Page 3 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce (Festival of Hearts #5)

Burke

I stood frozen at the information booth, watching Scarlet's retreating figure, her copper-red hair catching the afternoon sunlight as she disappeared into the crowd.

The discordant symphony of the festival setup swirled around me—hammers pounding tent stakes, generators humming to life, carnival workers shouting instructions as they tested the Ferris wheel.

The scent of funnel cake batter hitting hot oil mingled with the unmistakable Texas dustiness that rose from the sunbaked ground.

Had I really agreed to be her fake boyfriend for the weekend?

To help convince her grandmother she was settled enough to take over Smokin' Lurline's?

Sweat trickled down my back as I straightened the vendor check-in forms that had somehow gotten disorganized during our conversation. Scarlet Landry had always had that effect—sweeping in like a tornado and leaving everything slightly askew in her wake.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in."

I glanced up to see my youngest brother Rhett sauntering toward the booth, at least two hours late for his volunteer shift. His dark hair was perfectly tousled, and his easy grin suggested he had zero remorse for leaving me to handle the booth alone all morning.

"Hey, just saw Scarlet Landry's back in town," Rhett said, leaning against the counter. His eyes followed her direction. "I remember her coming over to the house to ask you for help with math homework back in the day. She's even prettier now—just sayin'."

My fingers fumbled with the papers as I pretended to be absorbed in reorganizing the vendor map. "Good you finally decided to come back and work your shift."

"Had to help Didi with her lemonade stand," Rhett said with a wink. "Those coolers are heavy. Besides, looks like you had some company." He nodded toward where Scarlet had disappeared. "You two catching up on old times?"

"Something like that," I muttered, gathering my clipboard and vendor forms. "Listen, I promised to help Scarlet set up her food truck. Think you can handle things here for a while?"

Rhett's eyebrows shot up. "You're volunteering to help someone? Without being asked three times? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"Very funny." I stepped out from behind the booth. "Just make sure everyone signs the liability forms before you give them their vendor packets."

"You got it, boss," Rhett called after me. "Say hi to Scarlet for me!"

I strode away before he could ask any more questions, my boots kicking up small clouds of dust. What was I thinking?

A fake relationship with Scarlet Landry.

The same Scarlet who'd nearly burned down the chemistry lab senior year.

The same one who'd skipped more classes than she'd attended but somehow still graduated on time.

The same one whose laughter during our tutoring sessions had made even logarithmic functions seem exciting.

Why had I agreed to this charade? I prided myself on being the practical Tate brother—the one who managed the ranch finances, who left nothing to chance.

Yet here I was, diving headfirst into Scarlet's impulsive scheme.

Something about those pleading blue eyes still had the power to override my better judgment.

Weaving through vendors arranging their wares and carnival workers testing ride controls, I mentally sketched potential scenarios.

If we were going to convince her grandmother—and the rest of Sweetwater—that we were dating, we'd need a believable story.

Details. Timeline. How we reconnected. All the things people would naturally ask about.

The afternoon heat intensified as I approached Scarlet's food truck, a bright red vehicle emblazoned with "Scarlet's Inferno" in flame-styled lettering.

The service window was open, and through it I glimpsed a whirlwind of activity—bottles being arranged, containers shuffled, Scarlet's fingers dancing between prep stations.

"Need a hand?" I called up, shielding my eyes from the glare reflecting off the truck's metal sides.

Scarlet poked her head out of the window, a streak of what looked like red sauce on her cheek and her bandana slightly askew. "Burke! You actually came."

"I said I would, didn't I?" I stepped closer to the truck. "Can I come up?"

She gestured me around to the back door.

Inside, the compact kitchen revealed Scarlet's world—every tool within reach despite the apparent disorder of her creative process.

Stainless steel surfaces gleamed beneath rows of colorful sauce jars labeled with names like "Texas Tornado" and "Prairie Fire.

" Cutting boards held piles of diced peppers and onions, and a pot of something aromatic simmered on the small stove.

The entire space smelled of chili peppers, smoke, and a hint of citrus that made my mouth water unexpectedly.

"Sorry about the mess," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Festival opens at four, and I've still got to finish the sample station and prep the sloppy joe mix."

