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Yet, while we were spending almost all of our available time together, there was one thing we weren’t sharing.
Our chili recipes.
There was a competitiveness between us that was unique for me, something I had never had before with anyone I had been interested in and certainly never with a boyfriend. He was positive he was going to beat me, to the level of cockiness not only infuriating me but somehow turning me on. I liked the idea that we were in competition, and I wanted to beat him.
We didn’t tease each other so much as brag about how our own personal taste testers thought our chili was the best they ever had. It wasn’t a lie on either of our parts. He was testing the boys in the firehouse, and I was testing patrons of the bar that I knew enjoyed hot stuff and had decent palates.
As I leaned against the bar the day before the cook-off, eyeing the three people who had been allowed to taste test my latest—and last—tweak to the recipe, I was on pins and needles. The three people had been carefully chosen from regulars, and all had their own opinions on what kind of spice level was deemed “hot.”
First there was Rebecca Rowe, a tattoo artist who was married to one of the founders of the logging company and was known for enjoying a mild level of heat since her kid was born. Then there was Hawk Blackthorne, a tall Native who lived on the top of one of the mountains and often ended up being the one to clear the roads for everyone when snow came. He liked a good dose of heat but tended not to order the really hot stuff. Then there was Malia, a young YouTube star who got famous for her series on life as an amputee. She was what I called a fire addict. The only person I knew of personally who could handle heat as well as I could was Malia.
All three of them were good people, honest and fun to be around. And all of them had their partners sitting nearby, and all of them were sworn to secrecy about the recipe.
“I think,” Malia began, “that the heat level is perfect.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes and sat her spoon down by the line of saltine crackers and tortilla chips I had laid out as alternate utensils.
“Maybe when I was a teenager,” Rebecca said. “But I can barely handle it. It’s a lot of heat. Really tasty, I just have to take my time with it.”
I nodded, moving my eyes over to Hawk, who was sitting on his stool, staring into the bowl like it was talking to him.
“And you?” I asked.
“I’m thinking,” he said.
I waited for the rest of the sentence and, when it didn’t come, decided to prod him a little.
“Thinking…” I said.
“I am thinking that you’ll win this thing,” he said, cracking a grin. “This is delicious. A little hot, like Rebecca said, but I would absolutely order it again. The tortilla chips are the perfect vessel for it, too.”
I pumped my fist and reached down to grab them more chips.
“By all means, eat up. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Rebecca.”
“Sorry,” she said, shrugging.
“No, seriously, it’s okay. It’s the one thing I need to keep an eye on. Not all the judges will be excited by the spiciness.”
“It’s got a lot of flavor,” Malia said. “Don’t sell yourself short. The complexity of the spices and veggies and meat is really outstanding.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Alright, so, this is the final draft. Loose lips sink ships, right?”
“Mine are sealed,” Malia said.
“Silence,” Hawk agreed, taking a swig of his beer.
“Won’t hear a peep from me,” Rebecca said. “My only question is if this is going on the menu?”
I beamed. “Yep. The bar menu is mine now, so I’m adding it right after I win first place with it.”
A general laugh rose up from my friends slash guinea pigs.
“That Korean-inspired pork belly was just to die for,” Malia said. “I love how the bar has spicy stuff now.”
“And that you have a one-to-ten scale for the heat,” Rebecca said. “So I don’t kill myself trying to eat these things.”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing to the pizzas,” Hawk said. “I love that they have a kick now.”
I received the compliments as humbly as I could while still secretly rejoicing. I was on my way to a good showing tomorrow at the cook-off, and Kieran was going to have to eat a little bit of crow.
“Do you mind if I take my bowl with me?” Hawk asked. “Looks like you guys are picking up.”
I looked around the bar that was slowly getting packed and nodded.
“Good thing I’m getting off now,” I said. “I need to rest up.”
