Page 4 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce (Festival of Hearts #5)

"So virtual date nights," she continued, seemingly determined to move past the moment. "What would we do?"

"Watch movies together," I suggested, regaining my composure. "You'd pick something with explosions, I'd counter with a classic Western."

"And we'd compromise on a romantic comedy," she finished, the tension dissolving as she smiled. "Hey, this isn't so hard."

Before I could respond, the festival director's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, announcing thirty minutes until official opening. Scarlet dropped the spoon she was holding with a clatter.

"Already? I need to finish glazing the pulled pork and set up the cash box."

"I'll handle the cash box," I offered. "You focus on the food."

She hesitated, fidgeting with the ties of her apron. "Are you sure? I know you've got your own festival duties..."

"Rhett can handle the information booth," I assured her. "Besides, this needs to be convincing, right? What kind of boyfriend wouldn't help?"

The word "boyfriend" hung awkwardly between us for a moment before she nodded. "Thanks, Burke."

We fell into an unexpected rhythm as four o'clock approached. While Scarlet finished final preparations—tasting and adjusting seasonings with the confidence of someone who trusted her instincts—I set up the cash box, making sure enough small bills and coins were placed into the small compartments to handle the evening’s anticipated transactions.

When the Summer's End jamboree officially opened at four, the food vendor area came alive.

Kids darted between stands with painted faces, couples studied menus together, and the scent of a dozen different cuisines mingled in the summer air.

Our corner stayed steadily busy. I kept an eye on sales and change while Scarlet chatted with customers.

A family with three young boys ordered pulled pork sandwiches, an older couple debated which sauce to take home, and a group of teenagers pooled crumpled bills for a sampler platter.

Between rushes, Scarlet would wipe down the counter while I restocked napkins and utensils.

The afternoon passed in a comfortable blur of customer exchanges and conversations, punctuated by the occasional blast of calliope music from the carousel down the midway.

"Try our signature Prairie Fire sauce," Scarlet called to passersby, gesturing with animated enthusiasm that drew smiles even from strangers.

"Sweet at first sip, then a slow burn that'll warm you from the inside out! This one's milder,” she explained to an elderly couple, picking up a cup of Firefly’s Kiss.

“It’s perfect for those summer evenings when you want just a little extra ‘something.’ Pairs well with burgers or as a marinade for chicken. "

Just as the first rush began to taper off, I spotted Lurline Landry approaching the truck.

"Well, if it isn't Burke Tate," she said, stepping up to the counter. "Didn't expect to see you working my granddaughter’s booth."

Scarlet spun around at Lurline’s voice, nearly dropping a bowl of corn chips. "MeeMaw! You're back already?"

"Just checking how things are going," Lurline said, her gaze shifting between us. Her mouth tightened at the corners, head tilting slightly as she took in the scene.

This was it—our first test. I moved to stand beside Scarlet, our rehearsed story ready.

"Burke's been amazing," Scarlet said, her fingers nervously twisting the towel hanging from her apron. "I didn’t have a chance to tell you before, but we’ve actually been dating since we ran into each other in San Antonio a few months ago."

"Dating?" Lurline's right eyebrow arched dramatically, her lips pursing as she glanced between us. "You two?"

"We reconnected at the Cinco de Mayo festival," I added, resting my hand lightly on Scarlet's shoulder. "Scarlet had her truck there, and I was picking up equipment for the ranch. Spent the whole weekend catching up at the Riverwalk."

"Is that so?" Lurline tapped one finger against her crossed arms, her head cocked slightly to one side. "And in three months; this is the first I'm hearing about it?"

"We've been taking it slow," Scarlet explained, leaning almost imperceptibly into my touch. "With me in Houston and Burke here, it's mostly been video calls and weekend visits when we can manage it."

Lurline studied us for a moment longer, her keen eyes taking in every detail before coming to meet mine. "Well, I trust that you'll be joining us for Friday night family dinner at Scarlet's folks' house tonight?"

The question caught us both off guard. Scarlet's shoulder tensed beneath my hand, but I jumped in before she could stumble.

"Wouldn't miss it," I said, pulling a surprised Scarlet closer and planting a quick kiss on her cheek. The scent of her skin—cinnamon and spice—sent a rush of heat up my neck that had nothing to do with the Texas summer.

