“That’s intentional,” he adds. “Because the point isn’t popularity.” His gaze sweeps the audience. “It’s the craft. Every recipe gets judged the same way. Same process. Same standards.”
Someone near the front shouts, “But Bettie always wins!”
Ian nods once. “Bettie’s recipes are excellent. But excellence doesn’t mean automatic.”
I half expect Bettie to rush him on stage and take him down, but nothing so dramatic happens.
Ian leans forward slightly, hands braced on the podium. “This town takes pride in what we make,” he continues. “Bourbon. Food. Traditions.” His voice is calm, but there’s fire under it now. “And pride means doing things the right way.”
The crowd murmurs in approval.
“If we start ignoring the rules because the outcome surprises us,” he says, “then we’re not respecting the craft anymore.”
I stare at him.
Because he’s not just defending the contest.
He’s defending me.
A complete stranger who just arrived in a moving truck yesterday and upset his entire weekend.
Just like I’ve upset the dessert contest.
“And if a newcomer enters a good recipe,” Ian finishes, “they deserve the same fair shot as anyone else.”
Silence hangs over the square.
“The rules are clear that if the dessert cannot be eaten for whatever reason, then that person is disqualified from competition. However, that feels unfair when the reason for the entry being inedible is an off-leash dog.”
Whoops. I glance down at Barrel. “You have no shame,” I tell him.
He gives me an excited bark.
“This is a generous and giving community, built on tradition and looking out for our neighbors. From the volunteers who coach our youth sports to the high school art club painting our town mural to those who dedicate countless hours to making Wanted a great place to live, we do things the right way. Fairly. With integrity. So I think that the judges ought to consider allowing the blondies to be remade and judged tomorrow. If the blondie baker wants to, that is.”
“I do!” Miss Bettie says. She sounds excited for a do-over.
“I’m fine with that,” I yell out. “I’m returning the ribbon right now.” I slap the blue ribbon down on the judge’s table.
“Excellent. Now I’m going to offer a peace offering of a bottle of Four Brothers to each of our bakers who put so much effort into their creations today and for their patience as we sort this out.”
“Hot damn!” someone yells out.
Then someone in the crowd claps.
Another person joins in.
Within seconds the applause spreads through the crowd.
Ian straightens slightly, looking uncomfortable with the attention.
Which is when I notice three teenagers at the front holding up their phones.
Filming.
Ian hands the microphone back to the organizers, clearly hoping to escape.
But it’s too late.
