Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Winnie
I’m still chewing on the mac and cheese bite that was in my mouth when Miss Bettie stomps over and shoves a blue ribbon into my hand.
For a tiny woman there is a lot of force behind her actions.
Her lips are pursed tightly as she spits out, “Congratulations.”
I swallow hard, trying not to cough. I feel like I’ve been caught red-headed even though I didn’t do anything wrong.
Then Bettie stalks back over to the judging table, gesticulating wildly. I hear the words, “I know your mother,” directed at a woman in her thirties, who is sitting there shaking her head rapidly.
“That was nice of Bettie,” Ian says, like he honestly believes she was being sincere.
I turn to him in disbelief. “She was being polite to save face, but she is furious.”
“But that was so generous of her to hand deliver the ribbon. I’m sure that it was really difficult for her to admit defeat.”
Ian is obviously a little naive when it comes to people. How could he think she was being nice? Or that this wasn’t a gross miscarriage of justice? There is no way I should have won and I feel like Miss Bettie is already investigating murder-for-hire to take me out.
“She always wins,” he adds. “Every Spring Fling.”
“I got that impression.” I shake my head, staring at the blue ribbon in my hand.
Most Delectable Dessert. Spring Fling, Wanted, Kentucky.
“She has a decade-long winning streak,” Ian adds. “Or longer. It’s possible she’s won the bourbon dessert contest every year since the invention of sugar.”
That doesn’t help my sudden anxiety at all. “I don’t think it’s possible I actually won. There is some kind of mix up. Did they switch the judging cards or something? You didn’t do this, did you?”
“What? No! I withdrew as a judge since Fred pointed out it was a conflict of interest.”
Because we kissed.
And damn, what a kiss.
It had lasted less than a minute but was long enough for me to toss my decision to avoid dating right now out the damn window. Even though I had promised Barrel I wouldn’t and even if I had told myself not to date a man who was my opposite ever again.
Didn’t matter.
Who cared?
Forget about it all.
That was the power of Ian Lennox’s mouth.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” someone yells into the microphone on the stage, “we have a situation with the recipe contest.”
The crowd murmurs.
By “situation,” they mean me.
And I agree with them. This is a situation. One I would like resolved immediately before I become the woman who blew into town and broke Miss Bettie’s heart, which is clearly made of sugar and spice. Not to mention I was caught kissing Wanted’s most eligible bachelor in broad daylight.
“See?” I tell Ian. “There’s a situation.”
“What’s going on?” Ian calls out.
I make my way to the judging table clutching the blue ribbon. Barrel walks proudly beside me, tail wagging like he personally orchestrated the whole disaster. Which he might have. His paws are suspiciously sticky with what I’m pretty sure is bourbon caramel glaze.
When I was walking around the festival I got caught up in a lively conversation with Clogging Casey. I’d let her ten-year-old daughter and her bestie walk Barrel around the festival in a loop. I have a sinking suspicion now that he might have gone Born Free on them and wrecked havoc.
Across the square, the festival band stops mid-song.
People are staring.
Apparently, dethroning Miss Bettie is a cardinal sin. Ian comes up behind me and crosses his arms over his chest, all casual curiosity.
“It turns out that Miss Bettie’s entry was eaten by a wayward mutt,” the man says over the mic. “So she is automatically disqualified.”
Oh, God.
Barrel ate her brownies. Which is a double disaster. Because not only did it ruin Miss Bettie’s entry in the contest, chocolate is dangerous for dogs.
Also, how dare he call Barrel a mutt?
“What kind of brownies?” I call out, heart rate kicking up. I pull my phone out to call the director of the animal shelter. He’ll have the information for an emergency vet. “Is there chocolate or cocoa in them?”
I bend down to inspect Barrel’s snout for remnants of smeared chocolate or signs of intestinal distress.
“They’re blondie brownies,” Miss Bettie says. “No chocolate or cocoa, Winnie, so the dog is fine.”
Relief courses through me. I appreciate Miss Bettie jumping in to reassure me so quickly. Maybe she’s not that upset with me after all.
“Well, they were blondie brownies. They’re nothing but crumbs now,” she adds pointedly.
Okay, so she’s a little mad.
I squeeze Barrel’s face between my hands. “Don’t scare me like that, Barrel. Also, way to make enemies our first weekend in town.”
Ian squeezes my shoulder as he moves past me.
I stand up and eye Miss Bettie. “I”m so sorry about that. I think we all know this rightfully is yours.” I hold out the ribbon for her to collect.
She just stares at me but doesn’t take the ribbon. “I’m not taking that. No one tasted my dessert. I can’t claim a victory when no one even judged my blondies.”
Great. She’s ethical to boot. Couldn’t we just pretend they had judged her blondies?
“I didn’t win,” I insist to the frazzled festival volunteer beside me.
She gives me a tight smile. “Oh honey. That’s not helping.”
“How do we know she didn’t send her dog to eat Miss Bettie’s blondies on purpose?” someone asks.
“What?” I’m outraged. “That’s absurd! I would never do something like that.”
I want to tell them all I don’t care enough to cheat but somehow I don’t think that will win me any points either.
Ian squeezes my arm.
And sighs.
