Chapter Three | SUNNY #2
I liked her immediately.
Caprice swung her hand toward Flint.
He stood behind his station with the skillet heating over coals and the beans tucked near the edge of the fire. The afternoon light hit his forearms, catching the pale line of his old scar as he turned a strip of bacon.
“My round is bacon-wrapped firepit dogs and camp beans,” he said. “Good bun, good dog, bacon crisped over coals, beans cooked low with smoke. Nothing fancy. Just food that works.”
“Are the beans spicy?” Benny asked.
“A little,” Flint said. “Not too much.”
“Good. I’m brave, but I have limits.”
Mandy touched Benny’s shoulder. “Thank you for that public service announcement.”
The round began.
Once the camera pressure hit, I remembered who I was.
I buttered the buns and set them on the edge of the grate, rotating each one before the heat could scorch.
The bison dogs went down with a hard, satisfying hiss.
Fat popped. Smoke rose. The scent of meat, butter, vinegar, and sharp mustard slid into the hot air.
Across the clearing, Flint moved with infuriating ease.
He wrapped bacon around each hot dog, secured the ends with small skewers, and set them over the coals where the heat licked low and even.
He didn’t fuss. He didn’t hurry. He watched the bacon tighten and shine, adjusting by instinct when the fat dripped and flared.
He was good with fire.
I hated appreciating that while preparing to beat him.
“Sunny,” Joelle murmured from beside me.
“What?”
“You’re about to over-toast the second bun.”
I flipped it just in time. “I knew that.”
“Your bun has edges.”
“I was giving it character.”
“You were giving it a memorial service.”
I rescued the bun and slid smoked gouda inside while the bread was still hot enough to soften it. The cheese melted against the buttered surface, smoky and rich, clinging to the curve of the dog when I set it in place.
Flint passed behind me to grab the bucket of clean water between stations. He kept enough space to behave, which somehow made the awareness sharper.
“Behind you,” he said.
“Fire-safety contractor and traffic announcer. Impressive range.”
“You’re holding mustard over your tray.”
I looked down. The bottle hovered at a risky angle.
“Helpful,” I said.
“That was the idea.”
I finished the first bison dog with a line of slaw bright enough to make the camera happy, then added mustard drizzle in a clean zigzag. The apple caught the light. The cabbage looked crisp. The gouda had melted into the bun just enough to promise salt and smoke in one bite.
Ed came in tight for the beauty shot.
“Not bad,” he said.
“Ed Barlow, was that praise?”
“It was an observation. Don’t make it emotional.”
I built the next three faster, each one a little cleaner than the last. Flint’s bacon crisped across from me, the edges curling deep brown while his beans sent up a rich smell of smoke, molasses, onion, and pepper.
My stomach made a small, traitorous sound.
Flint heard it.
Apparently, my stomach had excellent projection.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“I’m inspired.”
“You growled at my beans.”
“I was warning them.”
He glanced at my finished tray. “That one’s yours?”
“Careful. That sounded like interest.”
“It’s a good-looking dog.”
The words were ordinary. They still mattered, because Flint Sparks didn’t throw compliments around like garnish.
“Thank you,” I said. “I accept compliments in cash, public praise, and signed statements admitting gourmet has value.”
“I said it looked good. I didn’t confess to a crime.”
“Give it time.”
The first tasting went to the kids.
Caprice lined them up with Mandy behind the camera and Joelle distributing trays like she’d been born overseeing diplomatic food service.
“Small bites,” Mandy said. “No talking with your mouth full. No insulting anyone’s life choices unless you’ve swallowed first.”
Tyler took Flint’s bacon-wrapped dog first. His eyes widened before he’d even finished chewing.
“Oh, that’s good.”
Flint nodded once, like he’d expected no less.
Benny took a bite and made a happy sound. “It tastes like camping but with better bacon.”
“That may be the best review anyone’s ever gotten,” Ed muttered.
Genevieve held her hot dog with both hands. “The beans are smoky. I like the sweet part.”
