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“Should the pile of wings go in the middle?” Keith, our server, asks. I don’t glare at him for unknowingly cutting off Sam.

“Yes, please,” Hank replies. “These two have reputations to uphold.”

Keith finishes placing the apps around the table and when he gets to the plain wings, I point to Sam so they get placed in front of her, earning me another shy smile.

“Thomas,” Mark says solemnly.

“Markus,” I say, bowing my head.

“May the best man win,” Hank says, passing us each a plate.

“I should’ve thought twice about driving you here tonight, you might not want to ride with me after you see me with tears streaming down my face,” I mumble, thinking aloud.

“Oh, I think this is going to be wildly entertaining,” she says with a twinkle in her eye, scooting the plate closer to me.

“Tell me how many to eat.”

“Pardon?” she asks. She couldn’t be cuter when she says that word, either.

“How many wings should I eat?”

“How is that up to me, Tommy Landen?” She laughs.

I can’t imagine the look on my face when she’s laughing and saying my name. If Chuck were here, I’m sure he’d tell the whole table what’s so obvious to him.

“Last year I did worse, so I need motivation,” I tell her.

“And how on earth does me picking a number motivate you?”

“You’re not the only one who does well with instructions,” I say quietly so only Sam can hear and those blue eyes widen. “Just trust me, it will help me.”

She pauses. “Do you want to win this year?”

I nod.

She looks at Mark who already took his first bite and is letting out a deep breath. “One full dozen.”

“Done,” I say and grab the wing on top. The vinegar in the sauce hits my nose before the pepper smell and I look at Sam watching me as I bite down, knowing it’ll be a little bit before the full effects of the heat are felt.

I finish off the first one and grab my second right before Mark. It’s never a race for who can finish first, and some years we’ve drawn it out, but I feel like something’s on the line. That if I can pull this off, it’ll be a sign to officially ask her out. I can practically hear Bryant telling me that’s some stupid-ass logic. But there’s almost a panic in my chest that this is my big shot. That tonight is the subtle shift.

Oh God. I’m on my third wing and the spice is starting to hit. Still, I reach for my fourth.

“It’s okay to only eat three. I swear my eyes are going to start watering from just being near a sauce this spicy.” Sam’s frown is adorable.

“Someone has to dethrone Mark,” I say between bites. My lips are already tingling.

“In your dreams, Tommy,” Mark says.

Sharon reaches out and carefully takes one of the wings and the bleu cheese dressing. “Since neither of you will be needing this any time soon, I’ll help myself to a reasonable amount of spice,” she taunts.

I’m pretty sure Mark and I both glare at her because Sharon, Hank, and Sam all start laughing at once.

The distraction helps because I’m already on my sixth. I ignore Mark and focus on the wing in my hands and the woman next to me. The woman who, between giggles, is encouraging me. And then she shifts to face me better and her knee is barely resting against my thigh.

Twelve of the hottest wings in the world sounds pretty manageable right about now.

“You were amazing back there! How did you manage so many after never getting close to that before?” Sam asks as we reach my truck and I open the passenger door for her.