"Good," Lurline said, her expression still guarded but with a flicker of something that might have been approval. “We’ll eat at 8:30 on account of the fair. Don't be late."

After she walked away, Scarlet exhaled sharply, her shoulders dropping. "I'm so sorry about dinner. She caught me off guard. You don't have to—"

"A deal's a deal," I interrupted, suddenly aware I was still standing closer than necessary. I took a step back, focusing on rearranging the already-neat stack of napkins. "Besides, it's the perfect opportunity to sell our story."

"We could always say you got a stomachache from eating too much funnel cake," she offered, though her voice lacked conviction.

"It'll be fine," I assured her, ignoring the knot of anxiety forming in my stomach. "I've known your parents for years."

"Yes, but not as my boyfriend," she pointed out, running her fingers through a loose strand of hair.

Before I could respond, a cluster of high school students approached, and we fell back into our service rhythm—Scarlet's buoyant energy drawing people in, my organizational skills keeping things running in the background.

Throughout the afternoon, I caught locals exchanging knowing glances as they spotted us working together, news of our "relationship" already traveling through the Sweetwater grapevine at lightning speed.

Small towns. No secrets.

By eight o'clock, when the first day of the festival wound down, we'd sold an impressive number of sauce jars and made-to-order dishes. As the last customer walked away, Scarlet collapsed onto a folding chair, fanning herself with a menu card.

"I'd forgotten how exhausting festivals can be," she said, her cheeks flushed from the heat and exertion.

"Successful day, though," I observed, closing the cash box after a final count. "You nearly sold out of the Texas Tornado sauce."

Just then, a late customer approached. "Excuse me, how hot is that Texas Tornado sauce? My husband likes spicy but not burn-your-face-off spicy."

Before Scarlet could answer, I found myself saying, "It starts with a smoky chipotle base that hits you first, then builds with habanero heat, but the secret is in the balance—sweet red peppers and a hint of mango smooth out the burn for a complex flavor that lingers without overwhelming."

Both Scarlet and the customer stared at me.

"Wow," the woman said, impressed. "I'll take two bottles."

After she left, Scarlet turned to me, her lips parted in surprise. "How did you know all that?"

I shrugged, my hand instinctively going to the back of my neck. "I listen when you talk." I hesitated, then admitted, "And I might have tried it earlier when you weren't looking."

"You did?"

"I wanted to know," I said simply. "What flavors you like. What makes you happy and proud."

A genuine smile spread across her face, not the practiced one she'd been giving customers all day. She ducked her head slightly, suddenly fascinated with her apron strings.

As workers began shutting down the nearby attractions, the carnival soundtrack faded to a whisper.

The Ferris wheel lights dimmed one section at a time like a clock winding down, and vendors called final sales in increasingly tired voices.

String lights illuminated the food court area, casting everything in a warm glow.

I offered to drive her to her parents' house, suddenly conscious of how natural it had felt working alongside her all afternoon despite our different approaches.

Walking to my truck through the half-dismantled vendor area, my chest tightened with each step, my thoughts scattered and unfocused.

The collar of my shirt felt suddenly too tight, and I found myself taking longer breaths than usual.

This wasn't just a simple favor anymore.

The way my pulse had quickened when I'd kissed her cheek, the easy way we'd fallen into complementing each other's work styles, the fact that I'd actually enjoyed myself—these weren't the reactions of someone just playing a part.

"Ready for dinner with the family?" I asked, opening the passenger door for her.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she replied, meeting my eyes in the fading light.

Climbing into the driver's seat, I tried to focus on the practical aspects of the evening ahead—what questions Wayne and Donna might ask, how to maintain our cover story.

But one thought kept intruding, making my fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel: I had agreed to this scheme to help Scarlet convince her grandmother she was settled enough to take over Smokin' Lurline's.

But who was going to convince me that when Monday morning came, I'd be ready to go back to being just Burke Tate, ranch accountant, the reliable brother who never took risks?

Because right now, sitting beside Scarlet Landry as we drove toward her childhood home, I was starting to wonder if the most dangerous risk of all was never taking one.