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City hall is one vast room. It’s vaulted ceiling is a sky of twinkling lights. A large stage dominates the far end, and the air smells of coffee, cider, and what might be collective stage fright. While a band plays mellow country near the refreshment table, my eyes drift to the craft booths lining the wall, a cozy escape in a room that feels overwhelming.

We get lucky and find a row of empty seats near the front. “Do your best to save them, okay? I need to do something, but I’ll be right back.”

I watch the women’s heads turn, tracking his movement as Gideon passes and disappears into a side room. It isn’t long before his family arrives, and boy do they make an entrance. It’s one thing to be at home with them and another to see how people react to all these buff, exceptionally built, gorgeous men. The Stone brothers have quite an effect when they’re all together.

Clara squeezes my hands and sweetly whispers good luck before taking a seat next to Sierra. One by one the Stone crew settles in, and I’m proud to be sitting with them. I’ve never had a whole posse rooting for me like this, and their warmth feels like a shield.

“Judges are in the side room,” Clara explains. “They’ll call the three finalists up to the stage after they choose the winners. Every year, they swear it’s a blind tasting, and every year, I wonder …”

Mrs. Helmsley steps onto the stage and regally takes her seat at the long table like a throne, with the other board women shuffling behind her. The spotlight moves and shines down on three pies sitting on ornate pedestals. I study the crust of the pie in the middle. It might be mine, but from this angle they all seem the same, and I’m driving myself nuts trying to analyze them.

Gideon’s still not back, so I get up to check out the refreshments. At least I’ll have something to do besides worry about winning. Just as I’m paying for my gingerbread cookie, Gideon rushes up, a little out of breath, with sparkling eyes and messy hair.

“What have you been doing? Charming people against their will?”

“Only you, baby girl, and you seem to like it. By the way, it’s on,” he says.

I wait for him to finish. We lock eyes.

“And?”

“And what? You win. It’s locked up.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “I just had a nice talk with Mrs. Jenkins and Miss Delilah. Told them I was going to propose to you tonight.”

“Did you now?”

“Yep. I explained how much winning this contest would mean to Passion Pines’ newest newlyweds. And they were already impressed by you.”

“They were?” I’m shocked. “They must’ve missed that trashy article in the paper.”

“And then I gave them tickets to Mamma Mia in Jackson Hole, and two nights at a hotel, and offered to drive them.”

“My God. That’s straight-up bribery.”

“No.” He tips his head with a soft smile. “Not really. I’ve known these women my whole life. They technically didn’t promise me anything, and I gave freely. Hey. They’ll have a great time. How often do they get out on their own these days?”

The lights flicker.

“Do or die time,” I say, scurrying up the aisle toward our row.

“Stop saying that.” He slides into the chair beside me and the lights dim.

An emcee in a rust-colored tux, who Gideon says is also the hardware-store owner, goes into a spiel about tradition and the spirit of the annual Mountain Munchie Pie Palooza that started in the late sixties.

Gideon whispers, “Right around the time people discovered they had the munchies after consuming a particular weed.”

I laugh. “You’re probably not wrong.”

The emcee thanks the crowd for coming out and introduces a third grader from the elementary school, who walks up to the stage and dutifully delivers three envelopes. The crowd gives the little girl a round of applause, and the camera operators at the foot of the stage zoom in. Off to the side of the cameras, Derick spots me, gives me a wave, and mouths, good luck.

Yep. No pressure at all. Just my life on the line.

I hold my breath as the emcee announces the third-place winner, someone I’ve never heard of. I brace myself for second place, and it goes to … Nell Tate. The crowd goes wild. They obviously love her, but I keep waiting for her to stick her tongue out at me.

The emcee clears his throat and dramatically announces it’s time for the winner. He takes ten hours to open that last envelope.

“And now, without further ado, the first-place ribbon goes to … Teddy Helmsley.”

The sound that comes out of me isn’t a gasp or a cry. It’s a small punched-out breath, like someone pressed their thumb into the soft place below my ribs.