Chapter Four
T he post-parade rush had finally died down to a manageable crowd when Soren laughed. Birdie nearly dropped her spatula.
It hadn’t been the polite, controlled sound she'd heard a few times before, but a real laugh—rich and completely unguarded. A little girl had just asked if his pickle caviar was "made from real pickles that went to college," and her serious expression had cracked his usual composure wide open.
"Yes," he told her solemnly. "They studied very hard to become caviar."
The girl nodded sagely and skipped away, satisfied with this explanation.
"Did you just make a joke?" Birdie asked, grinning at him across the narrow space between their trucks.
"I don't make jokes," Soren replied, but she could see him fighting another smile.
"That was definitely a joke. A good one."
"It was factual information delivered in an age-appropriate manner."
"It was adorable."
The word hung between them. His eyes lingered on her face with an intensity that made her forget about fryers and customers and everything except the way he was looking at her.
"Birdie," he said, stepping closer.
"Yeah?"
"Would you—" He was interrupted by a commotion from the direction of the livestock barn. Raised voices, someone shouting about escaped animals, and then the unmistakable sound of panicked squealing.
"Are those the racing pigs?" Birdie asked, standing on her tiptoes to see over the crowd.
"I believe so," Soren said dryly as a pink blur shot past their corner, followed by several red-faced fair volunteers wielding feed buckets and a lot of determination.
The pig—a surprisingly speedy spotted specimen—seemed to be heading straight for their setup.
Birdie had just enough time to grab her prep bowls before chaos arrived in the form of one very determined pig who'd apparently decided that her warming trays smelled like the most interesting thing at the entire fair.
"Shoo!" she called, waving her spatula ineffectively as the pig began investigating her truck with the thorough attention of a health inspector.
"Here, pig!" called one of the volunteers, shaking a bucket. "Come on, Petunia!"
Petunia was having none of it. She'd discovered something fascinating under Birdie's truck and was rooting around with single-minded determination.
"What's she doing under there?" Soren asked, crouching down to peer into the shadows.
"I think she found my emergency snack stash," Birdie said, mortified. "I keep granola bars under there in case I get hungry during long setups."
"Granola bars?"
"The organic ones with honey and dried fruit. Don't judge me."
Soren's mouth twitched. "I'm not judging. I'm impressed by your forward planning."
"Can you help me get her out? I can't reach—"
But as Birdie knelt down to coax Petunia away from her contraband snacks, the pig chose that moment to back out rapidly, colliding with Birdie and sending her tumbling sideways. She would have landed hard if Soren hadn't caught her, his arms coming around her waist to steady her.
For a moment, everything else faded away—the shouting volunteers, the amused crowd that had gathered to watch the pig chase, even Petunia herself, who was now happily crunching her way through what appeared to be an entire box of granola bars.
Birdie found herself pressed against Soren, her hands flat against him. She was close enough to count the faint freckles across his nose that she'd never noticed before.
"Hi," she said breathlessly.
"Hi," he replied, his voice rough around the edges.
Neither of them moved. Birdie was acutely aware of his hands at her waist, the way his chest rose and fell beneath her palms, the fact that if she tilted her face up just a little...
"Got her!" called one of the volunteers triumphantly, and the spell was broken. Soren helped Birdie to her feet, his hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"Thank you," she said, brushing dust off her apron and trying to ignore the way her heart was racing.
"Anytime," he replied, and his tone made her look up sharply.
The crowd dispersed as Petunia was led away to rejoin her fellow racers, but Birdie noticed several people casting speculative glances in their direction. Including Mrs. Plum, who was standing near the ring toss game with a smile that could have lit up the entire fairground.
"We're never going to live this down," Birdie said.
"Probably not," Soren agreed. "Though I have to admit, it was effective advertising. I think half the fair just decided they need to try our food."
He was right. For the next hour, they had a steady stream of customers, many of whom made cheerful comments about "the pig incident" and how nice it was to see young people looking out for each other.
"You two are just precious," said one elderly woman as she purchased a bubble gum bite. "Been married long?"
"We're not—" Birdie started.
"Business partners," Soren finished smoothly, handing over the woman's order.
"Business partners," the woman repeated with a knowing wink. "Of course you are, dear."
As the afternoon wore on, Birdie found herself hyperaware of every interaction with Soren.
The way he automatically handed her ingredients before she asked for them.
How he'd started humming along—quietly and probably unconsciously—to her playlist. The fact that he'd begun timing his prep work to create natural conversation breaks when they weren't busy with customers.
"You know," she said during one of those quiet moments, "yesterday I thought you hated my music."
"I don't hate it," Soren replied, arranging his sphere fillings with characteristic precision. "It's just... very enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic?"
"Optimistic. Joyful. Everything is about love and happiness and believing in magic."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Soren paused in his work, considering this. "It's not bad. It's just not something I'm used to."
"What kind of music do you usually listen to?"
"Classical, mostly. Some jazz. Instrumental music that helps me concentrate."
Birdie tried to picture Soren listening to Mozart while creating his fried goods and found the image surprisingly appealing. "Would you mind if I played something different? Just for a little while?"
"You don't have to change your music for me."
"I want to." She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her playlists until she found what she was looking for. "How about this?"
The opening notes of a jazz piano trio drifted from her speakers, mellow and sophisticated but still undeniably romantic.
Soren's hands stilled in their work. "This is beautiful. What is it?"
"Bill Evans Trio. 'Autumn Leaves.' It's one of my grandmother's favorites. She used to play it when she cooked Sunday dinner."
"Your grandmother liked jazz?"
