Deep Fried Devotion (Festival of Hearts #3)
Chapter One
B irdie Summers had been awake since four in the morning, humming along to Taylor Swift's greatest hits while loading her food truck with enough supplies to feed half of Connecticut.
The September air held a crisp edge that promised autumn was coming, but today still felt like summer.
It was her favorite kind of weather for the biggest weekend of the year.
"Okay, Grandma Rose," she whispered to the faded photo taped to her dashboard, showing a silver-haired woman with laughing eyes and flour-dusted apron. "This is it. The Guilford Fair. Just like you always dreamed."
The Impossible Treats truck rumbled through the early morning streets of Guilford, past colonial houses with their neat white fences and manicured lawns.
Birdie had painted her truck herself in swirls of cotton candy pink and sky blue, complete with rainbow bunting.
Her grandmother would have loved the whimsy of it all.
Rose Summers had believed life was too short for beige anything.
The Guilford Fairgrounds sprawled ahead, already bustling with vendors setting up for Connecticut's second-oldest agricultural fair.
Birdie's stomach fluttered with excitement as she navigated between pickup trucks hauling carnival rides and trailers loaded with prize-winning sheep.
This was her moment. After six months of farmers markets and birthday parties, the Guilford Fair represented everything she'd been working toward.
She spotted her assigned location and nearly squealed with delight.
Corner spot, prime real estate right next to the main thoroughfare where families would stream past all weekend long.
The sign read "Impossible Treats" in cheerful yellow lettering, and Birdie sent up a silent thank-you to whatever fair scheduling angel had blessed her with this perfect placement.
"Morning, sunshine!" called Jennie Patel, a round woman with graying curls who'd been organizing fair vendors since before Birdie was born. "Ready for the weekend of your life?"
"More than ready," Birdie laughed, already envisioning the crowds that would gather to try her deep-fried bubble gum bites and cola spheres. "I've been dreaming about this since I sent in my application."
"This corner always does the best business." Jennie consulted her clipboard. "Just remember to keep your electrical cords covered and taped down. You don't want anyone tripping over them or kicking them out of the sockets if they cut around the back of the truck."
“You got it.” Birdie spent the next hour transforming her truck into a sugar-spun wonderland.
She strung up lights shaped like tiny donuts, arranged her menu boards with hand-painted descriptions of her impossible treats, and set up sample plates on the small shelf beside her service window with treats that looked more like art projects than food.
Deep-fried Oreos nestled next to golden spheres that would explode into cola flavor when bitten.
Bubble gum bites sparkled with edible glitter.
Cotton candy battered and fried until it became something entirely new.
The morning sun climbed higher, painting everything in that golden glow that made even ordinary moments feel magical. Birdie was adjusting her awning when she heard the rumble of another truck approaching.
She looked up, expecting to see the kettle corn vendor or maybe the ice cream truck that usually set up nearby.
Instead, a sleek black food truck rolled toward her corner, as different from her rainbow explosion as night from day.
Bold white lettering spelled out "Fry or Die" across the side, and where Birdie's truck announced its presence with color and chaos, this one commanded attention through stark sophistication.
The truck stopped directly in front of the "Impossible Treats" sign.
Birdie's smile faltered. There had to be some mistake. She glanced at her paperwork, double-checking the spot number, but everything matched. This was definitely her assigned location.
The driver's door of the black truck opened, and out stepped a man who looked like he'd been carved from the same uncompromising material as his vehicle.
Tall and lean, with dark hair that had clearly been styled with severe intention, he moved like someone who planned every step.
His chef's coat was pristine white, not a wrinkle or stain in sight, and his dark eyes swept the area with the intensity of a chef in a Michelin starred restaurant.
His gaze swept to Birdie's truck, and she watched his mouth tighten into a hard line. "Excuse me," he called out, his voice carrying the crisp authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "I think there's been a mistake."
Birdie hopped down from her truck, her sneakers hitting the gravel with more confidence than she felt. "Hi there! I'm Birdie Summers. Are you setting up nearby? This is such a great location, isn't it?"
He didn't return her smile. "I’m Soren Walsh. And I'm not setting up nearby. I'm setting up here." He gestured to her truck. "That's my spot."
She blinked at him in confusion. "I'm sorry, what?"
"My contract clearly states this location." Soren's voice remained level, but there was an edge underneath that suggested his control was already being tested. He showed her the contract that was already pulled up on his phone. It looked official all right.
It took her a lot longer to find her copy of the contract on her phone. "But I have the same assignment. Look, right here. I confirmed this three times."
They stared at each other, her in dismay, him in annoyance.
"There's obviously been an error," Soren said, his tone suggesting that errors were personal affronts to his worldview. "I'll need to speak with the coordinator immediately."
"Jennie!" Birdie called out, relief flooding through her. If anyone could sort this out, it would be her. She knew every vendor and every detail of fair operations.
Jennie hurried over, her face creased with concern. Behind her trailed a small crowd of curious vendors and early-arriving fairgoers who sensed drama in the morning air.
"What's going on here?" Jennie asked, though her expression suggested she already suspected the answer.
"There's been a double booking," Soren stated flatly. "We both have contracts for this location."
Jennie's face went through several shades of pink before settling on a deep rose that matched her embarrassment. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no." She flipped through papers on her clipboard with increasing desperation. "This is... this shouldn't have happened."
