9. Ethan
CHAPTER NINE
Ethan
I didn’t give a damn about the Medford Fall Festival. Never had.
The whole thing was a little too small-town for me—hayrides, pumpkin patches, kids running around sticky with caramel apples. It wasn’t my scene.
But this year, there was a cook-off. And Mason had been talking shit.
“Face it, E,” he’d said last week at Lucky’s, leaning back with that damn smirk. “You can handle a wrench, but the kitchen? That's a different story.”
I’d let it go. At first.
But then he’d made some comment about my “peak culinary ability” being scrambled eggs, and that was it.
Now here I was, standing behind a folding table in the middle of Maple Avenue, surrounded by people who actually cared about things like fall festivals and competitive cooking.
I cracked my knuckles, sizing up my ingredients. Mason was two tables down, already hamming it up for the crowd, talking a big game. Owen, on the other hand, was focused, rolling up his sleeves and setting out his ingredients like he was about to perform surgery.
I exhaled slowly. Time to win this damn thing.
The air was thick with the scent of sizzling butter, roasted garlic, and grilled meat. Around me, people bustled through the festival, stopping at booths, laughing, enjoying the crisp autumn evening.
I tuned it all out.
The only thing that mattered was the grill in front of me.
Mason was making some kind of salmon dish, playing it up like he was a damn Food Network star. But I kept it simple—perfectly grilled steak, garlic butter melting over the top, bourbon-glazed sweet potatoes on the side.
Solid. Reliable. Just like me.
“Smells good,” a voice teased.
I knew who it was before I even turned.
I tightened my grip on the spatula as I looked up.
Aurora was standing at the edge of the cook-off area, arms crossed, watching me with those sharp green eyes that had been haunting me for weeks. Her auburn hair was loose, catching the glow of the festival lights, and the way she looked in those jeans. Damn.
I tore my eyes away, focusing on my grill.
“Didn’t peg you for the competitive-cooking type,” she said, tilting her head.
I arched a brow. “Didn’t peg you for the fall-festival type.”
She shrugged. “I’m expanding my horizons.”
My gaze dropped to her mouth before I could stop myself.
Bad idea, Grady.
Before I could respond, Mason slid up beside her, grinning like an idiot.
“You know,” he drawled, “if you want a taste of something really special, I’ve got a plate with your name on it.”
I shot him a look. “Mason.”
He smirked, completely unbothered. “What? Just being hospitable.”
Aurora laughed, shaking her head. “I think I'll wait and see who wins first.”
Smart woman.
Mason winked. “Fair enough, bookstore girl.”
I watched as her lips twitched, amusement flickering in her expression. She didn’t hate being called that, not really. And the fact that Mason could get her to loosen up, to smile, was frustrating.
But I had more things to focus on right now.
The cook-off was getting into full swing.
The flames from my grill flared, the scent of butter and bourbon filling the air. Around me, the competition was heating up—literally and figuratively.
Mason was still running his mouth while attempting to sear his salmon, which smelled way too fancy for this crowd. Owen, ever the silent competitor, had opted for a slow-cooked pork tenderloin with caramelized apples. Solid choice.
But it wasn’t just the three of us.
Jaxon was a last-minute entry, flipping burger patties like he was born to do it. Ryan was next to him, tossing chili powder into a bubbling pot, determined to prove that “a real man’s dish comes in a bowl.”
Todd Rivers, the bartender from Lucky’s, was making what he called “drunken barbecue ribs.” Given that the man spent most of his time pouring whiskey and beer, I wasn’t surprised he’d found a way to add alcohol to his recipe.
Then there was Harriet Cooper.
The owner of Sweet Maple Bakery —and everyone’s unofficial grandmother—stood at her station, calmly rolling out homemade pasta like she had all the time in the world.
“No need to rush, boys,” she called, her smile deceptively sweet. “A good meal takes patience.”
We were so screwed.
“Damn it,” Mason muttered, eyeing her dough. “She's making pasta ? Who let that happen?”
Owen laughed. “Are you gonna tell her no?”
Mason grimaced. “Not if I want to live.”
I smirked, turning my steak with practiced ease. My garlic butter was melting just right, sizzling over the grill, the smell deep and rich.
My gut told me I was in the lead.
But the crowd— and the judges—had yet to weigh in.
A hush fell over the cook-off area as Charlie Dunn, the owner of The Starry Night Theater, stepped onto the small stage with a microphone. He was one of the judges, along with Nancy Hayes, and the local grump who spent most of his time at Lucky’s, Paul Baker.
“All right, folks! The moment you’ve been waiting for—judging time!” Charlie announced, adjusting his glasses. “Our contestants will now plate their dishes, and our esteemed panel will decide the winner!”
