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The bids began to fly—five dollars—no, thirteen.
My gaze shifted over the crowd, searching, until I finally spotted Rory, seated off to the side. I grabbed a chair and dragged it over to sit next to her.
“I had a feeling you’d be here,” I said.
Rory cast a sideways glance in my direction.
“What do you want, Beau?”
I gestured to the selection of pies.
“I’m a hungry, hard-working cowboy in search of some home cooking.”
“You’re at the rodeo,” Rory pointed out. “There’s food everywhere.”
I stretched my legs out with a sigh, getting comfortable.
“The auction is for a good cause, though. Besides, I wouldn’t want your baking to go unappreciated. You’d be heartbroken if your pie was the only one that didn’t sell.”
The likelihood of that was non-existent. Everyone knew how delicious Rory’s baking tasted. There would practically be a brawl to claim her pie. But it was fun to watch her suck in a sharp breath of indignation at my words, her eyes sparking with fury.
“Sold!” the auctioneer said. “To the lucky cowboy in the ten-gallon hat at the back of the room. You just bought yourself a feast, sir.”
A few more pies were sold off, but I wasn’t paying any attention to them. There was only one pie I wanted. When it was finally transferred to the stand for sale, I was ready.
“Next up on the block,” the auctioneer continued. “We have a lip-smacking-good bourbon peach pie from the best baker in town, Rory Copeland. Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ve spent any time in Ash Ridge, you know just how good Miss Rory’s baking is. This pie is sweet with ripe peaches and brown sugar, but it’s got a smoky kick from that bourbon, too. You won’t want to miss it, so let’s get those bids rolling.”
The bids began to come, hot and fast, skyrocketing higher and higher.
Fifteen dollars—twenty—thirty.
“Forty-five dollars,” I said, raising my hand.
Rory gasped, grabbed my wrist, and yanked my arm down.
“Beau, no.”
To my delight, she didn’t pull away. My skin buzzed with awareness of her—the insistent press of her soft fingertips, wrapped around the pulse at my wrist that had to be racing a mile a minute. She stared at me with sharp green eyes, searching my face as if I’d lost my mind. The only time she ever met my gaze like this was when she was annoyed—or just plain pissed off—and I loved every second of it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.
“What does it look like? I’m bidding on a pie. Your pie,” I added, savoring the way she huffed with frustration.
“Fifty dollars!” the auctioneer announced. “Do I hear fifty-five?”
“Don’t do that,” Rory said through gritted teeth.
“Last I checked, it’s a free country.” I lifted my other arm to get the auctioneer’s attention. “Fifty-five.”
“Beau,” Rory said in a strangled voice. “You are not getting that pie.”
I grinned at her, leaning in close. My lungs filled with the scent of lemon zest and the earthy, yeasty smell of sourdough. When she bit her lower lip until it flushed dark pink, all I could think about was kissing her, tasting her.
“Fifty-seven!” the auctioneer declared. “That’s fifty-seven dollars for Miss Rory’s bourbon peach pie, and I promise you, it’s worth every penny. Do I hear sixty?”
The corner of my mouth twitched with amusement. Rory frowned.
“Don’t,” she said in a menacing voice. “Don’t you dare, Beau. That pie is not for you and it never will be.”
