Page 57 of The Gaybor War

That is a lie, and he knows it.

Judging begins. People circulate. Compliments are given. Lines form.

I notice—against my will—that Benji's line is longer.

I also notice—far more irritatingly—that he hasn't looked at me once.

Not to gloat. Not to smirk. Not to silently celebrate whatever witchcraft he's apparently hiding in that crockpot.

Nothing.

He's busy talking to residents, charming judges, and generally behaving like a man participating in a chili cook-off instead of a psychological warfare campaign.

Which should be a relief. Instead, I find myself checking anyway. Then again. And when I realize I'm waiting for him to look back, I become profoundly annoyed with myself.

I sample his chili out of spite. It’s good. Annoyingly good. Balanced heat, layers of flavor, and a finish that lingers just long enough to make me resent the experience.

I hate him.

"You look upset," Benji says smugly.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"Your left eyebrow is doing the thing."

My hand immediately goes to my face.

His grin widens. "Oh my God, there it is."

I drop my hand. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Unfortunately, he sounds far too confident about that.

"You're enjoying this," I accuse.

"I enjoy many things." His lips curl with satisfaction. "Watching you pretend not to compete is one of them."

"I’m not competing with you."

He leans closer, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Then why do you look nervous?"

"I'm not nervous."

"Interesting."

I narrow my eyes.

He beams.

"See? That's your competitive face."

I should walk away. Instead, I stay exactly where I am.