Page 14 of Consumed By The Forbidden Mountain Man

So grumpy and helpful

Me:

Exactly

I leave out the bonfire. The swaying. His hand on my waist. The way his thumb moved against my hip and every cell in my body ignited. Tony doesn't need to know any of that.

Because nothing happened. Almost doesn't count.

The pie competition is set up on folding tables in the festival field. Fourteen entries, each on a white paper plate with a number card. No names visible. Blind judging.

Mine is number nine.

Reid finds me in the crowd at five-fifteen. Still in his work clothes, a clean henley stretched over his shoulders, jeans dusty at the knees. He looks tired. Good tired. The kind of tired that comes from physical work, not the draining exhaustion of sitting in a fluorescent office questioning every choice you've made.

"You entered," he says, looking at the table.

"You told me to."

"I said if you're entering. That's different."

"Close enough." I hand him a fork from the tasting station. "Number nine."

He walks down the table, cuts a bite from pie number nine, and puts it in his mouth. Chews. Stops chewing. Looks at me.

"That's your pie?"

"That's my pie."

"Jesus, Ivy."

My whole body heats up. Two words. Jesus, Ivy. Delivered with his eyes slightly wider than normal, fork frozen halfway to the plate. From Reid Castellano, who doles out praise like it costs him money, this is a standing ovation.

"Good?"

"That's the best pie I've ever tasted."

"Better than Patty Cole's?"

He glances sideways. Lowers his voice. "Don't ever tell her I said this."

A laugh breaks out of me, loud and surprised. He almost smiles. Almost. The corner of his mouth pulls up and he lets it stay for two full seconds before he resets.

The judging takes forty minutes. Three local judges, including Wade Sutton from the orchard, taste every entry. There's drama. An argument about whether store-bought crust disqualifies entry number four. Patty Cole wins the cinnamon apple category with her signature recipe, which everyone expected, and she accepts the ribbon with the grace of a woman who's won this category nine years running.

Open fruit pie goes to entry number nine.

My pie. My grandmother's pie. I win.

Reid doesn't cheer. He doesn't clap. He puts his hand on my lower back, leans down, and says quietly near my ear, "Told you."

His breath is warm on my neck. His palm presses flat against the base of my spine. Every thought in my head goes white for three seconds.

Then he steps back. Hands in pockets. Watching me accept the ribbon from Wade Sutton with that steady dark gaze.

Patty Cole finds me afterward. "Honey, that pie. You have to give me that recipe."

"It's my grandmother's. I'd have to ask her permission, but she's dead, so I think she'd say yes."