Chapter 8 Sugar-Dusted Sentinel #2
"Perfect!" Cam beams. "We'll pulse them in the food processor to get them diced. Or, Tara, your call—we can dice a fresh russet potato and cook it 'til it's tender, just a few minutes."
"Frozen is faster," I suggest, still watching his hands. They are large, calloused, the hands of a hockey player, yet they move with precision and care. He’s utterly absorbed, a stark contrast to his boisterous public persona, and it’s mesmerizing.
“Faster it is,” he agrees, already directing Tyler to the freezer.
He skewers the hot dogs and cheese sticks with expert ease, arranging them strategically.
"All-cheese, all-hot dog, or half-and-half with the cheese on top—the classics," he notes, his gaze briefly finding mine.
His eyes hold a deeper intensity now, a focused energy that makes the air between us crackle.
As the batter rises, he gets the oil ready. "Deep pot, at least two inches of oil, heated to three-fifty to three-sixty-five Fahrenheit," he instructs, his voice confident.
Then comes the assembly. He dips a chilled skewer into the puffy batter, twisting it to get a thick, even coating. Then, he rolls it in the diced hash browns, pressing gently, before rolling it in the crushed panko. His big hands mold the coating, creating a uniform, enticing shape.
He lines up the skewers like soldiers. “Pro move: chill them. Cold cheese holds its nerve when it hits the oil.”
He lowers it into the oil. The sizzle sings.
“Five to eight minutes,” he says, turning it with tongs until it’s the exact shade of golden that makes your mouth water. “Drain on a rack. And this is important—while it’s still hot…”
He showers it in a light drift of granulated sugar between his fingers. The crew leans in to listen to the crust crackle while my chest does an inexplicable little flip.
He makes three more, then passes the first to Mrs. Whitmore on a piece of butcher paper. “Taste test belongs to the boss,” he says, entirely earnest.
“My word,” she gasps, cheese stretching from the inside. “Damn you, Wilder,” which in Mrs. Whitmore is the highest Michelin rating she offers.
“Now, for the best Rookie in the league,” he murmurs, his gaze soft and intense.
I take a bite. And his eyes visibly darken.
I feel the crust shatter under my teeth; the sugar kisses the salt; the mozzarella stretches into a ridiculous ribbon and then yields. It’s joyful. It’s ridiculous. It’s comfort wrapped in audacity.
A sound leaves me I definitely did not authorize.
His mouth tips to my ear. “Knew I could make you melt,” he murmurs.
Tyler takes a bite of his, groans like a sinner converted, and then tries to look like he didn’t.
Cam, however, simply bows. Not the jokey, showman dip, but something small and real, his eyes on mine, seeking a silent approval that hit me harder than any of his public antics.
There’s a vulnerable spark beneath his over-the-top confidence and it tightens something deep inside me, a longing that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with the man.
He turns back to the line, moving faster now, handing off, coaching, laughing, keeping a running patter that makes even the fryer feel like a comedy set.
He dusts half with sugar, leaves half plain.
He lines up ketchup and mustard, because he understands theater and options.
He hands one to the dishwasher, and one to the delivery driver who just popped in.
Then his eyes are back on me, urging me to finish my second corn dog.
The way he watches makes this feel less like eating and more like an intimate conversation I'm having with every bite. The subtle deepening of his smile when my eyes close in appreciation.
It is the way his whole being radiates a confident, joyful energy, completely devoted to this moment. Even his shoulders look happy.
How do you not fall for this?
My internal voice, usually so guarded, whispers the thought with a tremor.
His showmanship isn't a mask here; it is an extension of a generous, passionate soul.
His laughter fills the room, bright and infectious, and he looks at me like I am the only person in the world who truly understands his joy.
Then, as the crew munches happily on their unexpected dish, I see it. His eyes, though still warm from the cooking, flicker to the kitchen's back door, then to the large window overlooking the alley. The brief, almost imperceptible tightening around his jaw speaks volumes.
He’s playing two games at once—the showman keeping the room light, and the defenseman calculating threats. And the scary thing? He’s good at both.
He leans closer to me, his voice sliding deeper so only I can hear. "Let's see if our little audience enjoys the show, Rookie. If they’re watching, we want them to think this is just fun. Keep them underestimating us."
His words, meant to reassure, also send a shiver down my spine. He is in the game, alright.
He has positioned himself so that if anyone came through that back hall wrong, they’d meet him first. I have no doubt— the showman would vanish in an instant, leaving only the faithful sentinel. A primal part of me hums with a fierce, undeniable trust.
And I, against all my carefully constructed defenses, am right there with him, utterly captivated, and falling faster than I think possible.
So, I retreat to the pass and pretend to reorganize tickets that do not need reorganizing. The world feels… buoyant. Wrong word. Lighter. Like I've been holding in a sneeze for my whole life and finally let it out.