Ava groped for Zach’s hand as Paul Hawkeye, Anne Green, and local judge Martha Kelley bent over their bites of the dish, but he took a step away.
It didn’t matter how they did in this contest because somehow she’d already lost something far more precious. And she didn’t even know why.
Chapter Fifteen
He’d fallen short. Again.
“This gravy has lumps,” Anne Green said. The short chef poked at a piece of the pasty on her plate. “It’s got good flavor, but some of the liquid has leaked out, and now my pasty is soggy.”
“That’s better than mine,” Paul Hawkeye said. He looked at Zach. “One edge of mine is burnt. The leaked gravy burned this part here.” He speared the offending piece of crust and set it to the side. Leaning slightly away, he crossed his arms, his biceps bulging. “I understand you had some trouble with your oven?”
“Yes, Chef.” Zach tried to keep his tone upbeat. This was no time for excuses. “Someone unplugged it, and we didn’t notice until we tried to bake the pasties. I bumped the temp up a little to try to regain some ground.” His stomach churned.
Ava stood at his side. He could feel the tension rolling off her. He should reach out and take her hand. It was right there. But he couldn’t get himself to cross the distance.
“Hmm. Risky. It might have worked if your gravy hadn’t leaked. Too bad.” Paul tasted some of the chutney. “This is good. But unnecessary. A pasty is a meal on its own.”
“I’m not sure about the rosemary in here. Very…unique,” Martha Kelley said. Zach’s heart sank.Uniquewas Midwest code fornot good. “And personally, I’d like to see more meat in these pies. Did you cheap out?” Beside him, Ava gasped. She opened her mouth to speak. Not a good idea. He grabbed her wrist. She rightly took that as a signal to remain silent. There was no use in defending themselves. The judges were right.
The dough was soggy.
The edges were burnt.
There wasn’t enough meat.
The chutney was an extra flair, just there to show off.
And it had all flopped.
His heartbeat thrummed in his ears as the judges moved off to finish their critiques. Ava tried to talk to him again, but he couldn’t bring himself to hear her pity.
A few minutes later, they waited in front of the stage in the center of the cooking tent.
Uncle Seb stood at the microphone, holding a paper in his hand. “In first place,” Uncle Seb said, “Enrique Perez from Fiesta and his partner, Lottie Holmes. Chefs Perez and Holmes have named Second Harvest as their charity.” The crowd erupted into cheers. Uncle Seb held up his hand for quiet. “The contest committee will be sending them twenty thousand dollars. Many thanks to the sponsors for their donations to the prize money. In addition, Chef Paul and Chef Anne also pledged to donate an extra five thousand dollars, bringing the total to thirty.”
Thirty thousand? The Silver Platter could have made good use of that money. Zach’s failure pressed his heart into his stomach.
Uncle Seb read off the other winners, and he and Ava had taken third. He’d never make it to the top if he was always being held back. He spun on his heel and began weaving through thecrowd to get back to clean his kitchen. He felt Ava fall into step behind him.
“Zach.”
He couldn’t turn and face her. He didn’t know what would come out of his mouth.
“Zach.” They’d reached their own space now. The roar of the crowd surrounded him, but he tuned it out. He bent down and grabbed the bucket of soapy water under the table, moving it up.
Ava hovered at his elbow, but he still couldn’t look at her.
“I need to write down a few thoughts for my article, but then I want to talk to you.” Ava moved past him.
Her words turned his blood into shards of ice. He rounded on her. “Your article?” His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
Her eyes went wide. “I just had a couple of thoughts, and I don’t want to forget them. My editor will need this article before the end of the day.”
“Sure. We definitely wouldn’t want you to forget anything about this day. We certainly don’t want you to publish false information. At least not on purpose.” He let the arrows fly and watched as the words hit the mark.
Her face darkened. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but I think there’s been some misunderstanding.” She picked up a notebook and pen.
Seriously, did she have those things stashed everywhere? Was she writing her article when she should have been concentrating on helping them win?
