Chapter 5
FIVE
CHASE
The sky’s still dark when I pull into the employee lot.
I’m not surprised to see the light on down the road in the Snack Shack.
Through the window, Katelyn stands at the counter, headphones in, hair twisted up, swaying a little as she folds her pastry dough. Her rhythm is good. Steady, confident. My gut clenches at the gentle sway of her hips.
It’s too early to admit that I like watching her work.
I tap on the glass. She startles, pulls out an earbud, then laughs when she sees me. “Morning, Chef.”
“It’s barely that,” I say, stepping inside. “You’re early.”
“So are you.” She holds up a tray of shaped cronuts, glossy and perfect. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get a head start on destroying you.”
“Ambitious,” I say, setting down a crate of apples. “I was thinking about the same thing.”
“What? Destroying me?”
“Winning.”
Her grin flickers, warm and sharp all at once. “We’ll see.”
By the time the gates open, the kitchen is thrumming with energy.
We dance around each other like we’ve been doing this for years. Trading counter space, swapping utensils, and finishing each other’s sentences mid-order.
And it’s fun. Damn it all, it’s fun.
At one point she slides a fresh cronut onto a plate and holds it out to me. “Quality control.”
“I’m not your taste tester,” I say, already reaching for a fork.
“You sound confident for someone who took a bite before finishing his sentence.”
I shoot her a look while chewing. “Needs more salt.”
“Liar.”
She’s right—it’s perfect—but I’ll die before admitting it.
Then the bell at the window rings and we’re back at it. Customers flood in like migrating birds, all chatter and scarves and cinnamon-scented air. The smell of frying dough mingles with the cider simmering behind me.
A mom leans on the counter. “We saw your video last night! You two are adorable.”
Katelyn laughs, cheeks pink. “Glad you think so! Team Cronut or Team Nacho?”
“Cronut, obviously.”
“Traitor,” I growl.
But I’m smiling when I say it.
By noon, we’re neck and neck. Tricia stops by between photo ops, announcing updates like a referee.
“As of lunch rush, Cronut leads by four orders!”
Katelyn twirls her piping bag. “Better bring your A-game, Chef.”
“I’ll bring a whole alphabet.”
The afternoon flies. A small kid at the counter tugs my sleeve.
“My mom says you’re losing,” he says solemnly. “You should make more sauce.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say. “What’s your mom’s name?”
“Sarah.”
I glance at Katelyn, who’s pretending not to eavesdrop. “Tell Sarah she’s banned.”
The kid giggles and runs off with a nacho boat twice his size. Katelyn shakes her head. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it.”
“Maybe a little,” she says.
That maybe lands in my ribs and stays there.
The sun drops low and the line finally fades. My back aches, my hands smell like apples and fryer oil, and I don’t care.
It’s been the best damn day of work I’ve had in years.
We close the window together. The air cools instantly—quiet except for the hum of the lights outside.
Tricia appears one last time with her tablet.
“Okay, the tally is in!” she announces. “It’s close.”
Katelyn wipes her hands on a towel. “Lay it on us.”
“Team Pumpkin Cronut: two hundred and forty-seven. Team Apple Pie Nachos: two hundred and forty-two.”
A five-order difference.
Katelyn gasps, half-delighted, half-shocked. “Wait, I won?”
Tricia grins. “By a pastry’s edge.”
I groan but can’t help laughing. “Five? That’s it?”
“Every sale counts,” Katelyn teases.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re going to be unbearable, aren’t you?”
“Completely.”
Tricia snaps a photo of us laughing. “This is going on the socials. You’re both gold.”
Then she waves and disappears into the twilight.
Silence settles over the shack again. The air between us feels… different. Softer.
“Congratulations,” I say finally.
“Thank you.” She tilts her head. “You’re taking your defeat well.”
“I’m a gracious loser.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t seem like a gracious anything.”
I lean against the counter. “You haven’t seen all my sides.”
Her laugh catches in her throat. For a beat, neither of us moves. The quiet hums with something electric.
Then I clear my throat. “I owe you a drink.”
She blinks. “What?”
“The deal. The bet. Winner gets bragging rights and a favor. So let’s start with a drink instead. You earned it.”
Her lips curve into a smile I feel in my stomach. “At your place?”
“Unless you plan to bake somewhere else.”
She hesitates just long enough for me to second-guess asking. Then she nods. “Sure. One drink. For professional debriefing purposes.”
“Of course.”
She pulls her hair out of its bun, letting it fall loose, and for a second I forget how to speak.
“Lead the way, Chef,” she says.
The drive to my cabin takes less than five minutes, but my pulse is racing as if I’ve run a marathon.
Katelyn steps inside and exhales. “This is… cozy.”
“That’s a nice way of saying small.”
“It’s a nice way of saying it suits you.”
“Meaning?”
“There’s no nonsense. It’s orderly.” She glances over her shoulder, smiling. “But there’s warmth underneath and a healthy dash of creativity.”
“Do you analyze everyone like that?”
“Only the ones worth figuring out.”
Her voice is light, but something in it makes me turn. She’s standing by the window, looking out toward the farm. The lights from the patch reflect in her eyes.
“You really care about the patch,” she says quietly.
“I grew up there. Every fence post, every nail, I’ve touched it. So yeah.”
“It shows.” She turns, expression soft. “You built something real.”
The words hit harder than they should. I pour her a glass of mulled wine and hand it to her.
“You did, too. I looked you up before you came—your videos, your recipes. You’re good.”
She blinks, surprised. “You looked me up?”
“Professional curiosity.”
“Sure,” she takes a sip. “Curiosity.”
I grin despite myself. “Okay, maybe a little personal interest.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I was the only one losing focus.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. The air thicker. She sets her glass down, tracing the rim with one finger.
“So,” she says softly. “What happens now?”
“I guess you collect your favor.”
She steps closer, slow enough to make my pulse stutter. “I haven’t decided what I want yet.”
“I could make suggestions,” I murmur.
Her smile is pure challenge. “I bet you could.”
There’s a beat—a shared breath, the kind that decides what happens next.
Then we both move.
The kiss isn’t careful this time. It’s hungry and inevitable, all the unspoken tension finally breaking loose. She tastes like cider and caramel, her hands curling into my shirt as if she’s trying to anchor herself.
When we finally part, she’s still smiling. “Guess we both win.”
“Guess we do.”