Looking to my left at the other judges – the Mayor, the president of the local ladies’ group, and the head of a local factory – they all seem perfectly comfortable to have a large crowd of people studying them as we eat.
The CCCC is part of a fundraising bake sale, which is another reason they want a Wolfe here. They know that whatever thedonation target is, we’ll make sure they reach it. I slipped several hundred into the collection box on the way in and will drop at least a thousand more when we leave, which will hopefully be as soon as humanly possible. I feel like a bull in a china shop here. The chair is too small. The fancy desserts look tiny in my hands. All I can think about is how many minutes are left until I can get out of here.
Thankfully, Joy made sure that I had a seat at the end of the table, and brought a chair for herself over so she's only sitting a few feet away.
She jumps to her feet, coming close to whisper encouragingly, “Cupcakes are done. Only the cookies to go. Do you need more coffee or water?"
"I'm good. Thanks."
One of the baker ladies slides three plates with the different cookie categories in front of each judge. There’s a plate of lumpy cookies. One where everything has chocolate chips. And another with thin, flat cookies, some with sprinkles on them. Each cookie has a little toothpick flag with a number on it.
“And now our final round," she announces. "Classic chocolate chip, mixed nut, and sugar cookies."
Joy begins to step aside, but I grab her hand. “Cupcakes were easy. Fluffy, good flavor, plenty of icing, whatever,” I whisper. “I've never had a sugar cookie in my freaking life. What are they supposed to taste like?"
The other judges are already digging in and making careful notes in tidy rows, like a little chart. My handwriting looks like chicken scratches. It’s bad enough that all eyes are on the judges, boring holes into my soul. The other three are dressed for a dinner party, and I just wore a button-down shirt and jeans. Why would you dress up to eat desserts?
Joy senses my discomfort and grabs my paper, making a quick chart for me, listing the styles and numbers in tidyprinting. "Start with the sugar cookies. They’re usually light and they’ll probably have the most delicate flavor. Some people dip them in tea, almost like a dry biscuit. Others like them very sweet and buttery."
"How the hell am I supposed to say which is better if everyone likes different stuff?"
The Mayor is sitting at my left elbow and turns to give me a nod. "I appreciate that you're taking this seriously." His eyes raise upward for a split second, as if barely able to keep from rolling them. "Last year, one of your cousins was clearly starving, and graded everything purely on size." He laughs cheerfully.
Turning to Joy, I whisper, "Can I slide you the cookies under the table and have you pick?"
"Here." She reaches for the plate and snaps each sugar cookie in half. “I'll write down what I taste, and you can tell me if you like it or not."
As I watch her graceful fingers moving, my arm slips around her waist without thinking. Suddenly, I don’t give a royal rat’s ass that some of these women will report back to my mother that I have a lady in my life. With Joy’s soft curves next to me, I feel more balanced. Less heavy-handed. Following her lead, I take a small bite of the first cookie, analyzing how it melts across my tongue.
“Huh. This might go well with coffee." I dip it into my coffee, then take another bite. "Yup. Pretty good."
We go through the whole plate of sugar cookies, Joy pointing out the finer nuances of which is more buttery, sweeter, drier, more refined. I'm impressed by how much the flavor is enhanced by black coffee. Or maybe my coffee is enhanced by a little sugar.
Holy shit.
That’s it.
Joy is the sugar in the black coffee of my life. The little hint of sweetness that takes the edge off. The slight curve that makes a straight line more elegant.
It’s too fast and too strange and too random, but dammit, it’s true. The realization drops into place like a key fitting into a lock.
My fingers tighten around her waist as she turns to meet my eyes. "What is it?" she asks, smiling softly.
I’m in love with Joy. She’s the one. We belong together. I know this as surely as I know how the forest smells after the rain, or how the wind will pick up twenty minutes after the sun drops.
"What?" She nudges me with her elbow. "We're getting behind – start munching, buddy."
A gentle tug brings her ear to my lips. "Just realizing that you are definitely the sweetest thing I've eaten in the past twenty-four hours."
Crap, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Her face flushes bright red, and her elbow twitches against me. “Shush. Focus. Cookies.”
With Joy’s help, we get through the rest of the judging. They try to persuade me to give out the ribbons because of my damned last name, but I insist the Mayor do it. Why the hell should I be put in charge of anything just because of who my great-grandfather was?
Plus, I’m not sure what Joy thinks of this whole “Wolfe family” crap. She seems easygoing about things, but I couldn’t help noticing that she referred to me as “a friend” in a text to her brother. That made the muscles across my back clench up, even though she was right. There are no words yet for what we are. Just a huge amount of potential.
It won’t help if she keeps seeing me being offered a seat at a table I don’t deserve. Or people treating my opinion as importantly as the Mayor’s.
14
