Brooks #2
I offer them an easy smile. “We’re not changing the score sheet,” I assure them. “I’m just curious how you approached your pie.”
Willa’s eyes narrow slightly. I lean forward, elbows on the table. “What inspired you?”
The daughter brightens immediately. “It’s my grandma’s recipe,” she says. “We added brown butter this year.”
Brown butter. That explains the depth.
Willa’s pen moves again despite herself.
The mom gestures nervously toward the crust. “We chill it twice. That’s why it’s flaky.”
I nod thoughtfully. “That’s smart.”
Willa exhales slowly. “We’ll be evaluating strictly on criteria,” she says, tone polite but edged.
“Of course,” I reply.
I take another bite, more deliberately this time. Texture, spice balance, moisture. It’s solid. Familiar. Comforting.
I take the clipboard from Willa and jot a note down. I see her green eyes slide over to glance at it.
Balanced sweetness. Strong crust integrity. Slight underbake on edge.
Her lips press together. Because we both know my notes are spot on.
“This is delicious,” I say warmly. “Your grandma would be proud, I’m sure.”
They retreat a few steps but don’t go far.
Willa sets her pen down for a moment. “If we start letting every entrant pitch their pie,” she says quietly, “this becomes a popularity contest.”
“Only if we let it,” I answer.
Her gaze flicks toward the crowd gathered behind them. “You’re playing to the room,” she says.
“I’m acknowledging the room. There’s a big difference.”
“This isn’t marketing.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s community.”
That seems to land harder than I expect it to. She studies me like she’s trying to recalibrate something she thought she understood. “I care about fairness,” she says.
“Good. So do I.” She looks unconvinced. I lean back slightly, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “You think I want this to look like Calder versus Hartley every time we open our mouths?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not if we’re smart.”
Her eyes flick down to the clipboard between us. Then back up.
Clearing her throat, she looks at Marcy. “We’re ready for the next pie,” she says, and takes the first sheet off the clipboard, handing it to her.
Marcy sets down the next pie in front of us and I swallow my grimace. This one’s overly ambitious—maple bourbon with a honey rosemary crust.
Willa makes a face before she even takes a bite.
“You hate it already,” I murmur.
“It’s trying too hard.”
I take a bite. The rosemary hits first, sharp and unexpected.
“Or it’s experimental,” I counter.
“It’s distracting.”
“It’s bold.”
“It’s confused.”
“It’s interesting.”
We lock eyes.
The air tightens.
Behind us, someone whispers, “Oh, this one’s gonna be good.”
I lower my voice. “Innovation doesn’t erase tradition.”
“And tradition doesn’t need rescuing,” she shoots back.
There it is.Not about pie. Not really, anyway.
I glance down at the slice again. “It’s not my favorite,” I admit. “But the technique’s solid.”
Her pen stills again. “You’re giving it points?” she asks.
“For concept and for innovation. Not execution.”
She studies me, recalculating. Then, after a beat, she adjusts her score slightly.
Not dramatically, but enough for me to know that my comment struck a chord.
Marcy beams from across the room like she’s witnessing world peace.
We move through the next few pies more fluidly. Not agreeing on everything—but not fighting either. When she catches a slight graininess in the filling, I test for it. When I note uneven spice layering, she double-checks.
Something tells me it’s gonna be a long day.
Our final pie of the afternoon is unassuming.
No bourbon. No rosemary. No dramatic lattice work or caramel drizzle. Just a simple, golden crust with slightly uneven crimping and a handwritten card propped beside it.
Mabel Jensen – Home Kitchen Entry
Willa reaches for the card first.
“Mabel’s been entering for years,” she says, almost to herself.
I don’t comment.
The slice is set down in front of us. The filling is a deeper amber than the others, pumpkin filling thick, set, and creamy.
I take a bite.
The crust shatters softly. Delicate and flaky. The filling is warm with cinnamon but not overdone. A hint of nutmeg. Maybe clove. The bite holds its shape instead of dissolving.
It’s not flashy. It’s reliable.
Willa chews slowly, eyes closing for just a fraction longer than they have with any other pie.
“She lost her husband in the spring,” someone whispers behind us. “She’s been baking nonstop.”
