Page 60 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

Threading through the crowd, I slide up beside him, not saying a word, wondering if I should maybe go, since⁠—

Without warning, Jed turns, and with the sweetest smile, he leans forward to kiss me. There’s nothing performative or devouring about it. Not this time. Just affection and gentleness. “I’m almost done,” he murmurs against my lips. “Stay with me?”

“Always,” I breathe as my hand comes up to grip his T-shirt. Jed rewards me with a quick, bright smile, then goes back to finishing his short ribs.

I never get tired of watching him cook. So I’m lucky the house is open concept, and now that I’ve officially moved in instead of pretending I still spend any time at my little apartment, I’m able to watch him whenever I want. I’ve never seen anyone make cooking look like art, and with half of his free time usually spent creating new dishes or improving others, I’m a lucky girl.

I never complain, obviously. Not when I get to enjoy the results of his efforts.

As if he can read my mind, Jed turns with a fork in one hand, the tines filled with tender meat dripping a dark, thick sauce. “Open?” he requests, head tilted, and I do as he says, parting my lips so he can press the fork into my mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” I murmur, covering my mouth with my hand politely as I chew. “Oh, shit, Jed.”

“It’s okay?” There it is. His sheepish lack of self-confidence that sometimes rears its head.

I kiss him. Just as chaste and sweet as he did earlier, and press my tongue to his for just a moment so he can taste his recipe. “It’s amazing,” I whisper. “You’re amazing. And if that old lady wins again, I’m hitting her over the head with my camera and burying her under the Ferris wheel.”

Jed grins, hesitates, then ventures, “Be a waste of good meat?”

I know he’s just joking. Maybe a year ago, that joke would’ve bothered me. But now I just snicker. “You sure? Isn’t she old enough that the meat would be, uh, pretty stringy? Gristly?”

Jed casts her a look, mock studying and considering while the old woman bustles away at the finishing touches of her barbecue. “You’re right,” he agrees finally. “I bow to your sage wisdom, Saylor.” He goes back to what he’s doing, and by the time he’s done, he’s one of the few who hasn’t put his dish up on the judging table.

When he does, I wait for him behind his table, watching the other competitors to see how confident they look. All of them keep shooting looks toward the old woman, who proudly stands in front of the literal banner hanging off the front of her table.

FIVE-TIME STATE FAIR WINNER.

AUNT FRAN’S FAMOUS BBQ

The words are…bright. Hot pink on dark purple, and brash enough to make me squint like they’re casting light. Miss Fran is obviously confident in her victory, and as all three judges stride into the tent, her back straightens while her smile widens just a bit more.

Cocky.

I break away from Jed to take some photos of the judges. Two of them glance up in surprise, while the third just keeps eating her barbecue like there’s nothing more important in the world. And good for her, I think to myself as I walk around the tent with my camera.

They take a few minutes of tasting and murmuring, then they shift dishes forward or back on the table. By the time they’re done with that and straightened, only three plates are still on the side of the table closest to them.

And Jed’s dish is among them. My stomach does a little flip, as if I have any stake in this. The judges wait, apparently going for some dramatic effect, and I use the time to wander back to stand with Jed.

“It was a difficult year,” the oldest woman, the one who hadn’t cared about the camera, announces in a voice that carries. I wonder if she says that every year, though. My eyes drift from one dish to the next, and I know for a fact that one of them is Fran’s.

Fuck Fran and her barbecue.

…Not that I know her personally or anything. She could be a really nice person, I suppose, but I will always stand with my man; especially when it comes to his cooking.

“In third place, Ms. Mary Dell.” A woman only a few years older than me brightens, and her smile gets huge and excited as she stumbles past the competitors’ tables to reach the judges. They hand her an almost pastel yellow ribbon. She hugs it to her chest, twisting back and forth like the happiest girl in the world before shaking their outstretched hands.

The judges politely give her a moment to go back to her table, then the judge nods at both Jed and Fran.

“This is closer than any year I think we’ve had,” she goes on. “Our second-place winner is…”

There it is. Another dramatic pause. I risk a glance at Fran, who doesn’t appear worried in the least. Beside me, Jed stands stiffly, and I slip my hand into his to twine our fingers together.

“Fran Oaks.”

No one moves. Fran certainly doesn’t. Her face falls, and even during the smattering of polite applause, she just stands there, looking confused, until the contestant next to her finally nudges her forward.

That seems to break the spell. She walks on stiff legs to accept the red ribbon; her smile becoming more and more wooden the closer she gets.