Cook Off #2
“Beef short ribs, I think,” I tell her finally. “He’s been experimenting, though. He says it’s hard to find a, um, substitute. Says the texture and taste require a ton of little adjustments. I think I asked for too many details, because he got way into it with me the other day.”
“Think he’ll win?”
“I think if that old lady in the muumuu wins, I’ll shank her with one of his fancy knives. Apparently she’s won for the past ten years or something. Maybe ten decades, who knows. There should be laws against that.”
Winnie snorts, but doesn’t reply.
Suddenly I hear both of our names, and when we look over at the Tilt-a-Whirl line, Hazel has her hand up, waving at us in an attempt to call us over.
“I’m not riding that,” Winnie declares behind me. “There’s no way in hell my stomach can take it.”
“Oh, same,” I assure her. “But we could at least be social.” Without waiting for an answer from her that could really go either way, I stride over to the two lovebirds. I can feel Winnie following me, and when I glance back, she manages a polite smile while she tucks her hair back behind her ear.
“We aren’t riding that with you,” she greets automatically, gesturing to the ride where there’s definitely a kid heaving and screaming. “That’s just asking for it.”
Wren laughs, his mouth curled into a grin as his eyes dance with humor. It’s impossible not to feel at ease around him, and when I glance his way, he inclines his head. “Not you either, Saylor? Not even as an apology?”
“For New Wren?” I assume, giving him a small roll of my eyes. “Is it really still eating at you? It’s been a year. He’s an adult. And we’re still not changing his name. You lost that vote.”
Hazel doesn’t even bother hiding her grin.
“God, I love New Wren. You know, some days, I think he’s a little cuter than you.
” She glances at her fiancé, who gives her a look of mock horror.
When she lifts her hand to push at his chest lightly, I catch the sparkle of her engagement ring, sitting snugly on her finger.
Instinctively, I lift my camera, getting a great picture of her smiling up at him with her hand on his chest. He’s staring down at her with all the love in the world in his gaze, and I wonder how many people have ever gotten a look even slightly similar from him.
Certainly none of the people he’s killed.
But God, they really are perfect for each other. While Jed isn’t a gossip, I’ve picked up bits and pieces about Hazel, and all the crap she’s dealt with in her life. I know how Wren found her, and I have, unfortunately, heard the details about the misuse of machetes in the woods.
God, I really hope that doesn’t come up at their wedding.
After I make my excuses to leave, I realize Winnie wandered away at some point.
When I look around for her, I find her skulking under a few trees like a stray cat.
I’m about to go over to her—surely I should be nice enough to offer her some company—when Cassian suddenly steps out from behind the bigger tree, arms going around her waist as he drops his chin on her shoulder.
Immediately something in her relaxes. It’s like having his arms around her grounds Winnie in a way that’s just natural.
I can’t help taking a few photos of them as well, though these, of course, and Hazel’s, aren’t for the fair council’s use.
No, they’ll go to my friends in case they want them for themselves.
Doing one more circuit of the fair takes me another thirty minutes, and by then, I hope I’ve killed enough time for Jed to be done cooking.
Or almost done. When I get back to the tent, the smell of barbecue hits me hard, as if the scent is being pumped out from under the poles of the tent by fans, like Disney World and its infamous popcorn scent.
People are finally starting to gather, and it’s a perfect opportunity to work just a little bit more, though I’m pretty sure by now I have quite enough photos.
Even after I take a minute to go through them to delete the blurry ones and the ones that didn’t work out how I thought they would, there are still quite a few.
When I see him, I can tell Jed is in the zone, and it’s so hard not to fill the rest of my memory card with him. Sweat is beaded on the back of his neck under his freshly trimmed dark blond hair. He bites his lower lip as he works and mumbles to himself before shaking his head.
Threading through the crowd, I slide up beside him, not saying a word, wondering if I should maybe go, since—
Without warning, Jed turns, and with the sweetest smile, he leans forward to kiss me. There’s nothing performative or devouring about it. Not this time. Just affection and gentleness. “I’m almost done,” he murmurs against my lips. “Stay with me?”
“Always,” I breathe as my hand comes up to grip his T-shirt. Jed rewards me with a quick, bright smile, then goes back to finishing his short ribs.
I never get tired of watching him cook. So I’m lucky the house is open concept, and now that I’ve officially moved in instead of pretending I still spend any time at my little apartment, I’m able to watch him whenever I want.
I’ve never seen anyone make cooking look like art, and with half of his free time usually spent creating new dishes or improving others, I’m a lucky girl.
I never complain, obviously. Not when I get to enjoy the results of his efforts.
As if he can read my mind, Jed turns with a fork in one hand, the tines filled with tender meat dripping a dark, thick sauce. “Open?” he requests, head tilted, and I do as he says, parting my lips so he can press the fork into my mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” I murmur, covering my mouth with my hand politely as I chew. “Oh, shit, Jed.”
“It’s okay?” There it is. His sheepish lack of self-confidence that sometimes rears its head.
I kiss him. Just as chaste and sweet as he did earlier, and press my tongue to his for just a moment so he can taste his recipe. “It’s amazing,” I whisper. “You’re amazing. And if that old lady wins again, I’m hitting her over the head with my camera and burying her under the Ferris wheel.”
Jed grins, hesitates, then ventures, “Be a waste of good meat?”
I know he’s just joking. Maybe a year ago, that joke would’ve bothered me. But now I just snicker. “You sure? Isn’t she old enough that the meat would be, uh, pretty stringy? Gristly?”
Jed casts her a look, mock studying and considering while the old woman bustles away at the finishing touches of her barbecue.
“You’re right,” he agrees finally. “I bow to your sage wisdom, Saylor.” He goes back to what he’s doing, and by the time he’s done, he’s one of the few who hasn’t put his dish up on the judging table.
When he does, I wait for him behind his table, watching the other competitors to see how confident they look. All of them keep shooting looks toward the old woman, who proudly stands in front of the literal banner hanging off the front of her table.
FIVE-TIME STATE FAIR WINNER.
AUNT FRAN’S FAMOUS BBQ
The words are…bright. Hot pink on dark purple, and brash enough to make me squint like they’re casting light. Miss Fran is obviously confident in her victory, and as all three judges stride into the tent, her back straightens while her smile widens just a bit more.
Cocky.
I break away from Jed to take some photos of the judges. Two of them glance up in surprise, while the third just keeps eating her barbecue like there’s nothing more important in the world. And good for her, I think to myself as I walk around the tent with my camera.
They take a few minutes of tasting and murmuring, then they shift dishes forward or back on the table. By the time they’re done with that and straightened, only three plates are still on the side of the table closest to them.