“We should have brought the flowers here too,” I argue. “People would have loved them.”
“Maybe later this afternoon,” she says breezily. “Right now, everyone’s all about the pies. You? Focus on winning.”
Before I can answer, Beau jerks his chin toward a booth draped in dried herbs and bundles of lavender. “There’s a scent-matching tent. Miss Thea’s running it.”
Simon’s mouth tightens instantly, his eyes narrowing like he’s facing down a con. “Of course she is. Witchcraft parading as science.”
Norah snickers. “It sounds fun. Come on, let’s go.”
I laugh despite myself, letting them herd me away from my booth. Miss Thea greets us like she’s been expecting it, her wide hat casting her face in shadow, the smell of sage and honey curling in the air.
She makes us sniff oils and dried petals. Beau plays along, teasing me that apparently my scent leans toward cinnamon andautumn leaves. Simon mutters something about placebo effects but doesn’t walk away.
It works, though. For a few minutes, I forget about the contest and the eyes of the town, and it’s just us—joking, laughing, Norah rolling her eyes.
Then the loudspeaker crackles overhead, and a voice announces: “All contestants for the pie competition, please head to the main tent to prepare.”
The noise of the crowd rises in response, and my stomach flips again. I glance at the men, wide-eyed, nerves rushing back like a tidal wave.
Simon reaches out first, his hand warm as it covers mine on the edge of the booth. “You’ve got this,” he says, voice low and certain.
Beau mirrors him on my other side, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. “You’re going to crush this, baby.”
Norah beams, already tugging her apron tighter. “Go show them what you can do.”
I force my legs to move, weaving through the crowd toward the large striped tent at the far end of the square. The canvas walls ripple in the breeze, the faint smell of cinnamon and butter wafting out even before I step inside.
My hands are damp, my chest tight.
The inside of the tent is bigger than I expected—long rows of stainless-steel stations already set up, bowls and rolling pins gleaming under the lights strung above. Each station has a number pinned to it, and mine is right in the middle.
The placement makes my stomach knot. Everyone will see me.
I glance around at the other contestants, trying to take them in before I lose myself in nerves. To my left is June, her blond hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, already arranging her ingredients like she’s running a professional kitchen.
On the far side, Cora is laughing with her sister while unpacking what looks like half her bakery into neat glass jars. There’s Hank Mills, the butcher’s son, his apron already streaked with flour though we haven’t even started, and beside him is Ruth Evans, a sweet-faced older Omega with a silver bun and hands that look like they’ve kneaded dough for decades.
Two more—Daniela, who owns the food truck that always parks near the harbor, and Grant, a lanky Beta who seems more interested in flirting with the judges than baking.
The judges themselves are at a long table in front, clipboards ready, voices low as they confer. Riley is there, of course, and she catches my eye with a quick wink, reminding me of her promise to be fair.
“Contestants!” one of the organizers calls, clapping her hands to get our attention. “Welcome to this year’s Harvest Festival pie competition. You’ll have two hours to create your best pie from scratch. The crust and filling must both be prepared here today. No premade items are allowed. When the timer buzzes, pies will be presented to the judges for tasting.”
Two hours. I mouth the number like it might help me swallow it down—two hours to make something that could change everything.
I turn my head, searching the crowd just beyond the roped-off area. There. Beau, arms crossed, grinning like he knows exactly how frantic I feel inside. Simon, standing beside him in that rolled-sleeve shirt, glasses flashing as he watches me like I’m his only patient. And Norah, practically bouncing, mouthing the words, “You’ve got this.”
And then—Levi. He’s off to the side, near the back row, his parents standing with him. His mother is beaming, his father clapping a hand on his shoulder as they talk.
Levi glances up at just the right moment and catches me staring. He lifts his hand, thumb pointing high, and my chest squeezes so tight I could cry.
I blow out a slow breath and tie the apron around my waist. The fabric feels too stiff, the knot at my back too tight, but I leave it. I need it.
I press my palms flat against the counter, feeling the cool stainless steel under my skin, and whisper under my breath, “This is for you, Grandma.”
The timer is set, the organizer raises her hand, and the buzzer sounds. We begin.
I grab the flour first, heart hammering. The bag feels heavier than it should, but my movements fall into a familiar rhythm—measure, sift, add butter. My hands know what to do even if my brain is screaming.
