Page 35 of Stuck with my Mechanic Daddies

The owner ofSweet Maple Bakery—and everyone’s unofficial grandmother—stood at her station, calmly rolling out homemade pasta like she had all the time in the world.

“No need to rush, boys,” she called, her smile deceptively sweet. “A good meal takes patience.”

We weresoscrewed.

“Damn it,” Mason muttered, eyeing her dough. “She's makingpasta? Who let that happen?”

Owen laughed. “Are you gonna tell her no?”

Mason grimaced. “Not if I want to live.”

I smirked, turning my steak with practiced ease. My garlic butter was melting just right, sizzling over the grill, the smell deep and rich.

My gut told me I was in the lead.

But the crowd—andthe judges—had yet to weigh in.

A hush fell over the cook-off area as Charlie Dunn, the owner of The Starry Night Theater, stepped onto the small stage with a microphone. He was one of the judges, along with Nancy Hayes, and the local grump who spent most of his time at Lucky’s, Paul Baker.

“All right, folks! The moment you’ve been waiting for—judging time!” Charlie announced, adjusting his glasses. “Our contestants will now plate their dishes, and our esteemed panel will decide the winner!”

I exhaled, steadying myself. It was time to seal the deal.

Mason was already plating his salmon like he was onMasterChef,making sure everything was arranged just so.Owen, ever the minimalist, kept his plate simple. Just meat, apples, and a drizzle of sauce.

I went for presentation, too, but nottoomuch. I arranged the steak just right, let the butter pool at the edges, and made sure the bourbon glaze on my sweet potatoes shone under the lights.

Perfect.

One by one, the judges made their rounds.

Nancy was polite but unreadable, giving each plate a nod before moving on. Charlie took his time, tasting everything carefully, humming to himself. Paul, of course, was a nightmare—grumbling about seasoning, making exaggerated faces, taking notes like this was a life-or-death situation.

Aurora had stuck around to watch, and when she caught my eye, she smirked.

Nervous?she mouthed.

I rolled my shoulders.Not even a little.

That was a lie. I needed a win, what with everything going on at work. Oh, and my epic bowling fail.

That damn pink shirt.

Finally, Charlie returned to the microphone, clearing his throat. “After much deliberation, we have a winner!”

The crowd leaned in.

Ryan nudged Mason. “If Harriet wins, we riot.”

“Agreed,” Mason muttered.

Charlie grinned. “This year’s Medford Fall Festival Cook-Off champion is…”

A pause.

A dramatic, bullshit pause.

“Ethan Grady!”

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