I don’t look back, but Willa does. Just briefly. Then she turns forward again, pen poised.
The room waits.
I take another bite, slower this time. The flavor isn’t complex. It’s familiar. It tastes like the kind of pie you eat at a kitchen table that’s seen decades of use. The kind that doesn’t need reinvention because it already knows exactly what it is.
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
My mom used to bake like this.
Not fancy. Not experimental. Just… right.
She’d hum while she worked. Flour on her jeans. Always a little too much cinnamon because she claimed “life’s too short for subtle spice.”
I swallow.
Willa writes something on the sheet.
I lean in slightly to read it.
Balanced. Confident. Clean finish. Excellent structure.
No qualifiers. No passive-aggressive deductions.
I add my own note beneath hers. Classic done well. No wasted effort.
Our scores land nearly identical.
Willa glances at the numbers. Then at me. Something shifts in her expression—not surprise. Recognition.
“You’re not docking it for lack of innovation?” she asks quietly.
“Why would I?” I reply.
“It’s safe.”
“It’s also delicious. Sometimes safe gets it right.”
The faintest flicker of understanding crosses her face.
We move on to the last pie, but the decision has already settled between us without needing to be spoken.
When Marcy returns, practically vibrating, Willa speaks first.
“Mabel Jensen’s pie is our winner.”
I nod once. “Unanimous.”
The room erupts.
Mabel covers her mouth with both hands, eyes shining as her daughter—granddaughter, maybe—throws her arms around her. Willa stands, offering her hand across the table. “Congratulations.” Her voice is steady, warm. Real.
I stand too. “Well earned,” I add.
Mabel looks between us, blinking rapidly. “Thank you. It’s just the recipe I’ve always made, but I’ve been working on my technique based on the notes you gave me last year,” she says to Willa.
My gaze catches on Willa’s clipboard, the one with the notes from past entrants.
“That’s why it works,” Willa says. “Your flavors were always great. You just needed to refine it.”
I glance at Willa and note the honesty flashing in her eyes and her sweet, genuine smile.
As the crowd surges forward to congratulate the winner, there’s a brief pocket of quiet around our table.
Willa exhales slowly. “That was the right call,” she says.
“It was,” I agree.
For a moment, there’s no edge. No competition. Just two people who understand the weight of getting something right.
Her shoulder brushes mine as she shifts and neither of us moves away. This is the first time since the bowling alley that it doesn’t feel like we’re pulling in opposite directions.
And that hits harder…more than the bet or the blindfold or the town’s expectations—we’re not competing. We’re refining.
It might be the most dangerous thing of all.
“Congratulations, Mabel!” Marcy shouts! “Just so you know, you’ve got your work cut out for you! We have twelve people entered in the pie eating contest, so you best get baking.”
The room explodes into applause. I scan the crowd out of habit as everyone continues to cheer for Mabel.
Willa’s family stands near the back—her grandfather beaming, her dad clapping hard enough to be heard over everyone else, Patty lifting her glass toward her like she’s toasting something bigger than pie.
They’re here for her. All of them, her entire family. I glance toward the door.
No Evan.
No Jace.
Of course.
A familiar irritation coils low in my chest. Figures. Just fucking figures. Once again, it’s up to me to keep this ship from sinking. If we win, it’s we. If we lose, it’s me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as a dull ache starts to bloom behind my eyes. Get it together, Brooks. And fast.
Because Marcy’s voice rings out again, louder this time. “And now,” she announces, practically vibrating, “onto the big event of the day!”
The crowd shifts. Energy spikes. A long folding table is wheeled forward, already lined with covered plates that I can only assume hold neatly sliced apples beneath.
Blindfolds sit folded beside each setting.
Two chairs, side by side. Not across from each other.
My pulse slows instead of quickening.
Willa turns toward the table at the same time I look toward her and our eyes meet.
Marcy beams at us. “Judges,” she calls sweetly, “if you’d take your seats once more.”
Backing out isn’t an option. Not for my brothers. Not for this town. And definitely not with Willa Hartley already walking toward that table like she was born for it.
If I lose, I work for her.
If I win, she works for me.
Either way—I’m about to let her see exactly how good I am.
And I have a feeling she’s about to show me something I’m not prepared for.