I exhaled, steadying myself. It was time to seal the deal.
Mason was already plating his salmon like he was on MasterChef, making sure everything was arranged just so . Owen, ever the minimalist, kept his plate simple. Just meat, apples, and a drizzle of sauce.
I went for presentation, too, but not too much. I arranged the steak just right, let the butter pool at the edges, and made sure the bourbon glaze on my sweet potatoes shone under the lights.
Perfect.
One by one, the judges made their rounds.
Nancy was polite but unreadable, giving each plate a nod before moving on. Charlie took his time, tasting everything carefully, humming to himself. Paul, of course, was a nightmare—grumbling about seasoning, making exaggerated faces, taking notes like this was a life-or-death situation.
Aurora had stuck around to watch, and when she caught my eye, she smirked.
Nervous? she mouthed.
I rolled my shoulders. Not even a little.
That was a lie. I needed a win, what with everything going on at work. Oh, and my epic bowling fail.
That damn pink shirt.
Finally, Charlie returned to the microphone, clearing his throat. “After much deliberation, we have a winner!”
The crowd leaned in.
Ryan nudged Mason. “If Harriet wins, we riot.”
“Agreed,” Mason muttered.
Charlie grinned. “This year’s Medford Fall Festival Cook-Off champion is…”
A pause.
A dramatic, bullshit pause.
“Ethan Grady!”
A cheer went up from the crowd.
Mason groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jaxon slapped me on the back, laughing. “Damn, man. That steak must’ve been magic.”
I smirked as I took the first-place ribbon, shaking Charlie’s hand. The crowd was still buzzing, people clapping me on the back, and Mason was sulking like a sore loser.
“This is rigged,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I demand a recount.”
Owen, who had taken third place without a single complaint, just rolled his eyes. “You lost, Mason. Get over it.”
Jaxon was still grinning. “We'll have to get you a Chef Grady apron now.”
“Don’t push your luck,” I grumbled, tucking the ribbon into my back pocket.
I should’ve been enjoying the moment—basking in my victory, rubbing it in Mason’s face, maybe even celebrating with Aurora.
But then I saw her. And my entire body went tense.
Across the square, just past the crowd, Aurora stood near the old library, backed against the brick wall.
Hank Lawson was in front of her, his posture stiff, his expression cold.
And he was yelling.
What the hell?
The celebration around me blurred. Without thinking, I started moving.
Hank leaned in closer, his voice sharp. Aurora’s shoulders squared, but I could see the tension in them, see the way she was holding herself still, like she was forcing herself not to react.
I was across the square in seconds, my pulse pounding.
Hank’s voice cut through the festival noise.
“I don’t know what you think you're doing here,” he spat. “And you think you can just waltz in and take over like nothing happened?”
Aurora didn’t flinch. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Bullshit,” he snapped. “I won’t let you ruin this town.”
I stepped between them, my voice cold. “That's enough, Hank.”
Aurora blinked, her gaze flicking up to me, but she didn’t say a word.
Hank took a slow breath, straightening.
“Ah. Ethan Grady, town hero.” His lips curved. “Should’ve figured you’d come running.”
I didn’t move. “If you’ve got a problem, you take it up with someone else. You don’t corner her in the middle of a damn festival.”
Hank’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” My voice dropped lower. “You think I’m just gonna stand here while you harass her?”
Hank exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t know the half of it, Grady. But you will soon enough.”
I clenched my jaw. “Is that a threat?”
“Of course not,” Hank said smoothly. “Just a warning.”
Then, just like that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the festival crowd.
I didn’t move until he was gone.
Aurora let out a slow breath, and I turned to her. “You okay?”
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah.”
I didn’t believe her. “Aurora.”
“I don’t even know what that was about,” she cut in, shaking her head. “He's acting like I did something to him when I’ve never even met the guy before.”
I frowned. “He's been sniffing around town for a while now. Trying to buy up property, forcing people out. If he's got a problem with you, it’s because he thinks you're standing in his way.”
Her brows furrowed, and she looked lost in thought.
Then she let out a humorless laugh. “Great. Just what I needed. Some unhinged real estate guy coming after me when I don’t even want to be here in the first place.”
I studied her carefully. “What do you want?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
The words felt like the truth. And for some reason, that made my chest tighten.
I nodded, exhaling. “Come on. Let’s get you a drink.”
She blinked up at me. “A drink?”
I shrugged. “Something stronger than cider.”
For a second, I thought she was going to refuse. But then she let out a breath, her shoulders loosening just a little.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Okay. Let’s get the hell out of here.”