“Okay,” she said, setting her purse on the counter. “Let’s do this—mini chicken pot pies. No pressure trial run. No judging.”
“Zero judgment,” I promised. “Even if we burn something.”
She raised a brow. “We?”
“Fine. Even ifIburn something.”
Her smile deepened, and the diner didn’t feel so still anymore.
“Okay,” she said, rubbing her hands together like she was psyching herself up.
“Zero judgment,” I promised. “But also, this is very serious business.”
She snorted. “You say that now.”
I watched her cross to the prep counter, pulling out ingredients like she already knew where everything lived—like she fit here. That did something to me. Something dangerous. Something I had no business feeling right now. She belonged here; I wanted it to be true.
I cleared my throat. “So, minis instead of full size?”
She nodded, grabbing an apron off a hook. “Mini is cuter. And strategic. People will try more booths if they can taste everything without exploding.”
“Spoken like a true professional,” I said, tying my own apron. “Plus, tiny food is scientifically proven to make people happy.”
“Is that a real study?”
“Yep. Harvard. Probably.”
She gave me a smile. A real one—small, soft, and gone too fast.
I kept my voice light. “Just tell me where you want me. I’ll be your sous chef. Ingredient runner. Emotional support vegetable chopper, anything you want.”
She stared at me for a beat. “You don’t have to tiptoe around me, you know.”
I swallowed. “I’m not tiptoeing.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe I’m tiptoeing a little. I want to make sure you’re comfortable. With all of this.” I gestured between us, then grimaced. “The cooking. The contest. Not—I mean?—”
“Not how it felt when we kissed?” she finished for me, voice too gentle to be teasing. “The way we started, then stopped, then started again. And now, here we are? With all the feelings we can’t deny?”
Heat slid up the back of my neck. “Only if you’re not comfortable with that part.”
She looked at the dough in her hands, the quiet softening in her shoulders giving her away before her voice did. “I was never uncomfortable with you. The problem has never been you, or how I feel about you.”
Something low in my chest loosened.
“Good,” I said quietly. “Because I don’t ever want you to feel pressured into anything. Not the Taste-Off. Not… us.” I inhaled a deep breath to steady myself. “If you need slow, we go slow.”
Her breath caught just enough that I noticed. “Nate…”
“Yeah?”
She shook her head like she was clearing fog. “Let’s just cook and let whatever happens, happen. Is that okay with you?”
“Cooking I can do,” I said, grateful for something to hold. “Cooking is safe. And Eliza?”
“Yeah?” she whispered.
