Chapter 6 #2
We pass Team Barbie’s World feeding each other meatballs and grinning like toothpaste models.
Then, of course, Cassie and Nico—drift by us again, all leering smiles and matching aprons on their way to the judging panel.
I’m positive I glimpse a thin smear of dark red powder on the pocket of Nico’s apron.
It’s faint, but it’s there. Just a flash of something that doesn’t belong—too red, too dusty.
Ghost pepper? Cajun spices or cayenne? I can’t be sure, but the second I clock it, Nico flicks something off his apron and adjusts his smile as if nothing’s happened.
I don’t say anything. Not to Maisie. Not yet. My first instinct is to let it go, chalk it up to paranoia, to coincidence, to the same overactive suspicion that makes me walk away from people before they can walk away from me.
But then Maisie shifts beside me, nose wrinkling, voice low. “Did you smell something weird when we mixed the batter? I could’ve sworn it wasn’t just cinnamon and chili powder.”
I glance sideways. She doesn’t sound angry, just probing. She’s already letting it go with humor. I can tell. That’s how she guards her heart.
But me? I just clench my jaw and promise myself this: if they did sabotage us, they’re not getting away with it again.
“Teamwork,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “We faked it just fine.”
I huff out a small laugh. “We did. Didn’t we?”
We’re almost back to our station when a trill voice chirps from behind a camera lens, “There they are, Sweetpines’ culinary comeback couple!”
Maisie groans under her breath, turning to find Melanie, the visiting podcast host with a flair for punchy headlines, angled perfectly to catch us in frame. She’s already mid-snap, her camera clicking to its own heartbeat.
“Oh, you stuck around,” Maisie says, forcing a smile.
Melanie beams. “Told you this would make a great story. And you two?” She lowers her camera slightly. “Adorable. Undeniable-chemistry adorable. That moment with the milk? Golden. A testament to the Stitch Sisters’ instincts, if I’ve ever seen one.”
She waves us together with her fingers. “Quick photo. Just hold the milk like it’s a trophy. Perfect. This will make great Instagram marketing content for my podcast.”
I glance at Maisie, who just rolls her eyes and leans in anyway, her fingers forming the peace sign while I lift my milk in the universal gesture of a toast.
Maisie mutters out of the corner of her mouth, “Just don’t let her get your good side. She’ll turn us into a Hallmark before-and-after photo.”
“I think that ship has sailed,” I say, raising my milk glass again. “We’re a meme waiting to happen.”
We pose. We smile.
Melanie grins. “Seriously, this photo’s going on the Stitch Sisters’ highlight reel. Their best pairing in five years, no doubt.”
She’s clearly been doing her homework.
“That’s because Evelyn and the mailman weren’t photogenic,” Maisie replies with mock seriousness. “Great llamas. Terrible posture.”
Melanie actually snorts. “You’re killing me. Keep this chemistry up, and I’ll have to start a second podcast: Love Along the Coast, Sweetpines Edition.”
And somewhere deep in my chest, something loosens, in the best possible way.
It’s not just the milk, the laughter, or even Maisie’s ridiculous llama comment. It’s the way we moved in sync without trying. The way I didn’t quite freeze when the spice incident had everyone staring at me. The way she saw me, protected me, and stayed beside me without making me feel cast aside.
I’ve spent years avoiding situations like this where I’m too exposed. If I show too much, people will get the wrong idea, or worse, use it against me.
But here I am, smiling. A man who’s forgotten he’s used to flinching at attention.
Suddenly the Newly-Deads materialize beside us, wry, gothic ghosts. Nora gives a slow nod, deliberate, conspiratorial.
“That’s cute,” she says flatly. Then, leaning in toward us as if sharing a trade secret, she drones, “We brought a meat cleaver in case someone tries to sabotage our casserole.”
Grant, dressed in all black as usual, adds in a dry monotone, “Winning isn’t everything. But humiliating the spiteful ones? That’s art.”
They drift off toward the dessert table, leaving behind the faint scent of clove and a trail of sarcastic irony.
I catch Maisie biting the corner of her lip and shake my head, a quiet laugh slipping past my lips.
But later, when the crowd thins and the sun tucks behind the hills, the incident replays in my mind.
Her timing. Her quick thinking. The way she didn’t hesitate.
And something gives way in my heart—a splintering in the place I’ve kept guarded the longest, where trust used to live before I stopped believing people could be trusted.
The town puts itself to sleep in layers—first the music fades, then the laughter, then the shuffling of feet over gravel. I walk slower than usual, cutting down the side street past the empty post office, the bookstore dark behind its lace-curtained windows.
I don’t know why I’m stalling. Maybe I’m trying to sort through what happened. Or maybe I don’t want the day to end yet, not if it means going back to being alone with my own silence.
I stroke the soft petals of the rose I’m carrying in my pocket. I spontaneously bought it at the market before it closed. I could’ve left it on a bench or forgotten it in my truck, but something kept me holding onto it carefully. Something small and hopeful.
The air smells like wet pavement and pine needles.
A few minutes later, I walk past Botaniq?e. The flower shop’s windows are dark, but there’s something alive in the air— the scent of roses, citrus and whatever magic Maisie wears with her everywhere. I’d recognize it anywhere now. She’s been here recently.
I slow to a stop, hand lifting to my flannel. I tap the front pocket feeling the stem and further up the soft petals of the rose. OK. Still have it. I hadn’t known what I was going to do with it. Didn’t even realize it meant that much to me, until now.
Coral. Not red. Bold enough to say something. Subtle enough not to shout it.
I set it on the windowsill close to the door. No note. Just a small gesture I hope she understands. I linger a second longer than I should, staring at the quiet door as if it might answer me.
I think about all the times this week I wanted to say something genuine, and didn’t. The jokes were easier. The silence, safer.
But Maisie Quinn? She never waits for safe.
So, I leave the rose, hoping it says what I can’t yet: that her timing, her bravery, her ridiculous one-liners, wild hands and quick saves—they’re under my skin now.
And if she sees this rose in the morning and smiles even a little…that will be enough.
A thank you I don’t know how to say.
And maybe a beginning I haven’t dared to hope for until now.