"We've got a problem," I said, getting straight to the point.

The spatula in her hand stopped its rhythm against the grill, sizzling peppers momentarily neglected. "You're backing out already?"

"No," I assured her. "But if we're going to convince your grandmother—and everyone else—that we're dating, we need a story. People are going to ask questions."

Relief washed over her face as she scraped the seasoned vegetables into the pot. "Right. A backstory. Any ideas?"

"I've been thinking about it," I said, careful not to disturb a precarious stack of sample cups as I settled against the counter. "We need something plausible, with enough details to be convincing but not so complicated we get tripped up."

Scarlet nodded, wiping her hands on a towel. "I'm listening."

"We reconnected three months ago at San Antonio's Cinco de Mayo festival," I began. "I was there picking up some specialty breeding equipment for Weston's dogs, and you had your food truck at the festival."

"That works," Scarlet said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I actually was at that festival with my truck."

"Perfect," I continued, gaining confidence. "We bumped into each other at the..." I hesitated, suddenly blanking on San Antonio landmarks despite having visited dozens of times. "At the, uh..."

"The Riverwalk?" Scarlet suggested.

"Right, the Riverwalk," I said, grateful for the assist. "We spent the weekend catching up and have been seeing each other when our schedules allow. Mostly video chats because of distance and our busy schedules."

"Simple, specific, and believable," Scarlet said, looking impressed. "You've always been good at thinking things through, Burke."

"One of us has to," I said, the words coming out more teasing than I'd intended.

She laughed, the sound ricocheting through the small space and setting off a strange flutter beneath my ribs that I promptly ignored. "Fair enough. But we'll need details—places we visited in San Antonio, inside jokes, the kinds of things real couples would know."

"We had dinner at Rosario's," I suggested. "You ordered the shrimp tacos."

"And you had the carne asada," she added, arranging containers. "Medium rare, no onions."

I raised an eyebrow. "You remember how I like my steak?"

"You ordered it that way every time we went to Smokin’ Lurline’s after tutoring," she said with a shrug, not meeting my eyes. "Some things stick."

My pulse quickened, a warm pressure spreading beneath my ribs at the realization she'd remembered such a small detail about me after all these years. I'd assumed those tutoring sessions had meant nothing to her—just a means to an end to pass algebra.

"What else?" she asked, returning to her preparations while we talked. "Oh! We should have a cute story about how you tried my hottest sauce and pretended it wasn't burning your mouth off."

"Who says I'd have to pretend?" I challenged.

She paused her organizing, one eyebrow arched skeptically. "Burke Tate, are you saying you can handle heat?"

"I grew up with three brothers who turned everything into a competition. You think I haven't built up a tolerance?"

"We'll see about that," she said, her lips quirking into that mischievous half-smile I remembered from high school—the one that usually preceded something either brilliant or catastrophic.

For the next twenty minutes, we swapped details and anecdotes to flesh out our fictional relationship, our conversation punctuated by Scarlet's cooking symphony—the sharp percussion of her knife against the cutting board, the sizzle of peppers hitting hot oil, the rhythmic scrape of her wooden spoon against the pot as she stirred the simmering sauce.

I couldn't help noticing how differently we worked—she moved intuitively, several tasks going at once, while I began creating an efficient customer flow system outside the truck, with clearly marked ordering zones and a streamlined payment process.

"Let's set up tasting stations first, then the menu display," I explained, sketching a quick layout diagram. "That way people can sample your creations before deciding what to order."

Scarlet paused, layering pulled pork onto brioche buns, the meat glistening with her signature marinade. "You're actually really good at this," she said, surprise evident in her voice.

"Ranch management isn't just about cattle," I explained, organizing a tracking system for inventory and daily specials. "It's anticipating bottlenecks and streamlining operations."

"Well, I appreciate it." She handed me a basket of corn bread squares.

"These pair with the smoked brisket tacos.

" Our fingers brushed as I took the tray, sending an unexpected jolt of awareness up my arm.

The tray tipped, and I quickly steadied it, irritated at my own clumsiness.

Scarlet busied herself adjusting a sign, her cheeks suspiciously pink.