Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Wade

I inhaled deeply as I stepped out of Beachy Keen Reads, the intoxicating scent of old books and freshly brewed coffee lingering in my nostrils. Way better than the cloying perfumes and stale champagne of the high-society galas I usually endured. Who knew a quaint little bookstore could feel so... refreshing?

Emma Michaels—with her fiery red hair and that razor-sharp tongue—had somehow managed to crack through my carefully constructed facade. She’d awakened a curiosity I’d thought long dormant. The kind that tugged at something deep inside, stirring up feelings I wasn’t sure I wanted to examine too closely.

Her laughter—a melodic sound that tickled the edges of my memory—echoed in my ears as I strolled down the sun-drenched sidewalk. As with last night, something about her felt… familiar. Too familiar. I shook my head, dismissing it as a trick of the imagination. Probably just the unexpected connection I felt with her messing with my head.

However, Emma’s casual mention of the upcoming chili cook-off had me anticipating the rest of my week in a way I hadn’t in ages.

A chili cook-off?

In this sleepy beach town?

Sign me up.

I’d resisted getting too involved here in the past, but this seemed like the perfect excuse to dive headfirst into Seashell Cove’s colorful community—and maybe steal some more time with the enigmatic Ms. Michaels.

Besides, I really did have a killer chili recipe up my sleeve, passed down from my great great grandpa Roark. He always said a little friendly competition never hurt anyone.

Especially when the competition was a stunning redhead with a sassy mouth.

As I sauntered down the sidewalk toward my car, a genuine smile tugged at my lips. Hell, I was even whistling—an old habit I thought I’d kicked years ago. I needed to swing into Miami to put out some corporate fires so my assistant would stop blowing up my phone. Then...

Well, let’s just say I had a date with the local supermarket’s spice aisle.

Chili ingredients didn’t buy themselves.

* * *

Over the next few days, I threw myself into chili prep like a man possessed. Researching new techniques, testing spice combinations—the whole nine yards. Ridiculous how invested I was in this little cook-off. But let’s be honest, it wasn’t just about the chili.

Nope. It was about a certain flame-haired bookstore owner who seemed immune to my usual charms.

Challenge accepted, Cinderella.

At the events office, I filled out the necessary paperwork, rented a booth, and handed over the cash. When I requested the spot right next to Beachy Keen Reads, the elderly lady behind the counter—Mrs. Peabody, according to her name tag—peered over her glasses at me.

“Well, aren’t you particular,” she said, suspicion lacing her tone.

“Couldn’t help but notice it’s the prime location,” I replied, leaning casually on the counter.

She gave me a shrewd look. “Last fella who insisted on a specific booth was tryin’ to one-up his ex-wife in the pie contest. Is there somethin’ I should know?”

I chuckled. “Nothing like that. Just eager to, uh, engage in some friendly competition.”

Mrs. Peabody harrumphed, scribbling down my details. “Friendly competition. Right.” She handed me the receipt. “Well, good luck to you, Mr. James.”

“Thanks.” I pocketed the receipt, fighting back a grin. I was already having fun.

* * *

When cook-off day rolled around, I parked a few blocks away—didn’t want to ruin my entrance by pulling up in a flashy sports car or having Rodney drive me.

Subtlety, Wade.

The town square was buzzing like a beehive. Booths of every color dotted the perimeter, banners flapping in the Florida breeze. The air was thick with the mouthwatering aroma of spices and simmering meats—my stomach rumbled in appreciation.

Kids dashed between booths, faces smeared with ice cream and cotton candy, while parents meandered hand-in-hand. Laughter and chatter filled the air, blending into a cheerful symphony. Not my usual scene, but I had to admit—it had a certain charm.

Pulling my camping wagon laden with pots, pans, and secret ingredients, I navigated through the crowd to find my booth. If my sister Amy could see me now, she’d probably keel over in shock. Wade James, billionaire playboy, participating in a small-town chili cook-off?

She’d be thrilled I’d finally taken interest in someone, though likely not over the moon that said someone was a feisty bookstore owner who couldn’t care less about my bank account.

A grin ghosted across my lips.

As I set up, the whistling started again, unbidden. An old tune from my childhood days. Huh. I hadn’t whistled that one in... well, I couldn’t remember the last time. Felt good, though. Relaxed. Content, even.

Weird.

My eyes roamed over the crowd until they landed on a familiar flash of flamboyant red hair. Bingo.

Emma stood at her booth, sleeves rolled up, stirring a bubbling pot with fierce concentration. A smudge of chili sauce painted her cheek—adorable. Flour dusted her toned arms, and she had a determined set to her jaw. She looked like a warrior queen preparing for battle.

Alluring didn’t even begin to cover it. I reached down and surreptitiously adjusted myself.

“Well, well, look who means business,” I called out, setting my gear down with a thunk loud enough to grab her attention.

Emma glanced up, her emerald eyes narrowing as they locked onto mine. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, her voice dripping with snark. “Decided to grace us commoners with your presence, did you?”

I grinned. “Couldn’t resist the opportunity to humble myself before the chili masters of Seashell Cove.”

She arched a perfect eyebrow. “You think your highfalutin chili stands any chance against my Grammy’s secret recipe?”

“Only one way to find out,” I shot back, smirking. “Better brace yourself, Ms. Michaels. The Golden Ladle might be about to change hands.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite hide the twitch of a smile.

I turned to my own booth, meticulously laying out my ingredients like it was the Iron Chef finals. The sun beat down, chasing away any hint of winter’s chill—typical Florida. Good thing I opted for board shorts and a tee.

I could feel Emma’s eyes on me, stealing glances when she thought I wasn’t looking. Made me grin like a fool. Maybe she wasn’t as immune to me as she pretended.

