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I force a smile.
June waves frantically, bobbing up onto her tiptoes, and I wave back.
“At the ready,” Richard says. “Let’s count it down. Three.”
The crowd joins in, clapping on the countdown.
“Two.”
“One! Start eating,” Richard yells.
Next to me, Paul fists five peppers, stem and all, and rams them into his mouth. He chews like a man blessed by Çhicomecoatl, the Mexican goddess of fire and fertility herself.
“Go, Hannah!” June screams above the crowd. If Marci wasn’t on her honeymoon, she’d be here too.
I grab the first three peppers on my plate and shove them into my mouth. And the world becomes fiery pain. My diaphragm contracts, and I start hiccuping so hard it’s a struggle to swallow one pepper, let alone three.
Maybe if I swallow them whole?
My eyes and nose stream.
Paul’s making grunting noises and chewing through habaneros at a rate that’s inhuman.
Eat past the pain. Remember why you’re doing this. Tears trickle down my cheeks, and I shove another pepper into my mouth and then another. I blink, my vision blurry, and try seeking out June in the crowd for moral support, and that’s when it happens.
That’s when I see him.
Carter Savage, striding toward Cash, the crowd parting in front of him effortlessly. My brother’s best friend, who doesn’t know I exist as anything other than Cash’s hopeless little sister.
Carter’s gorgeous, even through tears with his rough, well-kept beard streaked with gray, tattoos that arc up his muscular neck, tan skin and those dark, devilish eyes. A gray T-shirt strains against the muscles that make up this man’s body.
I can’t help staring or the butterflies in my stomach or the fact that I gasp when his gaze wanders to the stage and lands on me.
Thanks to Savage, I’ve conveniently forgotten that I have a mouth full of hot peppers. And now, chunks of them are lodged in my throat.
I can’t breathe. The realization hits me, and I try to inhale again. I gag and smack my hands down on the table. I slap Paul on the arm for help, but he ignores me and keeps deep-throating peppers.
Help me. Help me.
I’m choking on national television. I’m choking in front of the entirety of Heatstroke.
I scramble to my feet.
I’m choking in front of Savage.
I stumble on the stage, heading toward Richard, pointing at my throat. Panic has my mind in an iron grip.
You’re going to die. You’re going to die in front of all these people.
I gag and sputter.
Richard gives me a smile, blissfully unaware. Or maybe he just thinks this is what peppers do to people. “Looks like we’ve got our first tap out, folks. Hannah Taylor is?—”
I pull on Richard’s arm and fall to my knees, trying to drag him down with me, to make him realize.
Please. Help. Anyone. Anyone.
Strong arms wrap around my middle and lift me into the air. The scent of cedar and smoke envelops me, but I barely have a second to register them, because those muscular arms tighten and thrust upward into my abdomen. A rush of air bursts from my lungs, sending chunks of pepper splattering across the front of Richard’s suit.
