Page 106 of Falling for Mr. October

One or both of them forgot all about the contest.

I tell myself they just got caught up in the excitement of making a good deal. But while that may be so, it didn’t ring totally true to me.

Bianca turns toward me, her eyes full of worry. “Rhett must be behind it. He wants our recipe. He knows it’s the only way he can win.”

I wrap an arm around her. “It’s okay, Bianca. We’ll sit this one out. And if he wins using graham crackers and marshmallows he bought from us, then there’s no reason we can’t let everyone know who made them. They’re not going to think Mr. Mayor broke out his measuring cup.”

“I have some fig cookies in my bag,” Nonna Francesca offers, peering inside. She’s not wearing her reading glasses, so there’s a good chance she could be talking about anything from crumbled crackers to loose medication. “You can use those.”

“Or we could enter using the crumbled-up cookies from my nonna’s bag,” I say with a grin. “Your call, cara mia.”

Bianca leans into me, making my heart swell. “Let’s just go enjoy the competition with everyone else.”

And I’ll be damned if that’s not the best thing I’ve heard in weeks, or maybe even years. Maybe it’s the best thing I’ve heard in my whole damn life.

Bianca and I do the s’mores tasting with Emily and Theo, who just returned from dropping the nonnas off at the farmhouse to watch a teleromanzo. And we can tell within seconds that Mr. Mayor wasn’t the enterprising soul who paid some chump kid to buy our ingredients out from under us.

Because it’s very obvious that the first of the samples set up on the folding tables next to the bonfire must have been submitted by him—even though I doubt the fancy script handwriting on the card sitting next to the platter is his. The Gallagher s’mores are open-faced, and there’s a brown sugar cage around the toasted vanilla marshmallow. It sits on top of a round disc of dark chocolate, over an “oatmeal flat,” which is a fancy way of saying it’s an oatmeal cookie.

They’re good, but they don’t taste anything like s’mores.

Each tray of s’mores samples has a voting box sitting beside it, and each taster has been given a flat token with the great Sir Gala-Head on it to drop into their favorite.

None of us put our token into the mayor’s box.

A few samples down, I dart a glance at Bianca, because even though neither of us wrote the sloppy card sitting next to sample #7, which identifies the graham crackers as “Apple Cookies,” I can identify our handiwork.

I take one of the samples and turn toward her. “I think this one’s ours, Mrs. October.”

She smiles and opens her mouth, and I take great pleasure in feeding it to her. I watch her savor it, her eyes nearly fluttering shut with pleasure in a way that makes me suddenly uncomfortable to be in a crowded place.

“We taste good, Mr. October,” Bianca responds after she swallows down our treat.

Theo swears under his breath. “Oh, come on.”

I take one of the samples for myself. They taste like that last apple in the orchard, and the sweetness of kissing the taste off Bianca’s lips.

I give her a crooked smile and slip my token into the box, because even if I’m wrong about Mr. Mayor’s sample, and the fool did steal from us, I’m not going to vote against our creation.

Theo and Emily also vote for us, and I notice several other people enjoying sample #7.

After the tasting, we buy hot ciders and gather close to the fire, talking idly while we wait for the winner to be announced.

The winner of the scarecrow contest was already announced, and I was neither surprised nor disappointed to find out we had not won. It’s just as well, since Theo was able to take our scarecrow home to the farm, where Mr. Mayor can spend his days being crapped on by birds and laughed at by children.

We’ve all moved on to our second cups of cider when Mr. Mayor approaches the bonfire and claps his hands and calls out to the crowd. Everyone ignores him until he does it a third time, shouting out, “We have a winner!”

He doesn’t look especially happy about it, so it comes as no surprise when he announces that sample #7 is the winner. We’re all surprised, however, when a little boy with light brown hair steps up and produces the ticket stub proving he’s the winner.

I glance at Bianca, who’s standing beside me, not quite sure if I should be irritated or amused.

“So the chump kid was getting them for himself,” I mutter.

“Congratulations, young man,” Mr. Mayor says, holding his hand out for a reluctant shake. He’s probably wishing he’d thought of the plan.

The kid ignores his outstretched hand, kicking at the leaves beneath his feet. “I don’t want anyone to make me dinner,” he says. “I was hoping we could work out a deal. By my calculations, the financial equivalent of a meal prepared by the Shirtless Chef would be at least two hundred dollars.”

Silence follows his statement, broken only by the crackling of the bonfire. Then everyone starts talking at once, mostly in murmurs.