Chapter 6
Spiced Sabotage
Beau
It’s day four of the festival, and the competition area is already pulsating with energy and aesthetic overkill by the time we step into the fray.
And right at the center of it, of course, it’s Team Let’s Go Viral, making a statement as always.
By now, I’m prepared to admit that they are Maisie’s and my biggest rivals.
They show up in matching aprons embroidered with Whisk Me Away, their prep station looking more like a mini-influencer studio than a food table complete with a floral runner, three types of garnishes, and a tiny ring light angled just so. I don’t even know where you get a ring light that small.
I see Maisie squint at them, trying to decipher whether their camera is live. “Do you think they’re filming this for their followers?”
I reply dryly, “Probably. Nothing says authentic love like branded content.”
I watch Team Barbie’s World attempt synchronized measuring. Mid-spoon-lift, Parker leans in for a theatrical dip kiss that nearly sends a mixing bowl flying.
I chuff loudly.
Across the way, I notice and hear Team Tune-Up debating about bakeware. I almost think their marriage depends on it.
“Glass conducts heat more evenly!” Amanda hisses, brandishing a pie pan as a shield.
Luis counters with equal fervor. “Metal gets you that golden crust! We’ve talked about this!”
“Not during a live event, we haven’t!”
Meanwhile, I observe that The Over-actors are fully committed to their characters. Jasper sinks to one knee, lifting a spoonful of mashed yams toward his partner’s mouth in a gesture worthy of a marriage proposal on Broadway.
“Open your heart,” he intones, “and your palate.”
Maribel clutches her chest like she’s about to faint, then accepts the bite in slow motion. The small crowd nearby breaks into polite applause. I golf clap and catch Marty mouthing, “What in the world is happening?” to Pen, who lifts her shoulders and keeps refilling coffee cups.
And then there’s Peaches, prancing about, looking every bit a circus clown’s dog. With her teeth, she swipes a kitchen towel off the nearest table before disappearing into the crowd. Furry bandit.
The potluck challenge, also known as “Love on a Platter,” is disarray dressed as a small-town tradition.
Think church basement meets neighborhood cook-off.
More laid-back and hearty than the candlelit dinner we put together.
After the judges sample what each team creates, the dish goes on a long community table and anyone can sample all the dishes.
Delores explained earlier that each couple is responsible for cooking and serving one dish that hits four targets on the scoring rubric: taste, hominess, communication, and, teamwork.
The judges? Local staples. Marty from the diner. Mayor Whitcomb. Mrs. Greer from the post office. And the rest? Volunteers with clipboards and critical eyes.
But it’s not just them. The Stitch Sisters are here too, eagle-eyed behind reading glasses, ready to dissect not just the food, but every blink, brush of the hand, and unspoken romantic dynamic.
Suddenly I turn to the side as I hear Maisie hyping up the crowd, drawing attention to the dish we plan to make. Cheering loudly and clapping rhythmically, so all the judges and other contestants can hear and watch:
“Spicy-sweet, soft and bold—cornbread magic, fresh and gold! We rise, we shine, we mix it right—Team Quinn-Callahan, take the bite!”
It’s straight from a cheerleader’s handbook, and Maisie even manages to get off the ground in a sort-of split leap.
It earns a few whistles from the crowd, but then I hear it, a well-meaning comment from Sweetpines’ high school principal, “You know, Maisie, you could dial it down just a notch. We all know the goal is to win, already.”
Then to her assistant, the principal adds, “That girl always did want to be the center of attention.”
I see the hesitance in her smile, the way her chin lifts half a second too late. It’s a familiar deflection, but I’ve never seen her shrink back into herself the way she is doing now. She’s wilting as quickly as a hydrangea left out of water.
Without saying anything, Maisie turns and, with shoulders slumped inward, she walks slowly to our cooking station.
Not knowing what to do to bring back the Maisie I’m used to, I softly rub her back and say without thinking, “Hey. Come on. Where’s the Maisie I know and love? I need her on my team right now.”
She lifts her face to look into my eyes, and the green sparkles in her eyes are gone, replaced by an expression I’ve seen in the mirror that says, “I’m here, but I need to protect myself right now.”
I hope we can pull it together to finish out the evening’s contest, and sure enough, with a few deep breaths, Maisie is back and ready to go.
