Page 77 of Hard to Love
“What’s the whole point?”
She stared up at him. “Bragging rights, of course.”
“No money?”
“Notoriety can be its own reward.”
“Judges,” the overhead voice boomed out again, “do wehave the winners’ list?”
From his place at mid-table, Greer’s brother walked over and handed the emcee a piece of paper.
“Oh, ho.” The guy laughed. “Looks like a bit of an upset this year.”
A chatter wave rolled through the crowd, while Greer clapped her hands and bounced on her toes. “C’mon. Announce it already.”
“The fifth place ribbon goes to Nanny Callahan for her Neiman Marcus bars,” the emcee announced. A tiny silver-haired woman boogied through the crowd and went to stand to the left of the announcer’s podium.
Greer whispered, “She always finishes in the money.”
“Thought you said there weren’t any prizes.”
“Expression, Villanueva. This currency is more important than dollar bills.”
“And in fourth place, we have Henry McCormick for his vanilla goat milk ice cream.”
Alex’s mouth puckered at the thought of tangy ice cream, but to each his own.
“The bronze ribbon goes to Patricia Winn for her very…ahem…creative moon cake.” A short dark-haired lady went to the front and held her hand over her mouth as if surprised by the news.
“The shining silver prize will be awarded to Raylene Pearce for her Double the Kahlua, Double the Fun Tiramisu.” The wave from a few minutes ago increased in volume and velocity.
“What’s the deal?” he asked Greer.
“Raylene normally aces this thing.” Sure enough, as Raylene took her place up front, she was smiling, but it was a strained expression.
“And the gold ribbon…” the guy dragged it out, scanning the crowd with a slight smile on his face, “…goes to the baked flan made by Alex Villanueva.”
Alex’s stomach dropped to the cement floor under his feet, and he looked down at Greer. “You’re shitting me. You ripped off my food from my fridge and entered it in some cooking contest?”
“Get up there,” she hissed. “People need to see you.”
The skin along Alex’s cheekbones and neck heated as the throng of dessert-lovers parted to let him through. The last time he’d felt this put on the spot was in fourth grade when he’d won his elementary school’s art contest with a sketch of Iron Man. That thing had been a piece of crap.
When he made it to the small podium and turned back toward the people clustered around, he tried like hell not to look at anyone, but Greer was all smiles, waving at him as though he were coming down the airplane ramp after a ten-year overseas assignment. Jesus. He wanted to scrub his hands over his face to rid himself of the burn there, but he stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets instead.
The emcee ceremoniously walked along the line of winners and bestowed medals in different colors with the pomp and ceremony of the Olympics. When he had only the blue one left, Alex reached out to grab the damn ribbon. “I’ll just take that.”
“We don’t do it that way.”
“I don’t want a ribbon around my neck,” Alex gritted through his teeth, keeping his voice low and even.
The emcee stepped closer and lowered his voice as well. “Do you want me to go back to my microphone and tell these people you don’t want their ribbon?”
Sonofabitch. Alex ducked his head and let the guy loop the medal over his head. When he straightened, the round metal piece thunked against his chest, strangely warminghis heart. Everyone was clapping and hooting and hollering.
The announcer returned to his mic and said, “The auction will open in five minutes.”
As people began rustling around, Alex stood there like a ten-point buck on the wrong end of a rifle barrel. Raylene scooted up to him, and now her smile was broad and real. “Oh, Alex.” She flung her arms around him and squeezed him in a hug, her flying squirrel earrings digging into left pec muscle. “At first I was upset, but now I know exactly what Greer was up to.”
