Page 9 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce (Festival of Hearts #5)

I pointed to an enormous plush armadillo wearing a cowboy hat and boots. The carnival worker handed it over with a flourish, and I hugged the ridiculous thing to my chest.

"He's perfect," I declared. "I'm naming him Clyde."

"Clyde the armadillo," Burke nodded seriously. "It suits him."

For the next half hour, we wandered through the carnival area, trying different games and accumulating an increasingly absurd collection of prizes.

Burke won a plastic sheriff's badge at the ring toss, which I immediately pinned to his shirt.

I managed to knock over milk bottles and earned a small stuffed longhorn that Burke tucked into his back pocket, its horns sticking out comically.

At the cotton candy stand, Burke insisted on buying us each a cone—blue for him, pink for me. We found a bench near the edge of the midway where the noise dimmed slightly and sat watching the festival unfold around us.

"I overhead MeeMaw talking," I admitted, tearing off a piece of cotton candy and watching it dissolve on my tongue. "She still doesn't think I'll stay."

Burke was quiet for a moment, considering. "What do you think?"

"That's the thing," I sighed. "A month ago, I wasn't sure. But being back here, seeing everyone, working the festival... it feels right in a way Houston never did."

"So what changed?"

I studied the pink fluff in my hand. "Maybe I did. Or maybe I just needed to leave to realize what I'd left behind."

Our gazes locked, and for a moment, I wondered if he could tell I wasn't just talking about Sweetwater. But before I could say anything more, Mayor Davidson's voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

"Would all hot sauce contestants please return to the competition area? We're ready to announce who's moving on to tomorrow's finals!"

My heart jumped like grease in a hot skillet. Burke stood and offered me his hand, which I took without thinking. We walked back toward the judging area, my armadillo tucked under one arm and my fingers intertwined with Burke's.

The onlookers had gathered around a small stage where Mayor Davidson, Loretta Wilkins, and the third judge, Chef Rafael Rodriguez, stood with the large jar of voting cards.

All four contestants lined up at the foot of the stage, and I took my place between Doug Porter and Jim Bob Tucker, with Bethany Sue on Jim Bob's other side.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mayor Davidson announced, "we've tallied the public votes for our hot sauce competition, and I'm pleased to announce the two finalists who will move on to tomorrow's championship round!"

The crowd whooped and hollered. I felt Burke's steady presence just behind me, and I resisted the urge to reach back for his hand again.

"This was an extremely close competition," the Mayor continued, "with all four entries receiving enthusiastic support from our festival attendees."

Loretta Wilkins stepped forward with an envelope. "The two contestants moving on to tomorrow's final judging are..."

The pause hung in the air like smoke over a barbecue pit.

"Bethany Sue Walker with 'Haute Heat'..."

A polite round of applause, with Bethany Sue nodding graciously as if she'd never doubted the outcome.

"...and Scarlet Landry with 'Texas Tornado'!"

The cheers erupted louder this time, with whoops and whistles I recognized as coming from locals who'd known me my whole life. I stood frozen for a half-second, then felt myself being lifted and spun around. Burke had grabbed me by the waist and was twirling me in a circle, my feet off the ground.

"You did it!" he exclaimed, his smile wider than I'd ever seen it.

When he set me down, I was laughing and breathless. "We did it. I couldn't have pulled this off without you."

His expression brightened at the "we," making my pulse skip like a scratched record.

Bethany Sue approached, her smile perfect. "Congratulations, Scarlet. May the best chef win tomorrow."

"Looking forward to it," I replied, matching her sweetness with my own.

As she walked away, my smile faltered. "Just like old times. Me versus Bethany Sue in the finals."

"What do you mean?" Burke asked.

"High school," I explained. "Homecoming Queen competition, debate team captain, lead in the school play—always came down to the two of us. She usually won."

"This isn't high school," Burke said firmly. "And your sauce is better."

I wanted to believe him, but doubt crept in like weevils in flour as I watched Bethany Sue charming Chef Rodriguez across the way. "The final judging is blind tasting, at least. No fancy presentations or talk about 'artisanal blends' tomorrow—just flavor."

"Which means you've got this," Burke insisted.

The crowd began to disperse as people drifted toward dinner options and evening attractions. I was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion—the adrenaline of the day catching up all at once.

"Want to get out of here?" Burke asked, noticing my fatigue. "You should rest before tomorrow."

I nodded, then remembered something. "Wait, isn't there a potluck dinner and barn dance tonight?"

"At the old Blackwell barn by the community center," he confirmed. "The church ladies handle the potluck inside the community hall first, then everyone moves to the barn for dancing. But you don't have to go if you're tired."

The thought of going home to stare at the ceiling, replaying MeeMaw's doubts in my head, held no appeal. "Actually, I'd love to go. Might help me wind down and relax before tomorrow."

Burke's face lit up. "I could pick you up at your parents' house around 7:30? That gives us both time to go home and freshen up."

"It's a date," I said, then caught myself. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean," he replied, his voice gentle. "Still part of the plan."

Right. The plan. The fake relationship that was feeling less fake by the hour.

"7:30," I confirmed.

As we walked toward the parking area, my arms full of carnival prizes and my mind swirling with conflicting emotions, I couldn't help wondering what tonight might bring.

Tomorrow was the final competition—my last chance to prove myself worthy of Smokin' Lurline's.

But tonight...tonight was just about me and Burke and a dance floor under string lights.

And maybe figuring out if what was simmering between us was as real as it tasted.