“How do we know she didn’t send her dog to eat Miss Bettie’s blondies on purpose?” someone asks.
“What?” I’m outraged. “That’s absurd! I would never do something like that.”
I want to tell them all I don’t care enough to cheat but somehow I don’t think that will win me any points either.
Ian squeezes my arm.
And sighs.
Then he walks toward the stage with the annoyed stride of a man who did not wake up this morning intending to moderate a small-town crisis. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair slightly mussed like he’s been running a hand through it all day.
Which he has.
Because I stress him out.
He’s wearing a simple button-down today with the sleeves rolled up.
His expression is calm but serious in the way of someone who takes his job—and apparently dessert justice—very seriously.
The woman next to me whispers reverently, “That’s Ian Lennox.”
“The one and only,” I whisper back, amused.
“Master distiller at Four Brothers.”
“With a degree and everything.”
“You know him then?” She nods in approval. “We’re all so proud of him.”
I wonder if Ian knows that.
Ian climbs the steps to the stage and takes the microphone with both confidence and resignation.
The crowd quiets instantly.
He looks out over the festival, then down at the contest table where I’m still standing. Our eyes meet for half a second.
I shrug and mouth,I’m sorry.
He exhales slowly, then a slow and sexy smile splits across his face.
There’s that power again. The force of Ian.
Holy shit, I want to get naked with him right now.
He speaks. People listen.
He has a quiet authority and I find that kind of competence really damn hot.
“Alright,” he says, voice deep and steady through the speakers. “Let’s clear something up.”
The square goes silent.
Even Barrel stops whining.
Ian rests one hand on the podium, shoulders squared, and continues. “The Spring Festival recipe contest has always been judged anonymously.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
