Page 5

REBECCA

T he large outdoor tent hosting the People’s Choice competition is buzzing with activity and people. The semi-final round of the competition just ended, and I’m already on pins and needles as the judges confer. They’ve said they’ll announce the results after the People’s Choice voting concludes.

“This recipe has been in my family for three generations. My grandfather taught me to cook this almost before I could walk.”

I ladle another sample into a paper cup, steam rising between my face and the fairgoer’s as I hand it over.

The outdoor tent area buzzes with activity—families strolling between booths, the competing aromas of different chilis creating a complex symphony that makes my mouth water despite having tasted my recipe a dozen times today.

The older woman tastes my chili, and her eyes go wide. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this is better than my mama’s chili. You’ve got my vote!”

The woman smiles at me as she drops her token into my voting jar before moving on to the next booth. I watch her go, pride and nerves warring in my chest. The people’s choice competition runs parallel to tomorrow’s juried event—different prizes, but both matter.

“Between you and me,” Sam—a stunningly beautiful woman who is an acrobat and one of the guest judges—says, leaning over my booth to talk to me. “You have a winner here. I don’t know how the finals will go, but I’m unofficially telling you that you’ll be in the finals.”

I nearly drop the paper cup of chili I’m holding. “Are you serious?” I whisper. My heart and mind are racing.

“Girl, you don’t need me to tell you this chili isn’t just good—it’s blue ribbon good. Even Thor, my boyfriend who thinks bean chili is a travesty, even he loved it.” Sam reaches up and smooths her hand over her dark hair, then straightens as she smiles at me.

“That’s…” I stare at Sam, my mind in overdrive as I think of what to say. “Thank you.”

“Rebecca, you have something special here. However everything goes, you’ve earned it. I hope to see you around.”

“Likewise,” I say, watching as Thor, who was one of the judges for the no-bean chili competition, comes over looking at her like she hung all the stars in the sky. He’s tall and smiling, and clearly deeply infatuated with Sam.

“Good luck,” Thor says, smiling at me as he wraps his arms around Sam and gives her a big kiss. “I’ve been on the circuit a while, so believe me when I say you’ve got a good thing here. I hope to see a lot more of you.”

I stand there, stunned as I watch them walk away and replaying what Sam said. It’s like, I know my chili is good, but there’s still the fear that someone else’s is better and I won’t make it past the semis. I’m also scared about the finals, because the competition will be stiff.

“Need any help, Spice Girl?”

I turn to find Amos approaching with a sexy swagger that makes me want to jump on him. He’s changed out of his rodeo gear into dark jeans and a button-down shirt that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.

“I thought you’d be off signing autographs or something.”

“I’d rather be here.” He steps behind my booth without invitation, surveying the setup with genuine interest. “What can I do?”

The offer surprises me. He seems genuinely invested in helping me succeed.

“You could help serve samples, if you want,” I say, standing aside behind my table to make room for him. “But don’t be a distraction, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re the star here. I’m just backup.”

For the next hour, we work together with surprising ease.

Amos chats with fairgoers while I focus on the chili, but he defers to me at every turn.

When someone asks about ingredients, he steps back and lets me explain.

He’s a much bigger star here than I am, but he goes out of his way not to steal any attention from me.

I’m surprised and appreciative of his generosity and respect.

I’m standing in front of my table, good-naturedly laughing as I talk to a man who’s trying to tell me no-bean chili is the best chili, when someone behind me bumps into me and makes me stumble backward.

As I reach out to keep from falling, suddenly Amos’s hands are around my waist, steadying me with firm pressure that sends heat shooting through my core.

“You okay?” he asks, his hazel eyes intent on mine.

“Fine. Just—” The words stick in my throat as I become acutely aware of his proximity. His chest is inches from my back, his hands spanning my waist. My breath catches as his touch makes me yearn for him.

“Rebecca?”

I should step away. We’re supposed to be performing a relationship, not creating actual intimacy in front of half the county. But his touch feels too good, too right, and I find myself leaning back against his solid warmth instead of pulling away.

“I’m fine,” I manage, but my voice comes out breathier than intended.

His hands linger longer than necessary before he releases me, and when I turn to face him, something heated passes between us. The way we’ve been working together, the growing comfort of his presence—it’s all building toward something that feels increasingly real.

Dangerous thoughts flood my mind. What would it be like to spend the night with him?

Really spend the night, not just the performance we’ve been maintaining.

How would those strong hands feel exploring my body?

What sounds would he make when I touched him?

What if we built something for longer than a few days?

I clench my thighs together, trying to control the way my clit throbs as I imagine him backing me against a wall, his mouth hot on my neck, his hands roaming my body. The fantasy is so vivid that I have to grab the edge of the table to steady myself.

“Rebecca.” His voice has dropped to something rough and intimate. “You’re looking at me like—”

“Like what?” I challenge, meeting his gaze directly despite the fire building in my cheeks.

“Like you’re thinking the same thing I am.”

Before I can respond, another wave of fairgoers approaches our booth, and we’re forced back into performance mode.

But the tension between us has ratcheted up several degrees, and every touch—his hand on my lower back, my fingers brushing his when we both reach for the same spoon—feels charged in a new way.

