Page 23 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce
I watched him walk away, confusion bubbling in my stomach. What had happened between last night and this morning? The man who'd stayed up late helping me craft a business plan, who'd kissed me like I meant something to him, had turned into this human ice cube.
With the clock ticking, I gathered my Texas Tornado sauce and hustled to the judging area. A small stage stood in the middle of the fairgrounds, with three chairs for the judges and two podiums for the contestants. Bethany Sue was already there, her "Haute Heat" sauce displayed in fancy glass bottles with gold-embossed labels. She wore a pastel pink dress with matching heels, her lips painted the exact same shade of pink—lips that pouted just a bit too perfectly to be entirely natural.
"Morning, Scarlet," she called with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Ready for the final showdown?"
"As I'll ever be," I replied, setting up my display.
Mayor Davidson, Loretta Wilkins, and Chef Rafael Rodriguez took their places at the judges' table. Festival-goers crowded around the stage, fanning themselves against the heat. I scanned the gathering and spotted Burke hanging back near a cotton candy stand, arms folded tight, face giving away nothing.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mayor Davidson announced, "welcome to the final judging of our Summer's End Festival Hot Sauce Competition! Today, our distinguished panel will conducta blind taste test of our two finalists' signature sauces. The winner receives five thousand dollars and a feature in Texas Taste magazine!"
The crowd clapped and cheered. I tried to focus on the competition, to push thoughts of Burke's weird behavior out of my head. This was why I'd come home—to prove myself, to win MeeMaw's trust, to save Smokin' Lurline's.
A festival volunteer collected samples of our signature sauces, placing them in identical unmarked cups labeled only with numbers on the bottom. The judges wouldn't know which sauce belonged to which contestant until after they'd made their decision.
Loretta Wilkins went first, sampling each sauce with a small chunk of cornbread, taking a sip of water between tastes. Her expression remained neutral. Chef Rodriguez followed, analyzing each flavor carefully, eyes closing as he concentrated. Mayor Davidson made a show of it, eyes watering with each taste.
Minutes crawled by slowly. I found myself untying and retying my apron strings, arranging and rearranging the display bottles, anything to keep my hands busy. Across the stage, Bethany Sue stood perfectly still in a pageant pose, hands clasped at her waist.
My eyes drifted back to Burke. He was watching, but when our gazes locked, he turned away. That little rejection stung.
"We have reached our decision," Mayor Davidson announced, holding up an envelope. The crowd hushed, and my heart hammered in my chest.
"And the winner of this year's Summer's End Festival Hot Sauce Competition is... 'Texas Tornado' by Scarlet Landry!"
For a split second, I couldn't move. Then the crowd erupted, and suddenly folks were swarming around me, congratulating me. Through the sea of faces, I caught sight of MeeMaw, her eyes shining with something that looked a lot like pride.
Bethany Sue glided over, her smile tight. "Congratulations," she said, extending her hand. "Your sauce has... personality."
"Thanks," I replied, shaking her hand. "Yours was amazing too."
As people started to drift back to the festival attractions, Mayor Davidson handed me a giant check and a certificate for the magazine feature. I grinned for photos, fielded questions about my cooking secrets, and tried my best to look like someone whose professional dreams were coming true—not someone whose heart was breaking.
When I finally broke free, I spotted Burke at the edge of the thinning crowd. He gave a quick nod and what might have been a hint of a smile.
"Congratulations," he said stiffly. "You earned it."
"Burke," I said, stepping closer despite his obvious retreat. "We need to talk."
"I should really help with—"
"No." I grabbed his arm, surprising both of us with how firm I was. "You're going to tell me what changed between last night and this morning. I deserve that much."
He glanced around at the stragglers still hanging near the stage, then nodded toward my food truck. "Not here."
The short walk felt endless. Inside the truck, the space that had felt just right yesterday now seemed cramped. Burke stood with his back to the counter, twisting his hat in his hands.
"Congratulations again on winning," he said. "That should help with your plans for the restaurant."
"Stop it," I snapped, my patience gone. "Stop talking like we're strangers. What happened?"
"I heard you," Burke said abruptly. "Last night on the phone. Saying how 'the plan is working perfectly' and I've been 'exactly what you needed' and how 'after the competition, it will be all over.'"
My mouth fell open. "You heard that?"
"Kind of hard to miss," he said, looking somewhere past my shoulder. "Don't worry, I understand. You needed someone to convince your grandmother you were settled. Mission accomplished."
"Burke, no." I shook my head, my face heating up. "That wasn't about you—well, not the way you think. I was talking to Josie, my friend from culinary school. She's the one who encouraged me to develop the Texas Tornado recipe. I was telling her how well the festival was going, how you'd helped me with the business plan for MeeMaw."