She had insisted we make her grandma’s spiced cornbread muffins. “They’re foolproof,” she’d said. “If we don’t win on taste, we’ll win on nostalgia.”
As I quickly find out, though, someone had different plans.
I stir the batter as Maisie adds ingredients. Then she carefully carries the tray to the cast iron community oven Sweetpines borrowed from the historical society—a relic that’s usually used for chili cook-offs and orchard pies.
Volunteers fired it up that morning, and now it sits near the square’s fountain, hot and slightly smoky, surrounded by aluminum tables and folding chairs.
Once the cornbread muffins are baked, I plate up with no issues. The batch looks golden and puffy and smells like butter, cinnamon, and a hint of spice.
But then I take a bite to taste-test before giving them to the judges, and I’m swallowing a bonfire. Not heat—pain. My tongue recoils. My throat starts to burn. My eyes water as if I ate a breakup ballad and it kicked back.
It hits fast. Too fast. Not just the spice, this sense of being yanked into the spotlight with no warning, no protection. I’ve been caught in a moment I didn’t rehearse for and can’t escape.
Except this time, the spotlight’s replaced by townsfolk, and the soundtrack is laughter, not applause.
My brain lurches. Panic claws at the edge of my chest, old instincts flaring: don’t flinch, don’t falter, don’t give them anything they can use.
That was always my trick: stay composed, stay vague.
Never hand someone a vulnerable piece of yourself they can twist into something else.
Disappear before someone sees too much. But that ship sailed the second my face turned the color of a ripe tomato.
I grip the edge of the table, steadying myself as I sputter and cough, nearly choking.
Maisie is next to me in an instant.
“Oh noooo,” she says, dragging out the word with enough volume to catch the attention of the crowd. “Did I grab the cayenne pepper instead of the chili powder? Beau, I am so sorry.”
She clutches my arm with mock horror, spinning it into a performance so smoothly I nearly forget I’m melting.
“This is why you don’t let a florist measure spice,” she stage-whispers as we stand in front of the judges’ table.”
A few nearby festival-goers, led by Team Let’s Go Viral, let out barks of laughter that drip with mockery. Someone snaps a photo.
Maisie slides a glass of milk into my hand gracefully, although I have no idea where it came from. “Here, drink this. You’ve officially survived Sweetpines’ most dangerous baked good.”
I drink. Gratefully. The burn eases slightly, and with it, the tremor I didn’t realize had spread through my limbs.
Maisie stays beside me, shielding me with her smile and that wild, unstoppable energy that seems to rise when everything else is falling apart.
“Pretty sure we’re not getting points for heat level,” she whispers just for me.
“You’re a menace,” I manage, voice still rough.
She grins. “And you’re alive. You’re welcome.”
Then, as if cued on stage with the perfect timing of a sitcom director, Dr. Brooks ambles over. He takes one look at me, still dabbing my eyes with a napkin, and his nose wrinkles faintly, whether from the scent or my reaction, hard to say.
“Well now,” he says. “Hope it was just an accident that one of my patients is suddenly eating lava.”
Maisie gives a dramatic sigh. “Doctor, I fear I’ve broken him.”
“Good call on the milk,” Brooks replies. “If he starts hiccupping fire, give him some plain bread and call me in the morning.”
He says it just loudly enough for the rival couples, especially Team Let’s Go Viral, to hear. I catch Cassie narrowing her eyes from the corner of my vision. Nico, predictably, adjusts the ring light.
I try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace, bow, and move away from the judging table acting as if nothing happened.
But the damage? Controlled. Contained. Thanks to Maisie.
I’m quiet. Still recalibrating.
Our judging wraps up without further incident, and we’re waved off the stage with polite nods and a few scribbled notes. Maisie beams like we’ve just won the Super Bowl, even as she whispers under her breath, “Hey. You okay?”
I nod once then dunk my tongue into the glass of milk I’m still carrying.
“Thanks for having my six.”
She shrugs. “You’d have done the same for me.”
Maybe. But the truth is, I wouldn’t have thought that quickly. Not anymore. Not after shutting so much of myself down. Not after years of keeping every interaction at arm’s length, of measuring out trust like teaspoons of sugar—just enough to be polite, never enough to spill.
And there she is, this riot of color, confidence, and cheer, throwing herself between me and embarrassment like it’s second nature.