Page 25 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce
"We're not actually together," I admitted, the words bitter on my tongue. "It was pretend. She needed someone to convince her grandmother she was settled enough to take over Smokin' Lurline's. I was... convenient."
Rhett's eyebrows shot up. "Pretend? You're telling me what I've been seeing all weekend was an act?"
I nodded, then shrugged, then shook my head. "It started that way. Then things got... complicated."
"You mean you finally stopped denying what everyone else has known for years—that you've had feelings for her all this time."
My collar felt two sizes too small. "Maybe."
"And now?"
"And now I don't know." I picked up a rag, wiping grease from my hands with more attention than the task required. "I thought she was just using me as part of some plan. She says shewasn't. But even if that's true, this whole thing was supposed to end after the competition anyway."
Rhett pushed off from the booth frame, crossing his arms. "So, what? You're just going to let her walk away? Go back to your ledgers and pretend none of this happened?"
"It's not that simple."
"Actually, big brother, it is." Rhett's tone sharpened. "You've spent your whole life playing it safer than a Treasury bond. When Grayson went after the big ranching contracts, when Weston joined the rodeo circuit, when I’ve gone after anything wearing a skirt and a pretty smile—you stayed behind to balance the books. Good ol' reliable Burke."
I bristled. "Someone has to be responsible."
"Responsible doesn't mean you have to avoid risk like it's mad cow disease." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You know what I saw this weekend? I saw my serious, straight-laced brother laughing in a dunking booth. I saw you two-stepping at the barn social. Hell, I saw you looking at Scarlet like she was the sun in the middle of winter."
"What's your point?"
"My point is—" Rhett paused, shaking his head with a grin—"none of that looked fake to me. And judging by the way she couldn't take her eyes off you, it sure didn't look fake to Scarlet either."
My chest tightened like a cinched saddle, remembering how Scarlet had felt in my arms under the string lights, how her eyes had sparked when we'd stayed up planning the restaurant's future.
"You don't understand," I said. "Scarlet is... she's like a wildfire. All spark and energy. I'm—"
"The steady hand on the brake," Rhett finished. "Predictable as a Sunday sermon. The guy who double-checks his grocery receipts."
I shot him a glare but couldn't argue.
"That's exactly why you fit together," Rhett continued, spinning his hat on one finger. "Did you ever think maybe she needs someone who keeps the books balanced? That maybe you need someone who adds a little spice to your meat-and-potatoes life?"
His words hit home harder than a hammer on a fence post. I turned away, focusing on dismantling another section of the booth.
"Here's some ranch math for you," Rhett said. "Calculate the odds of finding someone who makes you forget about your spreadsheets. Then figure the lifetime loss if you let her go without ever showing your cards." He paused. "That's not an investment strategy I'd recommend."
I kept working, but his words sank in deeper than I wanted to admit.
"For what it's worth," Rhett added, "that woman watches you the same way you watch her when you think nobody's looking."
My hands stilled on the metal framework. "You don't know that."
"I do. But you'll never know unless you ante up." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Weston's already got the market cornered on stubborn. Don't make it a family trait."
With that, he walked away, leaving me with a half-disassembled booth and thoughts even more tangled than before. I stared after him, wondering when my youngest brother had gotten so insightful about matters of the heart.
I finished packing up the booth components, each piece fitting precisely into its designated spot in the storage container. If only emotions could be organized so neatly.
Looking across the fairgrounds, I spotted Scarlet's empty food truck. She'd already packed up, the bright red vehicle with its flame decorations conspicuously absent from the vendor area. The sight left a hollow feeling in my chest.
"Burke?" Pete Jackson, one of the festival organizers, approached with a clipboard. "You done with the booth teardown?"
I nodded, signing off on his checklist.
