“Stop it?—”
“I mean it. Do it for the diner. Or for the excitement of competition. No romance attached. Just you and me. Kicking ass. Casually.” He smirked. “Unless you want to get romantic because I’m good with that too.”
I shot him a look, but I wasn’t entirely unamused. “Fine. Maybe. Let me think about it.”
He grinned, triumphant but not smug. “Deal.”
He passed me the printed registration form with a grin, as if I’d said yes instead of thinking about it. “We need to decide which dish to enter. Comfort food is obvious, but we could try something fancier if you’re feeling bold.”
I ran my finger along the categories on the Taste-Off form, trying to distract myself from the way Nate was watching me. “You really think we could win?”
“I thinkyoucould win. I’m just the guy with the big kitchen. Though, technically, you could enter the Coffee Cabin and try to beat everyone.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re kind of confident today for a guy who admitted to burning the diner’s toast when you first started.”
“That was one time. The toaster was lying.”
I laughed. “Sure. Blame the appliances.” I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stalling,” he pointed out, nodding at the form between us. “So, are we doing this or what?”
The warmth in his voice, the ease of him—it made something in my chest unlock. He wasn’t pushing—well, not seriously. Just waiting. Hoping, maybe. And somehow, that felt more persuasive than any grand gesture.
I picked up the pen.
Nate leaned back in the booth and gave me that look again—the one that made me feel like I was the most fascinating thing in the room, despite the fry grease smell and the laminated menu stuck under my elbow.
“So,” he said, settling back in the booth. “If we’re going to cook in front of half the county, we should probably have a plan.”
I lifted my brows. “Half the county?”
He shrugged, easy. “Well, it’s not just Honeybrook Hollow. A few places from the neighboring towns always enter.”
That made my stomach flip—for reasons that had nothing to do with nerves. “Great,” I said lightly, circling my mug with one finger. “So now we’re impressing people who don’t even know our names yet.”
Nate’s smile tilted. “Even better. No expectations.”
“Still,” I said, leaning forward despite myself, lowering my voice, “there will be competition. Fancy ingredients. Big personalities. People who think food tastes better if it has a French name.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth. It lingered long enough that I forgot what I’d been about to say. “Let them have it,” he said. “We’ll stick to what we’re good at.”
“And what’s that?” I asked.
His foot brushed mine beneath the table—soft, intentional. My breath caught. “Comfort food. Butter. Garlic. Cooking like we actually want people to enjoy themselves.”
Heat curled low in my stomach. “You make a convincing argument.”
“And,” he added, voice quieter now, “I think we’d be good together in a kitchen.”
I laughed softly, more breath than sound. “Careful,” I said. “Keep talking like that, and I might start believing you.”
“You already do,” he said, just as quietly.
He leaned forward then, slow enough that I could have pulled back if I wanted to. I didn’t. The table between us felt like nothing at all. His hand slid across the surface, fingers brushing mine as he reached for the pen—and for one suspended, dizzy second, his mouth hovered just shy of mine.
My pulse roared in my ears.
Then someone laughed nearby. A chair scraped. The world rushed back in.
