Page 27 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce
I stood, my pulse racing like a quarter horse in the home stretch. Through the doorway, I glimpsed Lurline embracing her granddaughter, whispering something in her ear that made Scarlet's eyes widen. Then Lurline stepped back, glanced in my direction, and made her way toward the kitchen, leaving us alone.
Scarlet stood framed in the doorway, wearing a simple sundress patterned with tiny red peppers, her copper hair caught up in a messy ponytail. She'd never looked more beautiful.
"Burke," she said, her mouth forming a small "oh" of surprise. "What are you doing here?"
I took a deep breath, stepping away from the safety of the shore. "Being honest for once."
Her head tilted slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I stopped, cleared my throat, started again. "This wasn't fake for me, Scarlet. Not really. Maybe at first, but..." I ran a hand through my hair. "Somewhere between shaking on that deal and slow-dancing under those lights, it turned real. At least for me."
Her eyes fixed on mine, searching.
"I've had feelings for you since—heck, since you'd show up to tutoring with flour in your hair from some kitchen disaster." The words came rougher now, less practiced. "When you askedme to pretend, I should've told you then, but I was too—too cautious."
"Cautious?" she echoed.
"Always calculating. Playing it safe." I moved closer, drawn by something stronger than gravity. "All my life, I've weighed every decision like I was balancing books. But with you—" I shook my head. "With you, I'd throw out the whole ledger."
Realization flickered across her face, followed by something that made my breath catch. "Burke Tate, are you saying you want to take a chance on me? The girl who sets off fire alarms testing pepper recipes? Who can't balance a checkbook to save her life?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying." I reached for her hand, warmth spreading through me when she didn't pull away. "I'm good with order, with systems, with making sure the numbers add up. You're good with chaos, with trying the untried, with making everyone smile when you walk into a room."
Her fingers tightened around mine. "We're pretty different."
"Like debit and credit," I said. "Opposite sides of the ledger that create a perfect balance."
A grin spread across her face. "Did you just make an accounting metaphor?"
"Might have." I drew her closer. "Listen, I don't want pretend anymore. I want—" My voice caught, but I pushed through. "I want to build something real. With the restaurant, with your sauces. With us. I could handle the business end while still managing the ranch accounts. You could focus on cooking and running the restaurant. Partners in... well, everything."
Her eyes brightened with moisture, but her smile only grew wider. "You've really worked out all the angles, haven't you?"
"Some investments are worth the extra analysis." I brushed a strand of hair from her face, my hand less steady than I would've liked. "So what do you say, Scarlet? Ready to turn this pretend partnership into the real deal?"
She laughed, the sound filling the empty restaurant like morning light. "Burke Tate, that was the most accountant-like declaration of feelings I've ever heard."
"Is that a yes?"
Instead of answering, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to mine. This kiss was different from our others—no more pretense, no more audience, leaving nothing but what was in our hearts—which was everything. When we broke apart, her eyes sparked with that familiar mischief.
"Just so we're clear," she said, "I'm not fake-falling in love with you."
My heart skipped at the word "love," even with the qualifier. "Good. Because I'm not fake-anything anymore."
I pulled her close again, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and chilies that would forever remind me of taking the biggest risk of my life—and finding it paid dividends beyond measure.
Epilogue
Scarlet
The dinner rush at Smokin' Lurline's hit like a Texas thunderstorm—sudden, powerful, and exactly what I'd been waiting for. I wiped my hands on my apron, surveying the packed dining room with a satisfaction that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. Six weeks after winning the hot sauce competition, and the place hadn't seen an empty table since we reopened.
"Order up for table twelve!" I called, sliding three plates of brisket across the pass-through window. Each one glistened with my Prairie Fire sauce, the recipe now permanently featured on our "Landry Family Specials" menu.
The renovated dining room filled with conversation and the scrape of forks against plates. We'd kept the red-and-white checked tablecloths—some traditions you don't mess with—but added rustic wooden shelves along one wall that housed the "Scarlet's Inferno" retail collection. Glass bottles of Texas Tornado, Firefly's Kiss, and three new sauce varieties I'd developed stood in colorful rows, catching the light from the Edison bulbs we'd strung across the ceiling.
"Those new jalapeño corn fritters are flying out of the kitchen," MeeMaw said, appearing at my side with an emptyserving tray. Her silver hair remained in its practical bun, but these days she wore a splash of red lipstick that matched the restaurant's new logo. "Sold out of the bottled Ranch Fire sauce, too. Need to mix up another batch tomorrow."
