Page 104 of Fool Me

Mrs. Elwood, the town librarian and a bake-off purist, scribbles notes on her clipboard.

And Chef Martín, from the wine bar inside the Timberline Peak Lodge, keeps muttering things like “crumb integrity” and “flavor architecture.” The man seems to think this is a Food Network finale, not a small-town bake-off.

Tessa stands with her arms crossed, watching them taste her tartlets with the confidence of an decorated Olympian.

Marcy leans against her table with a smear of flour on her face, making the whole thing look far too easy.

And Drake is mean-mugging the judges, looking like he’d rather a sinkhole open up and swallow him whole than have to accept the vintage ceramic dish that was allegedly the founder’s pie plate.

Mrs. Elwood takes a second bite of one of Tessa’s tartlets and my eyes flick to Atlas’s.

“That’s a good sign, right?” I whisper.

He sips his coffee. “Or she’s just hungry because she skipped breakfast to finish her crossword.”

Mrs. Elwood steps back and clears her throat. “Thank you all for your entries. It was a close race to claim first prize and the distinction that goes with it.”

The crowd quiets.

“In third place,” she continues, “for the bold decision to use boxed cupcake mix with his grandma’s frosting recipe—god rest her soul—Drake Holt.”

Light applause erupts from the audience and Drake turns to leave, obviously done with the attention.

Tessa winces.

“In second,” she says, ignoring the departure, “with beautiful execution and nearly perfect presentation—Tessa Kennedy.”

We all hoop and holler, making Tessa blush.

“And in first place,” Mrs. Elwood says, a little smile twitching at the corner of her mouth, “for balance, creativity, and a hand pie I will be thinking about until the end of my days . . . Marcy Jensen.”

“Oh my god,” Marcy breathes, hands to her cheeks. “I thought the crust was too thick!”

Mrs. Elwood treats her to a rare smile. “It had presence.”

Marcy blinks, then bursts into a startled laugh, already half running to accept the pie plate.

I clap along with everyone else, grinning as Atlas leans in and whispers, “Honestly? I liked the hand pie the best too.”

“Me too,” Denver says. “I had to fight a toddler for the last one. Worth it.”

Marcy stands in the center of the tent, cradling her pie plate—definitely a reproduction—with the reverence of someone holding a dish blessed by Julia Child.

Atlas leans close, lifting the brim of his hat to brush his lips across my temple. I’d laughed when he came out wearing it this morning, not thinking he’d dress to match the theme of the day. But he’s taking his role as a parade judge seriously. I think the fact that he was asked to help healed something in him. It gave him a belonging here beyond his parents, the clinic, or me. Like maybe the town doesn’t care as much about his past as he does.

“I should probably get moving so I can make it to the judging table before the parade starts,” he says with a resigned exhale.

“Yeah, I’m on medic duty for the Packhorse Parade. I have to take Echo and head to the first aid tent.”

“I’ll come find you after. We’ll do the Glow-in-the-Dark-Chairlift ride together like we planned.”

He pulls me back to him for a final goodbye kiss, and my stomach flutters. Knowing that this is real and that he’s mine hasn’t gotten old.

“Later, then,” I say, forcing the words out like I’m not desperate to stay in his orbit a little longer.

He steps back, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m going this way.”

Tessa steps off the stage, and I give her a squeeze. “Are you going to tell me why Drake was in the bake-off?”

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