Then he walks toward the stage with the annoyed stride of a man who did not wake up this morning intending to moderate a small-town crisis. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair slightly mussed like he’s been running a hand through it all day.
Which he has.
Because I stress him out.
He’s wearing a simple button-down today with the sleeves rolled up.
His expression is calm but serious in the way of someone who takes his job—and apparently dessert justice—very seriously.
The woman next to me whispers reverently, “That’s Ian Lennox.”
“The one and only,” I whisper back, amused.
“Master distiller at Four Brothers.”
“With a degree and everything.”
“You know him then?” She nods in approval. “We’re all so proud of him.”
I wonder if Ian knows that.
Ian climbs the steps to the stage and takes the microphone with both confidence and resignation.
The crowd quiets instantly.
He looks out over the festival, then down at the contest table where I’m still standing. Our eyes meet for half a second.
I shrug and mouth, I’m sorry.
He exhales slowly, then a slow and sexy smile splits across his face.
There’s that power again. The force of Ian.
Holy shit, I want to get naked with him right now.
He speaks. People listen.
He has a quiet authority and I find that kind of competence really damn hot.
“Alright,” he says, voice deep and steady through the speakers. “Let’s clear something up.”
The square goes silent.
Even Barrel stops whining.
Ian rests one hand on the podium, shoulders squared, and continues. “The Spring Festival recipe contest has always been judged anonymously.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“That’s intentional,” he adds. “Because the point isn’t popularity.” His gaze sweeps the audience. “It’s the craft. Every recipe gets judged the same way. Same process. Same standards.”
Someone near the front shouts, “But Bettie always wins!”
Ian nods once. “Bettie’s recipes are excellent. But excellence doesn’t mean automatic.”
I half expect Bettie to rush him on stage and take him down, but nothing so dramatic happens.
Ian leans forward slightly, hands braced on the podium. “This town takes pride in what we make,” he continues. “Bourbon. Food. Traditions.” His voice is calm, but there’s fire under it now. “And pride means doing things the right way.”
The crowd murmurs in approval.
“If we start ignoring the rules because the outcome surprises us,” he says, “then we’re not respecting the craft anymore.”
I stare at him.
Because he’s not just defending the contest.
He’s defending me.
A complete stranger who just arrived in a moving truck yesterday and upset his entire weekend.
Just like I’ve upset the dessert contest.
“And if a newcomer enters a good recipe,” Ian finishes, “they deserve the same fair shot as anyone else.”
Silence hangs over the square.
“The rules are clear that if the dessert cannot be eaten for whatever reason, then that person is disqualified from competition. However, that feels unfair when the reason for the entry being inedible is an off-leash dog.”
Whoops. I glance down at Barrel. “You have no shame,” I tell him.
He gives me an excited bark.
“This is a generous and giving community, built on tradition and looking out for our neighbors. From the volunteers who coach our youth sports to the high school art club painting our town mural to those who dedicate countless hours to making Wanted a great place to live, we do things the right way. Fairly. With integrity. So I think that the judges ought to consider allowing the blondies to be remade and judged tomorrow. If the blondie baker wants to, that is.”
“I do!” Miss Bettie says. She sounds excited for a do-over.
“I’m fine with that,” I yell out. “I’m returning the ribbon right now.” I slap the blue ribbon down on the judge’s table.
“Excellent. Now I’m going to offer a peace offering of a bottle of Four Brothers to each of our bakers who put so much effort into their creations today and for their patience as we sort this out.”
“Hot damn!” someone yells out.
Then someone in the crowd claps.
Another person joins in.
Within seconds the applause spreads through the crowd.
Ian straightens slightly, looking uncomfortable with the attention.
Which is when I notice three teenagers at the front holding up their phones.
Filming.
Ian hands the microphone back to the organizers, clearly hoping to escape.
But it’s too late.
The crowd parts as he steps down from the stage, and people start talking all at once again.
Ian reaches me. His eyes are warm. He’s a little flushed from the speech. Smelling faintly like oak and spice and something unfairly appealing.
“How did I do?” he asks.
“You finished strong. For a minute there I was worried the messaging was wrong but you recovered.”
“What messaging was that?”
“That you were backing me. That’s a dangerous proposition when it’s my dog who destroyed the infamous caramel bourbon blondies.” I smile at him. “And you know, the woman you kissed.”
“I was defending the judging process.” Ian rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
“Is that all?” I’m not even offended because I know he was. But I also firmly believe he was defending me. He can’t convince me otherwise.
“No.” He folds his arms, expression firm in that very attractive, very serious way.
“You won,” he says. “Fair and square.” His mouth twitches slightly. “Second place.”
That makes me laugh. “I don’t doubt that. But I practically caused a riot.”
“That happens at this festival.”
One of the female judges approaches. “Those bourbon balls are to die for Winnie. You used Four Brothers small batch, didn’t you? The oak just complements the cocoa so well.”
“I…”
That’s when it hits me.
I probably used a very expensive bourbon in my recipe.
And Ian didn’t say anything. He just walked me and my bourbon balls to the festival.
I am so having sex with Ian Lennox.
“I did,” I tell her. I glance over at Ian. “Compliments of Four Brothers’ master distiller.”