Lily chewed carefully, head tilted. “The bacon texture is strong. The bean ratio helps because otherwise it could be too salty.”
Flint looked at her for a beat. “That’s fair.”
She nodded with grave approval. “I’m experienced.”
“With bacon?” Tyler asked.
“I’m experienced with being correct.”
I pressed my lips together.
Caprice pointed at me. “Don’t laugh. You’re next.”
Joelle handed out my bison dogs.
Tyler looked skeptical. “There’s salad on it.”
“It’s slaw,” I said.
“That’s salad in disguise.”
“It’s crunch with purpose.”
He studied me, then took a bite.
The clearing went quiet enough for me to hear the coals pop.
Tyler chewed.
His eyebrows went up.
“Oh,” he said.
I put a hand to my chest. “I heard that oh.”
He took another bite. “Okay, that works.”
Benny dove in with less suspicion. Mustard hit his cheek. “This is fancy, but not weird fancy.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“No, that’s good. Weird fancy is when grown-ups put flowers in soup.”
“I have notes on that, but not today.”
Genevieve licked mustard off her thumb. “I like the cheese. It’s melty.”
“Smoked gouda,” I said.
“Gouda is a funny word.”
“It’s an excellent word.”
Lily took the longest. She examined the dog, sniffed once, and took a neat bite. Then another. Then she looked at Flint’s plate and back at mine.
“His tastes more like campfire,” she said.
Flint’s mouth twitched.
I braced.
“But yours has more stuff happening, and I want another bite to figure it out.”
I beamed. “Lily, you’re welcome on my tasting panel any day.”
Tyler held up his half-eaten bison dog. “I vote for this one.”
Mandy laughed. “You don’t even know if we’re voting.”
“I’m always voting.”
Benny lifted Flint’s. “I vote bacon.”
Genevieve looked distressed. “Can I vote both?”
Caprice stepped in, bright and brisk. “You can give official camera reactions to both, and the adult judges will handle scoring.”
“Adult judges make things complicated,” Tyler said.
“They do,” Flint and I said at the same time.
Our eyes met across the tasting table.
The shared beat was small. Smaller than the smoke curl off Flint’s skillet. Somehow, it stayed with me.
Caprice moved the kids back with Mandy, then faced the camera. “Official scoring is based on taste, visual appeal, outdoor practicality, and fit with the Round Two brief. Judges, clean comments.”
Joelle picked up her score sheet. “Flint’s bacon-wrapped dog is controlled, smoky, and easy to understand.
The beans help the salt and make it feel like a full campfire meal.
Sunny’s bison dog has more moving parts, but the balance works.
The slaw is crisp, the cheese makes sense, and it still eats like a hot dog instead of a plated entrée. ”
Ed lowered his camera enough to glare over it. “Flint’s dog knows what it is.”
Flint nodded.
Ed looked at mine. “Sunny’s knows what it wants.”
I blinked. “Ed, that was accidentally profound.”
“I’ll try not to let it happen again.”
Caprice checked her sheet. “Camera appeal goes to Sunny. Kid surprise goes to Sunny. Practicality is close, but Sunny kept it handheld and readable. Flint, your dish is strong. Sunny, yours hits the brief and gives us a better turn from Round One.”
She lifted her clipboard.
“Round Two goes to Sunny.”
For half a second, I didn’t move.
Then the kids cheered, Mandy clapped, and Joelle squeezed my shoulder.
I smiled. Not for the camera first. Not for Caprice. Not for the sponsor.
For me.
I hadn’t won because my food was adorable. I hadn’t won because my brand colors popped or because my face did something useful on camera.
I’d made a damn good hot dog.
And Flint knew it.
Mandy steered the kids toward the path, calling for water bottles and a hand-washing stop before anyone touched the van seats. Their voices faded toward the access road, bright and sticky and safely away from the cook stations.
By the time Flint crossed the clearing with one of my finished bison dogs in his hand, only crew noise remained around us.
A bite was missing.
He stopped in front of me. “You won that clean.”
My throat tightened.
“Say it again,” I said.
