Page 12 of Deep Fried Devotion
Birdie hugged the stuffie to her, ridiculously touched by the gesture. "Thank you."
They continued their walk, sharing funnel cake and watching children shriek with delight on the rides. Soren proved surprisingly observant about the fair's operations, pointing out clever booth designs and commenting on traffic flow patterns. But mostly, Birdie just enjoyed watching him relax, seeing him smile more in one hour than she had in the previous two days combined.
"We should head back," she said eventually, though she was reluctant to break the spell.
"Probably," Soren agreed, equally reluctant.
They were walking past the duck pond game when Birdie's phone rang. She glanced at the screen and grimaced.
"I have to take this," she said apologetically. "It's my day job."
"Birdie?" The voice of her former supervisor at Premier Catering was tight with barely controlled panic. "Thank God. We have a crisis. The Whitman wedding tomorrow—our main chef just called in sick and the backup chef's car broke down. I know you don't work for us anymore, but you developed the Whitman menu when you were here, and frankly, nobody else can execute it the way you do. Could you possibly come in tonight to prep everything? I'll pay your freelance rate plus overtime."
"Tonight?" Birdie's stomach dropped. "But I'm working the fair—"
"I know, and I'm sorry, but you created that menu and you know all the techniques. The other chefs could probably muddle through, but the Whitmans specifically requested your style when they booked. If we don't deliver your quality tomorrow, we lose the contract and probably our reputation. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate."
Birdie looked at Soren, who was pretending not to listen while clearly hearing every word.
"I... yes. I'll be there."
"Thank you. You're a lifesaver."
She hung up and turned to Soren with an apologetic expression. "I have to go."
"Work emergency?"
"Wedding tomorrow. My old catering company is desperate—I created their signature menu and the clients specifically requested my style. The other chefs could handle it, but not to the standard the clients expect." She felt terrible leaving him to handle their corner alone. "I have to call an Uber to get theresince my truck's here. I'm so sorry. I know this leaves you in a bind—"
"Go," Soren said firmly. "Emergency favors for former employers are part of the business."
"It's good money, but I hate leaving you—"
"Your reputation is important, Birdie. And people are counting on you." He squeezed her hand. "I can manage things here."
"Are you sure? The dinner rush can get crazy—"
"I'll figure it out." His smile was soft and reassuring. "Besides, how hard can it be to fry bubble gum?"
Despite everything, Birdie laughed. "Famous last words."
"Go," he said again, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. "I'll be here when you get back."
As Birdie waited by the fairground gates for her Uber, clutching her stuffed elephant and trying not to think about how much she'd rather stay with Soren than spend the night prepping someone else's wedding menu, she watched him through the crowd. He was already back at work, handling a customer, but she could see him glancing toward the gates every few seconds.
When their eyes met across the distance, he raised his hand in a small wave, and her heart soared.
Chapter Five
Birdie's Uber pulled through back into the fairground just as the evening entertainment was winding down. The Flying Wallendas had finished their final Saturday performance, and families were starting to head home with tired children and bags of leftover cotton candy. She'd been gone less than six hours, but it felt like weeks. Her hands were stained with prep work from the wedding catering, her back ached from hunching over commercial prep tables, and all she wanted was to see Soren's face.
The corner looked different as she approached—busier than she'd ever seen it. A line stretched from both trucks, and she could see Soren moving between the two setups with the focused intensity of someone barely keeping ahead of disaster.
"Soren!" she called out, dropping her bag and rushing toward him.
He looked up from where he was frantically trying to manage both fryers, his usually perfect hair completely disheveled, flour streaking his chef's coat, and an expression of pure relief flooding his features when he saw her.
"Birdie, thank God. I am so far in over my head—"