"But it did happen," Birdie pointed out, trying to keep her voice light despite the growing knot in her stomach. "So what do we do about it?"
More vendors had gathered now, forming a loose circle around the unfolding drama.
Birdie recognized Mrs. Plum from the knitting booth, her silver hair pinned back severely but her eyes were bright with interest. There was Joe Kramer from the hardware booth, still holding a socket wrench, and the teenage twins who ran the ring toss game.
"Well," Jennie said slowly, consulting her papers with the desperation of someone looking for a miracle, "it appears that Mr. Walsh's contract was signed by the entertainment committee, and Miss Summers' was processed through vendor services. Both committees thought they were booking this space."
"But we're both here and there should only be one deep fried truck."
“The more the merrier, I always say,” Jennie announced. “You can slide in right next to Birdie.”
“What do you mean?” Soren asked in askance.
"She means," Mrs. Plum announced with the authority of someone who'd been attending this fair since before electricity, "you'll both have to squish in a bit and make the best of it."
Birdie felt her heart sink toward her sneakers.
This corner spot had been her entire strategy.
Prime foot traffic, maximum visibility, the best launching pad for her grandmother's dream. Sharing it would mean sharing profits and maybe the fair goers would like Soren’s deep fried stuff better than hers.
"I'm not sharing anything," Soren said, echoing her thoughts with unfortunate clarity. "I have a business plan that depends on being the only specialty deep fried concoctions."
"And I have a dream that depends on making this work," Birdie shot back. "My grandmother saved for years to start a food truck business. This fair was going to be her debut before she got sick."
"Now, now," Jennie interjected, clearly desperate to avoid an outright vendor war. "We don't have time to reassign locations or renegotiate contracts. The corner is big enough for two trucks if you're willing to work together."
"Work together?" Soren looked like she'd suggested he juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle.
"Share the electrical hookup, coordinate your customer flow, maybe even collaborate on some items." Jennie’s voice was full of forced cheer. "Think of it as a unique opportunity."
The growing crowd of onlookers murmured their approval. Birdie caught snippets of encouragement: "Fair's about community anyway," and "Two trucks are better than one," and Mrs. Plum's decisive, "Young people these days need to learn compromise."
Birdie looked at her truck, with its hand-painted signs, then at Soren's sleek operation that probably had backup plans for its backup plans. They were oil and water, sugar and salt, everything different about the food industry compressed into one small corner.
But the alternative was giving up her spot, and that meant giving up on her grandmother's dream.
"I'm willing to try," she said, directing her words to Jennie but watching Soren's reaction.
All eyes turned to Soren, who stood like a statue of controlled frustration.
The morning sun had climbed high enough to illuminate the sharp lines of his face, and Birdie noticed details she'd missed in the first shock of confrontation: the way his dark hair caught reddish highlights, the small scar above his left eyebrow, the fact that his chef's coat, while spotless, had been mended along one seam with careful stitches.
"Fine," he said finally, the word emerging like it had been physically extracted from him. "But I have conditions."
"Of course you do," Mrs. Plum muttered, earning a few chuckles from the crowd.
"No music during prep hours. No interference with my equipment. And absolutely no..." He gestured vaguely at Birdie's truck. "...rainbow chaos bleeding into my setup."
Birdie bristled. "Excuse me, but my setup is carefully designed to create a welcoming atmosphere that—"
"Sparkles," Soren interrupted. "Everything you own sparkles."
"Sparkles make people happy."
"Sparkles make people think they're at a children's birthday party, not purchasing gourmet food."
"Gourmet?" Birdie's voice rose. "You fry stuff just like I do. Just like most fair food is fried. It’s not gourmet, it’s comfort food, guilty pleasure food.”
"I create innovative culinary experiences using molecular gastronomy techniques."
The crowd watched this verbal tennis match with the fascination of people witnessing either a train wreck or the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Jennie cleared her throat. "Perhaps we could focus on the practical arrangements? You'll need to coordinate electrical usage, waste disposal, customer queuing..."
Birdie took a deep breath, channeling every lesson her grandmother had taught her about killing people with kindness. "We can work together, Jennie. I won’t make waves.”
Soren stared at her for a long moment, as if compromise was a foreign concept he was struggling to translate. "I won’t either. Thank you."
The words seemed to cost him, but they were genuine.
"Well then!," Jennie clapped her hands together with relief. "I'll leave you two to work out the details. Fair opens at four, and I expect this corner to be the talk of the weekend."
As the crowd dispersed, vendors heading back to their own setup challenges, Birdie and Soren were left alone.
"So," Birdie said, determined to start this partnership on the right foot. "Deep-fried energy drinks, huh? That's actually kind of brilliant."
Soren's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Your bubble gum concept is technically challenging. I'm curious about your stabilization method."
It wasn't exactly friendly, but it wasn't hostile either. Birdie decided to count it as progress.
"I guess we're neighbors for the weekend," she said, extending her hand. "Partners in deep-fried chaos?"
Soren looked at her outstretched hand like it might explode, but after a moment's hesitation, he shook it. His grip was firm and surprisingly she felt a little tingle of attraction in the brief contact.
"Partners," he agreed, though he made the word sound like a medical diagnosis.
As they turned to face their respective trucks, Birdie caught Mrs. Plum watching them from her knitting booth with a satisfied smile that suggested she was up to something.