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REBECCA

G randpa would be so proud of you, Becca. Taking his recipe to the Sweetheart County Fair.”

I shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder as Grady and I walk through the main gates of the fairgrounds.

“I just hope I don’t mess this up.” My boots crunch on sawdust as we navigate toward the exhibition hall. “The recipe is solid—it’s won so many local awards for forty years—but this is different. With the prizes for this competition, the stakes are the highest I’ve ever competed for.”

Grady adjusts his cowboy hat against the strengthening sun. “And a real shot at a distribution contract if you win. That magazine feature could change everything.”

The weight of possibility sits heavy in my chest. After what happened with Kinwood Foods—their smooth promises about preserving Grandpa’s authentic recipe, followed by their proposal to “streamline” it with cheaper ingredients and artificial preservatives—my grandpa would have rolled over in his grave if I had agreed to that contract.

“This competition is our best shot at getting in front of legitimate distributors.” I pull out my phone to check the time. “I need that magazine profile to prove Grandpa’s recipe can compete with the big brands. There has to be someone better than Kinwood that will work with me.”

“You’re burning for this, aren’t you?”

The question stops me mid-stride. I look at my cousin and nod. He knows the answer. Grady’s known me since we were kids stealing cookies from Grandma’s kitchen. I’m surprised he even has to ask the question.

“His legacy deserves to live on—exactly the way he made it.”

We approach the exhibition hall, a massive metal building that houses everything from quilting competitions to livestock judging.

Through the open doors, I can see rows of cooking stations being set up, each one equipped with propane burners and prep tables.

The familiar anticipation of competition builds in my stomach.

“Let’s find our station,” Grady says, consulting the paperwork in his hand. “Number forty-seven.”

We wind through the maze of equipment and early-arriving competitors. Some booths already smell like garlic and onions, and I catch snippets of conversation about secret ingredients and cooks good-naturedly debating bean vs no-bean chili and which one is the best. These are my people.

Station forty-seven sits in a prime location near the center of the hall.

I set my bag down and survey the space, mentally arranging where everything will go.

The cast-iron pan with “Cooper Chili” etched on the side will sit front and center.

The space will be cramped with the two of us, but it should work out fine.

“Perfect spot,” I say, running my hand along the prep table’s steel surface. “Grandpa would love this—right in the thick of things.”

Grady chuckles. “Remember when he used to say that? ‘Rebecca-girl, cooking is the most important thing in the world. Cooking with love is nourishment for the soul.’”

The memory hits me with unexpected force.

Eight years old, standing on a stepstool beside Grandpa in his kitchen, carefully measuring cumin while he guided my hands and taught me his secret spice recipe.

The kitchen windows were open to catch the evening breeze, and his voice carried the firm authority he learned commanding a galley in the Navy.

“The secret isn’t just the ingredients, Becca-girl. It’s the love you put in every stir.”

I touch the turquoise necklace at my throat—Grandma’s, passed down through the women in the family.

The weight of it reminds me that I’m not just cooking for myself tomorrow.

I’m cooking for every Cooper who worked on this recipe, for every family gathering where it brought people together, for the legacy that deserves to have greater recognition.

“What time do you want to start prep tomorrow?” Grady asks, opening the small notebook where he’s been making notes.

“Early. Seven AM at the latest. It’s going to take time for all the flavors to develop.

” I start visualizing the process—browning the meat in small batches to build the foundation, layering the spices at precisely the right moments, letting everything simmer until the flavors meld into something greater than their individual parts.

“Good thing I’m a morning person,” Grady says. “We’ll need to load the cart tonight so we can—”

He stops mid-sentence, his face suddenly draining of color. His hand shoots to his side, clutching just below his ribs.

“Grady?” I move toward him, alarm bells ringing in my head. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” His voice comes out tight, strained. “Feels like someone’s stabbing me with a hot poker.”

He doubles over, one hand braced against the prep table, breathing hard through gritted teeth. Sweat beads across his forehead despite the cool morning air lingering in the hall.

“We need to get you help.” I’m already calling 911 on my phone and trying to flag someone down to come over and help us, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Can you walk?”

“I think—” He tries to straighten and immediately hunches over again. “Something’s really wrong, Becca.”

I flag down a security guard, who immediately gets some fairground medics to help while we wait for the ambulance to arrive. Within minutes, paramedics arrive, their calm efficiency both reassuring and terrifying as they whisk him away rapidly.

“I’m sorry, Becca,” Grady whispers, grimacing in pain. “I know what this means to you.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just get better.”

But as they take him away, I’m left standing alone in the exhibition hall, staring at station forty-seven and feeling the full weight of what tomorrow means.

Not just the cooking—I can handle that. But everything else Grady was supposed to help with: hauling equipment, managing logistics, being my moral support when the pressure builds.

I’m going to have to do this completely on my own.

