyes as she waved at me. Tilly bounced between them, while Lois sat at their feet, tail thumping, clearly convinced a pot pie was within reach.
Eliza’s fingers slid into mine then, tentative but sure. I squeezed back, my chest tight with feeling, with hope, with her.
When the announcement for Savory came, I barely processed it at first.
“Savory Category Winnerandthe Crowd Favorite—Pennywhistle Pantry!”
Eliza gasped. I pulled her into me without thinking, her laugh muffled against my chest. She looked up at me, eyes bright and disbelieving.
“We did it,” she whispered.
