“Obviously.”
“I have a few cupcakes at home since I’m trying out new recipes for the competition. Actually, I happen to be working on some unique flavor combinations. Ironing out the final details and everything. I could use an impartial opinion.”
Max’s interest sharpens. “Tonight? Say seven o’clock?”
“Unless you’re busy.”
“I’m not.” The answer comes so quickly it nearly collides with my question. He rubs the back of his neck. “I did volunteer to set up the dunk tank and ring toss…”
“Youarebusy.” The disappointment swelling in my chest catches me off guard, and I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “It’s not a big deal. We can reschedule. Er, well, we can’t since the competition is tomorrow, but?—”
“I don’t think we can,” he says, suddenly serious. “What I’m hearing is that a Crescent Cove community member and Frosting Queen contestant is requesting guidance from a duly appointed judge.”
My stomach plummets.
Operation: Butter Up the Fox suddenly feels less like an unserious bribery plot and more like evidence in a corruption trial. I clutch the notebook more tightly against my chest. “I withdraw the request. I’m sorry, I?—”
“It’s too late now. If a constituent comes to me in need of baking-related assistance, I have no choice but to help.”
His grin breaks free, relief and delight fizzing through me.
“I didn’t realize you’d been here long enough to run for public office.”
We both stand as we pick up the last of the cups.
“Maybe not, but Iamthe judge of a very serious and extremely prestigious baking competition. Helping a contestant takes precedence over anything else I might have planned,” he continues. “I’m pretty sure it’s in the bylaws.”
“There are no bylaws.”
“That explains why they’ve been so difficult to locate.” He takes my collection of sandy cups, and we walk them to the nearest recycling bin. “How about you meet me here tonight when the festival officially opens? We can try out some of the rides, and I can show off my dunk tank and ring toss set up skills. Then we can walk back to your place for dessert.”
The roughness in his voice has me breaking out in goosebumps.
“I’d like that.”
A volleyball rolls across the sand and bumps against his bare foot.
“Lark!” someone calls. “Are you planning to play, or should we find someone who remembers we exist?”
Max’s gaze remains fixed on mine.
“You should get back.”
“I should.” He nods.
“Go score all the sports goals.”
He brushes a line of sand from my cheek. “That’s not how volleyball works.”
“I know. Just get back out there and do something impressive with your balls.” The words leave my mouth before their meaning reaches my brain.
Heat engulfs my face.
Max’s brows lift, his gaze dropping to his shorts. “I’ll see what I can do.”
His laugh follows him as he bends to retrieve the volleyball. “Try not to get into any more tent fights while we’re apart.”
“No promises.”