His brows drew together. “You won that clean.”
“No, slower. I want Ed to get it for historical accuracy.”
Ed lifted his camera without enthusiasm. “I’m getting it.”
Flint looked down at the hot dog in his hand, then back at me. “You made outdoor food people can eat with one hand. You kept the flavors clear. Slaw didn’t drown the dog. Cheese made sense.”
I stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m waiting for the insult.”
“There’s no insult.”
“You’re sure? Not even a note about leaves in cream?”
“There’s no cream and no leaves.”
“It’s unsettling when you’re reasonable.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He took another bite, like proving my food deserved the attention was simply the next practical task.
I shouldn’t have liked that as much as I did.
Caprice strode over, already checking tomorrow’s call sheet. “Excellent. The score is tied one-one. Tomorrow evening, we finish this. Sunny, I need a victory wrap line. Flint, please clear the foreground so Ed can see our winner.”
I leaned around Flint and smiled sweetly at Caprice. “Did you hear that? I won this round.”
Flint stepped just close enough to lower his voice. “Enjoy the win while it lasts.”
“Oh, I plan to enjoy every second.”
“Round Three won’t be hot dogs.”
“That’s good, because I’d hate to beat you twice with a bun.”
The end of my apron tie slipped loose and drooped toward the mustard tray. Flint caught it before it landed.
His knuckles brushed my wrist. Brief. Practical. Absolutely devastating.
“That is an equipment hazard,” he said.
“Careful, Sparks. People might think you’re helping.”
“I am helping.”
“You usually lecture while helping.”
“I’m trying something new.”
“Growth looks good on you.”
He released the apron tie. “Winning looks good on you too.”
My chest went warm in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.
Caprice clapped. “Everyone, take your places. Sunny, give me the victory wrap. Flint, if this turns into another argument, do it in frame or stop wasting my light.”
I grabbed my mustard bottle from the table and held it like a microphone for Ed’s camera. “Round Two is mine. Tomorrow, Flint Sparks can bring his cast iron, his coals, and every old-school trick on Fire Mountain. Whatever Caprice throws at us, I’m still coming for the whole cook-off.”
Flint crossed his arms. “Cast iron and coals are not tricks.”
“You’re right,” I said, turning toward him. “They’re your emotional support cookware.”
Ed wheezed.
Caprice pointed at him. “Keep rolling.”
I faced Flint fully. “Round Three is mine.”
His eyes held mine, bright with challenge. “Then prove it.”
The meadow seemed too bright for a moment, too hot, too full of smoke and sugar and the space between us. I’d won Round Two. The score was tied. The cameras had what they needed.
But Flint stood close enough that I had to remember where my hands belonged, and victory suddenly felt like the easy part.
I lifted my chin.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
His smile finally showed itself, small and dangerous to my common sense.
“I’ll be there,” Flint said.
Caprice groaned behind us. “This is great. You two are having a stare-down over tomorrow, which is almost useful if Ed can keep his battery alive.”
Ed lowered the camera. “The battery isn’t the problem.”
Flint stepped back first.
My fingers tightened around the mustard bottle.
He carried his tray toward his station, and I watched the flex of his back under that dark shirt for one full second before I remembered I had a camera, a crew, a tied competition, and a final round to win.
Joelle appeared beside me with a roll of foil. “Leftover bison dogs go in the blue cooler. Winner or not, we still have food-safety rules.”
“I just won.”
“Yes, and congratulations. Please put everything in the blue cooler.”
I took the foil from her and started covering the remaining bison dogs. My hands were steady enough for foil.
Across the clearing, Flint glanced back, quick enough that no one else would have caught it.
I smiled at him before I could stop myself.
His hand tightened around the handle of his cast-iron pan.
The final round waited for tomorrow.
So did every rule Caprice hadn’t announced yet.
Tonight, though, the meadow was cooling, the cameras were packing up, and I was still thinking about the brief brush of Flint’s knuckles against my wrist.
I’d wanted to beat him.
I still did.
For one hot second, the scoreboard wasn’t where I was looking.