Chapter 4
FOUR
KATELYN
The second the Snack Shack window slides open Saturday morning the crowd is buzzing.
Tricia stands just outside the frame with her phone on a tripod, narrating like she’s hosting a cooking show.
“It’s Day One of the Great Carver Family Pumpkin Patch Bake-Off,” she says. “Chef Chase versus Chef Katelyn. Team Apple Pie Nachos versus Team Pumpkin Cronut. Who will win? Let’s find out!”
The comments start flying before she’s even done her intro.
#TeamCronut
#TeamNacho
Marry him, Baker!
You can cut that tension with a butter knife.
I bite back a smile and lean out the window. “For the record, nobody’s cutting anything but pie today.”
Tricia giggles and turns the camera to Chase. He’s pretending to be unbothered, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing as he mixes batter like it personally offended him.
“The secret ingredient is obviously jealousy,” I whisper loudly enough for the mic to catch.
He glances over his shoulder. “The secret ingredient is focus, Chef Baker.”
The way he says chef—low and rough—sends a tiny shiver up my spine. Great. Fantastic.
Hopefully the internet just thinks I’m flushed from working around a stove.
The morning rush hits hard. Cronuts vanish. Nachos sell every bit as quickly.
Every time I hear the register ding I imagine Tricia’s spreadsheet tallying the score like a live-action video game.
Between frying, filling, and smiling, I sneak glances at Chase. He’s impossible not to watch. He’s calm under pressure, focused on the task.
And then sometimes, when he thinks I’m not look, he glances at me. Just once, long enough that it feels like a gentle caress.
Tricia sidles up. “People are obsessed. You’re trending in the state tag. They’re shipping you two.”
“Shipping?” Chase frowns. “What, like mailing us somewhere?”
“Like rooting for you to date,” she says, grinning. “Apparently the enemies-to-lovers energy is chef’s kiss.”
He groans. “Terrible pun.”
“Tell that to the two hundred comments that just typed it.”
By late afternoon, the camera’s back for a livestream interview.
Chase and I stand shoulder to shoulder behind the counter, trying not to look like we’re sharing oxygen. The phone is on a tripod. The comments scroll so fast they’re a blur.
Tricia reads questions from another device. “Okay—‘Who taught you to bake?’”
Chase answers first. “My grandma and mom.”
Then it’s my turn. “My grandmother wasn’t around and my mom hated carbs. So YouTube.”
Laughter floods the chat.
Chase tilts his head toward me. “That explains a lot.”
“Like what?”
“You bake like you’re performing for an audience.”
I lean closer. “And you cook like you’re lecturing recruits.”
The crowd eats it up. Heart emojis explode on-screen.
Another question: “What’s your favorite fall smell?”
“Caramel,” I say. “Or wet leaves.”
“Fresh dough,” he answers, glancing at me. “And apparently… trouble.”
The comments erupt. HE FLIRTED flashes across the screen in all caps.
This time, we both laugh, and the tension between us eases. Somewhere in the noise, something warm settles between us.
By the time we close up for the night, my cheeks ache from smiling.
The last customers drift off clutching their boxes of baked goods. Tricia packs up her gear, still glowing from the high of not one but two viral posts.
“You two are magic,” she says. “Seriously—whatever happens, this was marketing gold.”
When she’s gone, the kitchen feels suddenly quiet. Just us and the hum of the cooler, the faint echo of laughter outside.
Chase wipes down the counter beside me. “So. Shipping, huh?”
“Apparently we’re the internet’s new favorite couple,” I say, tossing a rag into the hamper. “Should we send thank-you notes?”
He smirks. “Maybe an itemized receipt.”
I laugh, turning to rinse a bowl. He steps in beside me to grab a pan, and the space shrinks until there’s no safe distance left. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, the scrape of his sleeve against mine.
“You did good today,” he says quietly.
“So did you. Though I think I’m still ahead.”
“Dream on, Cronut.”
We’re both smiling now, too close, too wired to step back. There’s flour on his cheek. I reach up without thinking, swipe it away with my thumb. His breath catches. Mine stops.
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Can’t have the cameras see me messy.”
“No,” I whisper. “Not the cameras.”
And then he kisses me.
It feels sudden, yet somehow perfectly planned.
It’s warm and sure and absolutely ruinous. It’s the kind of kiss that steals every argument you’ve been building about why you shouldn’t do this.
My hands find his shirt. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me closer. The world tilts and blurs into a haze of heat.
When we finally break apart, both of us are a slightly dazed.
“That was—” I start.
“—unprofessional,” he finishes, breathless. “Probably.”
“But pretty good for engagement metrics.” I grin, dizzy. “If only the cameras had been here.”
He groans, tipping his head back. “You’re impossible.”
“Admit it,” I say, stepping away before I forget how, “you’re shipping us, too.”
He looks at me for a long second, then smiles—slow, surrendering. “See you tomorrow, Chef.”
I grab my coat from the hook, still tasting sugar and adrenaline. “Yes, Chef.”
As I turn to leave, he calls out, “Hey, Baker.”
I turn and bat my eyes. “Yes, Chef?”
“Don’t be late.”