As the evening winds down and we pack up together, working in comfortable synchronization, I realize something has fundamentally shifted. The easy partnership, the way he supports without overwhelming, the growing heat between us—none of it feels fake anymore.

“This didn’t feel fake today,” I admit quietly as we load the last of my equipment onto the cart to take everything back to the kitchen hall.

He stops what he’s doing and looks at me, something vulnerable flickering in his expression. “No. It didn’t.”

The admission hangs between us, heavy with implication. We’re supposed to be helping each other out—him having a distraction from his uncertain future, me getting magazine coverage for my competition. But somewhere along the way, the lines have blurred beyond recognition.

“What does that mean for us?”

“I don’t know.” He steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “But I know I don’t want this to end when the fair does.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I process his words. This cowboy, who could have any woman he wants, is standing in front of me, admitting he doesn’t want our fake relationship to stay fake.

“Amos—”

“Think about it,” he says quietly. “That’s all I’m asking. Just think about whether what we have is worth exploring.”

As he walks away, leaving me alone with my cart and my racing thoughts, I already know the answer. What we have feels like the most real thing that’s ever happened to me.

The question is whether I’m brave enough to risk everything to find out if he feels the same way.

“If I win tomorrow’s competition, the distribution contract could mean everything.”

I measure cumin into small glass bowls, organizing my mise en place for the next day’s judged competition.

The exhibition hall has mostly emptied except for a few dedicated competitors doing final prep work.

The overhead lights cast harsh shadows across the cooking stations, but I’ve grown comfortable in this space over the past few days.

Even without Grady’s help, everything has gone perfectly and easily.

Amos appeared twenty minutes ago without explanation, settling into the chair beside my prep table like he belongs there. Instead of feeling crowded, his presence has become surprisingly soothing.

“Your grandfather would be proud of how you’re fighting for his legacy.”

The comment makes me pause in my measuring. “How do you know that matters to me?”

“Because I watch you and I pay attention.” His voice carries something deeper than casual interest. “This isn’t just a hobby for you. Your voice changes when you talk about your family and this chili—you’re clearly invested in creating something greater than yourself.”

The observation catches me completely off guard. In three days, this cowboy has seen something in me that people in my life have missed entirely. The recognition sends warmth spreading through my chest.

“What about you? What are you passionate about besides riding bulls?”

He’s quiet for so long that I wonder if he heard the question. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a vulnerability I haven’t heard before.

“Honestly? I’m still figuring that out. My dad was famous in his world, but he couldn’t stick around long enough to teach me to tie my shoes.

I’ve spent so long focused on the next ride, the next prize, that I never thought about what I was building toward.

I’ve avoided settling down because I didn’t think it was in my blood. I do now.”

The admission hits me unexpectedly. Beneath his confidence lies someone searching for the same kind of belonging I’ve taken for granted my entire life.

“You must be lonely.”

“I was.” He meets my eyes. “Until I met you.”

The words hang between us, and the boundaries of this fake relationship blur. As I process what he’s really saying, I stop moving and rest my hands on the spice containers.

“Amos—”

“You have this incredible family that grounds you. Roots that go back generations. I watch you with your grandfather’s photos, the way you touch that necklace when you talk about your grandmother, and I realize I’ve never had anything like that.”

Without thinking, I reach out and touch his face, my palm cupping his jaw. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, rough with evening stubble that sends tiny shivers up my arm. “Family isn’t just blood. It’s also the people you choose.”

He covers my hand with his, pressing my palm more firmly against his face. The contact sends electricity shooting straight to my core, but it’s the expression in his eyes that goes straight to my heart—hungry and hopeful and achingly vulnerable.

“Rebecca.” My name comes out rough.

We lean toward each other without conscious decision, drawn by a magnetism that’s been building since that first morning when he helped me with my cart. His breath mingles with mine, warm and coffee-scented, and I see the exact moment his gaze drops to my mouth.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. This isn’t performance or strategy—this is pure want, the culmination of three days of growing attraction and deepening connection. When his free hand slides into my hair, angling my face toward his, I part my lips in anticipation.

Just as we’re about to kiss, a tremendous crash echoes through the hall. One of the other competitors has dropped a pot, the metal clanging against concrete loud enough to wake the dead.

We spring apart like guilty teenagers, the spell broken by the intrusion of reality. But my skin still burns where he touched me, and the look in his eyes suggests he wants me as much as I want him.

“This is getting real,” I whisper, touching my lips with shaking fingers.

“Maybe real is what we’re supposed to be.”

He stands, putting a little distance between us. “But you’re right. This is complicated. You have a competition to win tomorrow, and I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“You’re not a distraction.” The words come out quickly. “You’re the opposite of a distraction. You make everything...better. More real.”

His expression softens, and his hazel eyes meet mine. “Rebecca.”

“I know. I know it’s crazy. We’ve known each other for three days.”

“Sometimes you don’t need a lot of time to know that something is real.”

The certainty in his voice sends my pulse racing. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that whatever this is between us, it’s worth exploring. After you win tomorrow, after the magazine story comes out, after all the performance is over—I want to find out what we have when it’s just us.”

As he walks away, leaving me alone with my prep work and my racing thoughts, I press my fingers to my lips where his kiss would have landed. The ghost of what almost happened sends heat coursing through my body.

I need Amos.