“So,” I began, leaning casually over the divider between us, “what’s the magic ingredient in your chili? Or is it top secret?”

She gave me a withering look—well, tried to. The amusement in her eyes gave her away. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Fair enough,” I chuckled. “Bet I could figure it out, though.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Big talk from someone who probably thinks paprika is spicy.”

I laughed. “Hey, I’ll have you know I can handle the heat.”

“Prove it,” she challenged, stirring her pot with a flourish.

“How about we make this interesting?” I leaned in, dropping my voice conspiratorially.

She paused, spoon hovering over the pot. “I’m listening.”

“If I win, you agree to have dinner with me. You can even bring that mutt of yours along if you want. If you win, I’ll disappear from your life—at least until you miss me.”

She snorted, tapping her spoon thoughtfully. “Confident, aren’t we, Playboy? And what makes you think I’d want dinner with you?”

I gave her my best smoldering look. “Call it a hunch.”

She rolled her eyes skyward. “Fine. But when you’re drowning your sorrows alone tonight, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, grinning.

The afternoon buzzed along, filled with sizzling chili, good-natured banter, and more than a few heated glances. We traded jabs like seasoned sparring partners, the friendly competition only stoking the flames.

I couldn’t help but be drawn in by her—her quick wit, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about her bookstore, the way her laugh made something in my chest tighten.

She was... something else.

A force of nature wrapped in a petite package. One minute, she was slicing me down with that sharp tongue, the next, laughing freely and lighting up the entire square.

I was intrigued. No, more than that.

As the judges approached, the atmosphere shifted. Our playful banter faded, replaced by a palpable tension. My heart beat a little faster—not that I’d admit it. This wasn’t just about a small town chili cook-off anymore.

It was about her.

Emma stood a little taller as the judges tasted her chili, a confident smile playing on her lips. I stood next to her and watched her from the corner of my eye, admiring that competitive spunk.

A smiled played across my lips when they tasted mine, nodding their heads at each other with surprised looks.

“Enjoying your moment of glory?” Emma teased, a wicked glint in her eye.

“Always,” I replied smoothly. “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Ms. Michaels.”

Laughter colored her voice as she retorted, “Oh, you can bet I’m counting ‘em, Playboy.”

I blame her throaty chuckle. Driven by a reckless impulse and the undeniable pull between us, I leaned close and captured her lips with mine.

She froze for a heartbeat, then softened against me. Her lips were warm, a tantalizing mix of sweetness and spice. The world seemed to blur around us, fading into nothing as I deepened the kiss.

When we finally parted, her dazzling green eyes stared up at me, wide and searching. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted slightly in surprise. I was just as startled by my own audacity—and by the depth of hunger that kiss had stirred.

“Well,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “That was... unexpected.”

She glanced around, as if suddenly remembering we were in the middle of a crowded square. A few of the locals were gaping, but looked away quickly when I stared them down.

“Maybe,” I murmured, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “But not unwelcome?”

Her shock melted into a saucy grin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. James,” she quipped, that familiar spark returning to her eyes. “This competition’s not over.”

I reached up, brushing away a smudge of chili sauce from her cheek. “Indeed,” I said, stepping back. “May the best chili win.”

As we caught our breath, a colorful flyer taped to her booth caught my eye. “Saturday Story Time at Beachy Keen Reads,” it announced in cheerful letters. “Join us for our monthly children’s reading program!”

“Planning a career change to professional storyteller?” I asked, tapping the flyer.

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even think about it, Playboy. The last thing I need is you terrorizing innocent children with your massive ego.”

“Come on, I bet I do great voices. My Little Red Riding Hood impression is legendary.”

“In your dreams,” she scoffed, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice. “Besides, this requires actual commitment. Not exactly your strong suit, I would imagine.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the head judge’s voice cut through our banter. “Attention Seashell Cove! In all my years, I’ve never seen such a close call,” he proclaimed.

Emma and I shared a glance, all teasing forgotten.

“And so, after much deliberation,” he continued, “the winner of this year’s Seashell Cove Chili Cook-Off is...”

I held my breath.

“A tie!”

The crowd cheered, and I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan.

A tie? Really?

Emma shot me a smug grin. “Looks like neither of us gets bragging rights.”

“Or maybe we both do,” I countered.

My smoky chipotle chili and Emma’s spicy chorizo concoction both taking top honors did little to quell the simmering tension between us. We accepted our joint victory with a mixture of pride and playful antagonism, the shared Golden Ladle a tangible reminder of that unexpected kiss.

As the crowd dispersed and the sun dipped lower, painting the sky with hues of pink and gold, I found myself lingering by her booth, reluctant to let the day end.

“So tell me. How does a chili champion celebrate around here?” I propped a hip against her table, crossing my arms as I regarded her.

She arched a brow. “Besides basking in the glow of victory?”

I chuckled. “There’s always that. But I was thinking something more... celebratory. Maybe a drink? That café by the pier comes to mind.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. James?”

“Maybe I am,” I said, matching her tone. “Unless you’re too afraid to accept.”

Something crossed her face, a hint of wariness, but she covered it quickly with a smirk. “Afraid? Not in the least, Playboy. But unfortunately, I’m wiped out. Maybe some other time.”

I masked my disappointment with a smile. “Sure. How about you give me your number, and we’ll set something up?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second, before handing me her phone, giving me a small smile that did funny things to my insides. I typed in my contact info and sent a text to myself before handing it back to her.

“See you around, Wade James, playboy billionaire.”

And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the evening shadows without a backward glance.

I stood there, watching the sun sink below the horizon, a bemused smile on my face as I thought about the events of the day.

How this woman could have such an effect on me so quickly I had no clue, but I knew there was no way in hell I was letting it go.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.