"Want a taste?" He helped up his yellow offering with the compote on the side.
"Only if you try mine." She held up her blond concoction with red topping smeared on top.
They exchanged treats. The morning crowd was starting to arrive at the far end of the lane. Ivy's phone was on its tripod, recording.
Finn waited for her to take a bite. He watched her lips part. Watched her mouth move as she chewed. Watched her eyes close as she swallowed.
"Well?" she asked.
He forgot how to breathe, how to speak. He could watch her all day. He wanted to feed her more. To balance out all that sugar intake with something healthy to ensure her life's longevity. But she wasn't asking for that. She was asking his opinion of his dish.
Finn bit into the blondie with wariness. The flavor exploded on his tongue. Where he'd been expecting cloying sweetness, he got a balance of savory and sweet. The perfect balance.
"It's perfect."
She grinned at him, and he wanted to correct himself. The dish was a marvel. Its creator was perfect.
The main stage was at the south end of the rally grounds, large enough for demonstrations, with a camera setup. Two cameras, a livestream, and what appeared to be a small crowd that had been forming for forty minutes before the scheduled start. Finn saw Boyd in the crowd from the stage steps and looked at him. Boyd waved with the unhelpful serenity of a man who was here to enjoy himself.
Mrs. Patel gave them the format: informal, conversational, the tasting structured as a back-and-forth. They'd taste each other's ingredients, they'd taste the combination, they'd talk about the competition dish. Twelve minutes, casual.
"Casual," Finn said.
"Natural," Mrs. Patel amended. "Like you normally are."
Ivy smirked, but didn't say anything. He raised a brow at her. She held up her hands in defense. He rolled his eyes. He liked that they had a silent language between them.
The crowd had grown larger than he'd expected. He looked out at it once from the stage steps and then did not look again. Finn did not like crowds. When they gathered around his truck or in the farm, they were fine. It was a different story when they focused all their attention on him.
Finn let her go up the stairs first. He made it look like courtesy. It wasn’t. The steps were shallow, but there were enough of them, and his knee had already started that low, familiar burn. The tight, inflamed warning he ignored more often than he should have.
Better she go ahead. Better she not see.
Ivy took the first step, then the second. And then she stopped. She turned back. Her hand came out toward him.
Finn stared at it for a second. He didn’t need help. Didn’t want it. His jaw tightened.
Because this—this right here—was exactly what he avoided. The moment when someone saw too much and decided he needed something he hadn’t asked for.
He almost refused. Then he looked at her again. There was no softness there that didn’t belong. No pity. No carefulness.
This was performance.
Right. They were pretending.
He stepped forward. Took her hand. Her warm, steady, certain fingers wrapped around his, making him feel like abrownie just out of the oven that was firm at the crust and gooey at the center.
The crowd reacted immediately. A soft, collectiveahhhrolled over them like a cue they’d been waiting for.
Finn didn’t look out at them. Didn’t care. His focus narrowed to the point of contact; Ivy's fingers in his, the way they fit without hesitation, as if she’d already decided this was how it would be.
Like he had no say in it. Or like he’d already said yes.
He took the next step. The burn was still there. But it faded. Her hand in his. That was all he could feel. So he held on.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yes."