"She said it was cooking music. Complex enough to keep your mind engaged, but smooth enough not to interfere with your hands." Birdie smiled at the memory. "She taught me that different foods need different soundtracks."
"What's the soundtrack for your fried treats?"
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "I think we're still writing it."
When Soren passed her ingredients, their fingers would brush and linger. When she reached across him for supplies, she became aware of the clean scent of his soap mixed with vanilla and coffee.
Around four o'clock, during a rare lull, Soren surprised her again.
"Would you like to take a break?" he asked. "Walk around the fair a little?"
Birdie blinked at him. "You want to leave your truck?"
"For a few minutes. We could put up signs, shut everything down temporarily."
"You mean actually take a break? Like normal people do?"
"I thought you might like to see the fair from the other side. As a visitor instead of a vendor."
The thoughtfulness of it made Birdie's whole body felt tight with emotion. "I'd love that."
They moved quickly to secure their stations—Soren turning off his fryer and covering his prep areas while Birdie did the same.
She grabbed a piece of cardboard and a marker, writing "BACK IN 30 MINUTES!
" in cheerful letters and taping it to her service window.
Soren produced a more professional-looking sign that simply read "Temporarily Closed" and posted it at his window.
"Ready?" he asked.
They walked through the fairgrounds hand in hand, though Birdie couldn't quite remember when they'd started holding hands. It felt natural, like they'd been doing it for years instead of minutes.
"Oh!" she said, stopping suddenly at a game booth. "I haven't played ring toss in forever."
"It's rigged," Soren said automatically. "The rings are slightly too small for the bottles, and the bottles are weighted to make them top-heavy."
"Of course you know the physics of carnival games."
"Basic probability and engineering."
"Well, Dr. Physics," Birdie said, pulling him toward the booth, "let's see if you can beat the system."
"I don't usually do carnival games."
"Come on. Live a little."
The teenage boy running the booth perked up as they approached. "Three rings for five dollars! Win your lady a prize!"
"She's not my—" Soren started, then caught the look on Birdie's face. "Five dollars, please."
Birdie watched, enchanted, as Soren studied the setup with the intensity of someone planning a military operation. He tested the weight of the rings, calculated angles, even checked for subtle tilts in the platform.
"You're overthinking it," she said.
"I don't overthink. I analyze."
"Same thing."
His first two throws missed entirely, rings bouncing off bottles in ways that defied his careful calculations. But the third ring, thrown with less precision and more intuition, settled around a bottle's neck.
"Winner!" the booth operator said.
"How did you do that?" Soren asked, staring at the ring like it had betrayed him.
"You stopped trying to control it," Birdie said softly. "Sometimes the best things happen when you just trust and let go."
She knew they weren't talking about ring toss anymore.
Soren chose a small stuffed elephant from the prize selection—gray and soft with friendly button eyes.
"For you," he said, holding it out to her. “An elephant never forgets.”
Birdie hugged the stuffie to her, ridiculously touched by the gesture. "Thank you."
They continued their walk, sharing funnel cake and watching children shriek with delight on the rides.
Soren proved surprisingly observant about the fair's operations, pointing out clever booth designs and commenting on traffic flow patterns.
But mostly, Birdie just enjoyed watching him relax, seeing him smile more in one hour than she had in the previous two days combined.
"We should head back," she said eventually, though she was reluctant to break the spell.
"Probably," Soren agreed, equally reluctant.
They were walking past the duck pond game when Birdie's phone rang. She glanced at the screen and grimaced.
"I have to take this," she said apologetically. "It's my day job."
"Birdie?" The voice of her former supervisor at Premier Catering was tight with barely controlled panic.
"Thank God. We have a crisis. The Whitman wedding tomorrow—our main chef just called in sick and the backup chef's car broke down.
I know you don't work for us anymore, but you developed the Whitman menu when you were here, and frankly, nobody else can execute it the way you do.
Could you possibly come in tonight to prep everything?
I'll pay your freelance rate plus overtime. "
"Tonight?" Birdie's stomach dropped. "But I'm working the fair—"
"I know, and I'm sorry, but you created that menu and you know all the techniques.
The other chefs could probably muddle through, but the Whitmans specifically requested your style when they booked.
If we don't deliver your quality tomorrow, we lose the contract and probably our reputation. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate."
Birdie looked at Soren, who was pretending not to listen while clearly hearing every word.
"I... yes. I'll be there."
"Thank you. You're a lifesaver."
She hung up and turned to Soren with an apologetic expression. "I have to go."
"Work emergency?"
"Wedding tomorrow. My old catering company is desperate—I created their signature menu and the clients specifically requested my style.
The other chefs could handle it, but not to the standard the clients expect.
" She felt terrible leaving him to handle their corner alone.
"I have to call an Uber to get there since my truck's here.
I'm so sorry. I know this leaves you in a bind—"
"Go," Soren said firmly. "Emergency favors for former employers are part of the business."
"It's good money, but I hate leaving you—"
"Your reputation is important, Birdie. And people are counting on you." He squeezed her hand. "I can manage things here."
"Are you sure? The dinner rush can get crazy—"
"I'll figure it out." His smile was soft and reassuring. "Besides, how hard can it be to fry bubble gum?"
Despite everything, Birdie laughed. "Famous last words."
"Go," he said again, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "I'll be here when you get back."
As Birdie waited by the fairground gates for her Uber, clutching her stuffed elephant and trying not to think about how much she'd rather stay with Soren than spend the night prepping someone else's wedding menu, she watched him through the crowd.
He was already back at work, handling a customer, but she could see him glancing toward the gates every few seconds.
When their eyes met across the distance, he raised his hand in a small wave, and her heart soared.