“For the love of habaneros! Come on, you stubborn piece of—” I throw my full weight behind the cart handle, but the wheel remains wedged in a rut of hard-packed dirt.

My grandfather’s cast-iron pan shifts dangerously, and I grab for it before it slides off the cart or worse, bumps into my ingredients and sends them flying into the dirt.

The morning sun beats down harder now, and sweat trickles along my hairline. I’ve been fighting this cart for ten minutes, determined to get my equipment to the exhibition hall without asking for help. If I’m doing this competition alone, I want to prove I can handle every aspect of it.

Even the parts that want to break my back.

I reset my stance, plant my feet in the packed earth, and pull again. The wheel budges an inch before catching on something buried in the dirt and goes backward. Again. Everything on the cart rattles ominously, and I quickly reach out to grab the photo of Grandpa before it tumbles to the ground.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, wiping perspiration from my forehead with the back of my hand. Grady should be here helping me navigate this mess, but instead, he’s in the hospital about to have an emergency appendectomy.

I circle the cart, studying the stuck wheel from different angles. Maybe if I can work it back and forth, create some momentum… but the cart is filled with everything I need to cook, and it weighs a ton.

“Whoa there, lil lady. Let me help you with that.”

Strong hands appear beside mine on the cart handle before I can protest. I look up into the most beautiful hazel eyes set in a face that belongs on magazine covers rather than dusty fairgrounds.

The man attached to them wears a Stetson that’s seen real work, jeans that look like they've been painted over muscular thighs, and a championship belt buckle that catches the morning light like a signal flare.

I recognize him instantly. His face is all over the promotional material for the fair, usually accompanied by words like “champion” and “heartthrob.”

Amos Cross. Rodeo star. Exactly the kind of charming cowboy I have zero time for.

But the sudden rush of heat to my core makes me squirm, and my body screams he’s exactly the kind of man I should make time for. At least for a night or two. Or maybe a week…

“I don’t need saving, cowboy.”

He chuckles, a sound that fuels the fire building in my core. “Good thing. I’m not in the business of saving. My momma taught me to be polite and help people when I can. And you look like you could use some help.”

Before I can argue, he shifts his grip and frees the wheel with an easy motion that puts my ten-minute struggle to shame. The cart rolls forward so suddenly that I nearly lose my balance. His hand shoots out to steady my elbow, fingers wrapping around my arm with surprising gentleness.

An electric shock shoots straight through me, fueling the heat filling my core. I don’t usually react to men like this, but something about Amos Cross is making my heart race and waking up the woman in me.

He doesn’t immediately step back…but neither do I. For a moment, we stand closer than strangers should, his hand warm against my skin, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes me forget why I’m here. Looking into his hazel eyes, the only thing I want to do is touch him.

“Better?” His voice is low and smooth like honey.

“Yes. Thank you,” I say, a blush burning across my cheeks. “I’m Rebecca.”

“Amos Cross,” he says, smiling at me and causing a fresh wave of desire in my core.

“I know.” I chuckle, tipping my head toward one of the life-size posters of him around the fairgrounds.

Amos laughs and shrugs. “This is a lot for one person to manage,” he nods toward the cart loaded with all my equipment.

“I’m competing in the chili competition.

My cousin was supposed to help, but he fell over in pain and is at the hospital now.

He’ll be fine, but it’ll be a little more work for me.

” When I see a hint of concern in Amos’ eyes, I add, “Nothing I can’t handle.

I’ve cooked this chili more times than I can count. ”

Something shifts in his expression—a shadow that passes quickly. “Must be tough, doing this kind of thing alone.”

“I’ll manage.” I grip the cart handle, ready to continue my journey to the exhibition hall. I have a lot to do, and no time to chit chat, no matter how much I don’t want to continue talking to Amos. “I don’t have much choice.”

“Family recipe?” He gestures toward my grandpa’s pan with “Cooper Chili” etched on the handle.

I smile and nod. “Third generation. My grandfather’s. He always said the secret wasn’t just the ingredients—it was cooking with love.”

“Sounds like he was a wise man.”

“He was.” I touch the turquoise necklace at my throat, the familiar weight comforting me. “This competition is about honoring his legacy.”

Something in his expression grows wistful, almost hungry. “Must be nice having family to count on like that.”

The comment catches me off guard with its loneliness. Before I can respond or analyze why I care about the sadness in his voice, he tips his hat and winks at me.

“Good luck with your competition, darlin’. Hope your grandfather’s recipe brings you everything you’re hoping for.”

As he walks away, I catch myself watching the way his shoulders fill out his shirt, the raw masculinity of the way his strong body moves. Then I shake my head and focus on getting to the exhibition hall.

But as I push the cart, now rolling smoothly thanks to his intervention, I can still feel the warmth of where his hand touched my arm.

And despite my best efforts to focus on getting to the exhibition hall so I can set up, my mind keeps wandering back to Amos Cross and wondering how it’s possible I felt such a bolt of desire when his hazel eyes met mine.