I get to work, my hands steady now that I have something to focus on besides the emotions churning in my chest. I slice the bread into even rounds and brush them with olive oil before sliding them into the oven to toast. While they’re crisping up, I sauté the mushrooms with minced garlic and fresh thyme, the smell filling my cooking station with something warm and inviting.
The truffle oil goes in at the end—just a drizzle to preserve its delicate flavor. Too much and it becomes overwhelming, like eating perfume. But the right amount adds this depth, this earthy complexity that makes everything taste expensive.
I spread the goat cheese on the toasted bread, top each piece with the truffle mushrooms, and finish with another tiny drizzle of truffle oil and a sprinkle of fresh thyme leaves. The presentation is simple but elegant—the kind of thing you’d see at a wine tasting or an upscale cocktail party.
“Time!” the announcer calls, and I step back from my station, my heart pounding.
The judges move through the room systematically, tasting each competitor’s dish. I watch them sample other people’s creations—some ambitious, some safe, some that make the judges’ expressions go carefully neutral in that way that means they’re trying not to show disappointment.
Finally, they reach my station.
Chef Dubois picks up one of my crostini and examines it from all angles before taking a bite. She chews thoughtfully, and I hold my breath.
She nods.
It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but it’s there. A small, approving nod.
Chef Kim tries his next, and I see his eyebrows raise slightly. “The truffle oil is well-balanced,” he says, making notes on his clipboard. “Not overpowering. The mushrooms are cooked perfectly.”
Chef Wells takes her bite and nods as well. “Good flavor combination. Classic execution.”
They move on to the next station, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. Good. That was good. They liked it.
I look out at the audience and find River in the front row. He’s grinning at me, giving me another thumbs up, and the warmth in his expression makes my chest ache.
“We’ll take a thirty-minute break while the judges deliberate,” the announcer says. “Audience members, feel free to visit the food trucks outside.”
The auditorium erupts in movement as people stand and stretch. I’m wiping down my station when Kiki and Tobias appear, both of them practically vibrating with excitement.
“Kiera!” Kiki pulls me into a hug. “That looked fantastic. The judges were nodding. Did you see them nodding?”
“I saw.” I hug her back, grateful for the distraction from my racing thoughts.
“You’ve got a great start,” Tobias says. “Seriously. You looked so confident up there.”
“I didn’t feel confident.” I pull back from Kiki. “I felt like I was going to throw up.”
“Well, you hid it well.” Kiki squeezes my hand. “Come on, let’s get some food. You need to eat something before the next round.”
I glance around the auditorium, looking for River. But he’s not in his seat anymore, and I don’t see him anywhere in the crowd heading toward the exits.
Where did he go?
“Come on,” Tobias says, gesturing toward the door. “I’m buying. What sounds good? Tacos? Barbecue?”
I let them lead me outside, but I can’t stop scanning the crowd for River’s familiar frame, his messy hair, that gray t-shirt. He was just here. Where did he?—
“Kiera?” Kiki’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I force myself to focus. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“Tacos or barbecue?”
“Tacos are fine.”
We join the line at a food truck painted bright yellow with “Taco Paradise” written in cheerful letters across the side. The smell of grilled meat and spices fills the air, and my stomach reminds me I was too nervous to eat breakfast this morning.
Tobias orders for all of us, and we find a spot at one of the picnic tables set up in the parking lot. I eat mechanically, tasting nothing, my mind still back in the auditorium.
