“Cider?” Miles asked, picking up our conversation like nothing with Sam had happened.
“Uh…. Everything all right?”
“We dated for two years. I broke up with Sam three months ago. It wasn’t an amicable end.”
“Why?”
Miles took my hand and led the way out of the tent and toward the vendor booths. “Someone who loves you shouldn’t want to change you. Sam didn’t like how I expressed myself.”
“Yeah, well, he’s nuts.”
“Why do you say that?”
Because Miles wasn’t the sort of man who needed tospeakin order to express himself. Like that shower we’d shared—I’d understood so well what he was feeling. His pleasure, joy, contentment. And clearly Sam hadn’t spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Miles, because he’d have seen the difference it made when Miles was somewhere that he felt safe and happy.
“I think you do just fine,” I said simply.
The fair had taken over the entirety of Main Street, effectively shutting down traffic for the day. Loud music came from an open lot nearby where a band played on an assembled stage. We walked hand in hand down the middle of the road, passing roaming groups of kids, families, and other couples. We stopped at the Snowy Ridge Apple Orchard booth for cider. The line was ridiculously long, but after taking my first sip of the hot beverage, I understood why. It was like spiked liquid gold.
“I really like living here,” I said after a moment.
“I’m glad,” Miles answered. He let go of my hand and moved to stand in front of me. “Christopher?”
I squinted a bit, looking up at Miles’s weirdly serious expression. “Something wrong?”
“Will you be my boyfriend?”
Oh.
“We aren’t already?”
Miles’s brows knitted together. “No….”
I laughed suddenly. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked so formally before. I guess I assumed. We’re in such good sync together, aren’t we?”
His face softened, and Miles let out a held breath. “Yes, very much.”
“I would absolutelyloveto be your boyfriend,” I replied. I stood on my toes to kiss his mouth. “The deal has been sealed.”
“Hey-ho, folks!” A man’s voice thundered through the sound system. “Come on over to the stage! We’re gonna be announcing the winners of the cooking contest here in just one minute! Come on down, come on!”
“That’s your cue,” I said, grabbing Miles’s hand and hauling him away from the cider booth.
Miles was dragging his feet. “I’m not going to win. I’d rather—you said you wanted to do the hayride.”
“Nope, not until they announce your name. Pardon me, excuse me,” I said, weaving through the growing crowd to get a good place near the stage.
I hadn’t tried samples from the other cooks, but I liked to think I wasn’t biased in my belief that Miles was phenomenally talented. I wanted to see him win so badly, just so he couldn’t deny the recognition.
“Thank you all for entering,” the man on stage said as he was handed a sheet of paper. “I know the judges certainly enjoyed the competition.” The crowd chuckled. The announcer cleared his throat. “Third place goes to Lucy Black for her blueberry pie.”
“Old lady?” I whispered to Miles.
He struggled to keep his amusement under wraps. “Yes.”
“See? She got third.”
“Second place,” the man continued, “goes to George Albertson for his beef stew! And, drumroll, please…. The winner of the forty-sixth annual winter cook-off is Miles Sakasai for his sourdough bread! Congratulations!”
