Page 6 of Cowboys & Hot Sauce
This was it—our first test. I moved to stand beside Scarlet, our rehearsed story ready.
"Burke's been amazing," Scarlet said, her fingers nervously twisting the towel hanging from her apron. "I didn’t have a chance to tell you before, but we’ve actually been dating since we ran into each other in San Antonio a few months ago."
"Dating?" Lurline's right eyebrow arched dramatically, her lips pursing as she glanced between us. "You two?"
"We reconnected at the Cinco de Mayo festival," I added, resting my hand lightly on Scarlet's shoulder. "Scarlet had her truck there, and I was picking up equipment for the ranch. Spent the whole weekend catching up at the Riverwalk."
"Is that so?" Lurline tapped one finger against her crossed arms, her head cocked slightly to one side. "And in three months; this is the first I'm hearing about it?"
"We've been taking it slow," Scarlet explained, leaning almost imperceptibly into my touch. "With me in Houston and Burke here, it's mostly been video calls and weekend visits when we can manage it."
Lurline studied us for a moment longer, her keen eyes taking in every detail before coming to meet mine. "Well, I trust that you'll be joining us for Friday night family dinner at Scarlet's folks' house tonight?"
The question caught us both off guard. Scarlet's shoulder tensed beneath my hand, but I jumped in before she could stumble.
"Wouldn't miss it," I said, pulling a surprised Scarlet closer and planting a quick kiss on her cheek. The scent of her skin—cinnamon and spice—sent a rush of heat up my neck that had nothing to do with the Texas summer.
"Good," Lurline said, her expression still guarded but with a flicker of something that might have been approval. “We’ll eat at 8:30 on account of the fair. Don't be late."
After she walked away, Scarlet exhaled sharply, her shoulders dropping. "I'm so sorry about dinner. She caught me off guard. You don't have to—"
"A deal's a deal," I interrupted, suddenly aware I was still standing closer than necessary. I took a step back, focusing on rearranging the already-neat stack of napkins. "Besides, it's the perfect opportunity to sell our story."
"We could always say you got a stomachache from eating too much funnel cake," she offered, though her voice lacked conviction.
"It'll be fine," I assured her, ignoring the knot of anxiety forming in my stomach. "I've known your parents for years."
"Yes, but not as my boyfriend," she pointed out, running her fingers through a loose strand of hair.
Before I could respond, a cluster of high school students approached, and we fell back into our service rhythm—Scarlet's buoyant energy drawing people in, my organizational skillskeeping things running in the background. Throughout the afternoon, I caught locals exchanging knowing glances as they spotted us working together, news of our "relationship" already traveling through the Sweetwater grapevine at lightning speed.
Small towns. No secrets.
By eight o'clock, when the first day of the festival wound down, we'd sold an impressive number of sauce jars and made-to-order dishes. As the last customer walked away, Scarlet collapsed onto a folding chair, fanning herself with a menu card.
"I'd forgotten how exhausting festivals can be," she said, her cheeks flushed from the heat and exertion.
"Successful day, though," I observed, closing the cash box after a final count. "You nearly sold out of the Texas Tornado sauce."
Just then, a late customer approached. "Excuse me, how hot is that Texas Tornado sauce? My husband likes spicy but not burn-your-face-off spicy."
Before Scarlet could answer, I found myself saying, "It starts with a smoky chipotle base that hits you first, then builds with habanero heat, but the secret is in the balance—sweet red peppers and a hint of mango smooth out the burn for a complex flavor that lingers without overwhelming."
Both Scarlet and the customer stared at me.
"Wow," the woman said, impressed. "I'll take two bottles."
After she left, Scarlet turned to me, her lips parted in surprise. "How did you know all that?"
I shrugged, my hand instinctively going to the back of my neck. "I listen when you talk." I hesitated, then admitted, "And I might have tried it earlier when you weren't looking."
"You did?"
"I wanted to know," I said simply. "What flavors you like. What makes you happy and proud."
A genuine smile spread across her face, not the practiced one she'd been giving customers all day. She ducked her head slightly, suddenly fascinated with her apron strings.
As workers began shutting down the nearby attractions, the carnival soundtrack faded to a whisper. The Ferris wheel lights dimmed one section at a time like a clock winding down, and vendors called final sales in increasingly tired voices. String lights illuminated the food court area, casting everything in a warm glow. I offered to drive her to her parents' house, suddenly conscious of how natural it had felt working alongside her all afternoon despite our different approaches.
