Page 4 of Deep Fried Devotion
He stared at her like she'd offered to donate a vital organ. "You'd do that?"
"We're neighbors." She was already uncoiling her heavy-duty extension cord, the practical motions hiding the way his surprise made butterflies flutter in her chest. "Besides, if your food goes bad, people might think the whole corner is unreliable."
He blinked, as if her generosity was a language he'd forgotten how to speak. "Thank you. That's... I wasn't expecting..."
"Happy to help."
Their fingers brushed as she handed him the cord, and electricity that had nothing to do with voltage shot up her arm. Soren jerked his hand back like he'd touched a live wire, and she wondered if he'd felt it too—that spark of the unexpected and dangerous.
"I'll return this as soon as I get my generator sorted out," he said, his voice suddenly formal as a business transaction.
"No rush at all."
The next hour blurred past in a whirlwind of eager customers and cheerful chaos. Word about their unusual corner spread through the fairgrounds like spilled honey, drawing a steady stream of adventurous eaters who wanted to try something they'd never seen before. Birdie served deep-fried cotton candy that dissolved into spun sugar clouds on eager tongues, while Soren dispensed his fried balsamic "caviar" pearls and edible smoke spheres that dissolved into flavor clouds with the serious concentration of a scientist conducting groundbreaking experiments.
Mrs. Plum materialized during a brief lull, a festive purple ribbon now woven through her silver hair. "How are you young people getting along?" she asked with the innocent tone of a grandmother who'd never had an innocent thought in her life.
"Wonderfully." Birdie wiped down her counter with unnecessary vigor. "Soren's been incredibly helpful with the technical side of things."
Mrs. Plum's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Has he now?"
"I merely helped with some temperature stuff," Soren interjected from his window, voice still formal but less stiff.
"And I shared my grandmother's trick for keeping batter crispy." Birdie beamed at the older woman.
Mrs. Plum's smile could have powered half the fairground's electrical grid. She purchased one item from each truck. "For comparison purposes," she claimed. Then she settled onto a nearby bench to conduct what appeared to be a very serious taste test. Other fairgoers noticed her thoughtful chewing and gathered around, curious about her verdict.
"This bubble gum one's clever," she announced to her growing audience, holding up Birdie's creation. "Tastes just like childhood, but better. And this fancy one..." She examined Soren's pickle caviar with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. “Is quite the surprise."
"Which one's better?" someone called from the back of the crowd.
Mrs. Plum considered this seriously. "That's like asking if I prefer my grandson's finger paintings or the Mona Lisa. They're both art, just different kinds. The girl here makes you smile. The boy makes you think. Nothing wrong with either one."
Birdie stole a glance at Soren, who was listening to Mrs. Plum's review with genuine interest instead of his usual intensity.
The Flying Wallendas performance began at six, drawing massive crowds past their corner. Birdie had anticipated this moment all day—peak foot traffic, maximum visibility, her chance to prove that Grandma Rose's dream could become sustainable reality.
Instead, she discovered that success could transform into its own special brand of disaster.
"I need six bubble gum bites, four cola balls, and two cotton candy clouds," called a frazzled father while attempting to corral three small children who seemed determined to explore every square inch of the fairgrounds simultaneously.
"Coming right up.!" Birdie spun toward her fryer, which chose that exact moment to begin smoking like a dragon with indigestion.
"Everything okay over there?" Soren's voice cut through her rising panic like a lifeline.
"Fine!" she called back, though fine was approximately the opposite of whatever was happening to her oil temperature. "Just a little—oh no."
The oil had overheated, transforming her beautiful golden treats into charcoal nuggets that belonged in a fireplace, not a paper boat. The father at her window shifted impatiently while his children began the universal whine that signaled impending meltdown.
"Here." Soren appeared at her elbow holding an infrared thermometer like a knight bearing a sword. "Your oil's running thirty degrees too hot. Reduce the heat and let it stabilize."
"But I have customers waiting—"
"Better to wait two minutes than serve inedible food."
He was right, of course, but disappointing people felt like disappointing Grandma Rose herself. The father was already eyeing the regular funnel cake stand, probably calculating whether her amateur operation was worth the wait.
"Tell you what," Soren said, raising his voice to address the growing line of customers. "While she fixes her oil, I'll give out free samples of my pickle caviar."
