Chapter 10

ten

CANDACE

“What is that?”

I winced as Brady came to stand beside me on the dew-covered grass.

He took a step toward one of the pallets of two- to four-pound pumpkins. “Are these the ones for the pumpkin patch?”

A flush was climbing a rope ladder up my sternum, shaky and uneven.

I tried to clear the rising panic from my throat, but my brother spoke again before I could manage it. “Why are they so small?”

I stared at the bins that the delivery driver had unloaded behind the Apple House and willed them to be right. However, the roughly four hundred pie pumpkins didn’t magically grow into jack-o’-lanterns perfect for a pumpkin patch. They stayed small and uncarvable. And if you listened closely, you could hear their little orange bodies saying, Way to go , Candace .

“I—”

“What the hell is this?” my sister’s voice interrupted as she joined us in the early-morning sunshine.

I gave up and closed my eyes.

Ignoring the sound of approaching footsteps, I tried to figure out how to explain this monumental fuckup.

It was actually what I’d been doing before my brother had approached. That and frantically checking the invoice from Owensby Acres on my phone.

A light touch at my elbow had my eyes opening.

“Hey,” Mark said quietly. “You okay?”

I hadn’t realized he was also present and accounted for to witness my humiliation.

Things had been going so well too. In the past two weeks, Judd’s Orchard had been booming with business. The birthday parties, Food Truck Fridays, and other events I’d been planning were doing so well. Regular posting and advertising on social media had brought tourists in by the droves. I’d even gotten a travel influencer on board to feature the farm this month on their channels.

And now that October was right around the corner, I’d been expecting this delivery from Owensby Acres so I could get the pumpkin patch set up and sorted this week.

Yet, the squash we were all staring at was another mistake for the Candace Judd Well-Meaning Hall of Fame.

“Candace,” Mark tried again.

This time I was able to swallow around my embarrassment and nod. “I’m okay. Just surprised.”

“Why would you order sugar pumpkins, Candy?” Joan had her hands on her hips as she walked between the pallets inspecting their contents. “They’re good for making pie and not much else. How are we supposed to make a pumpkin patch out of these?”

“It was a misunderstanding. I’m so sorry.”

“Did you buy tiny Christmas trees too?”

“Of course not,” I replied automatically, but I made a mental note to check the order with Skytop Farm .

My mouth was dry, but I did my best to make my voice even when faced with my sister’s obvious irritation and disappointment. “I’ll fix this, Joanie. I’ll call the vendor and see if they’ll exchange them for carving pumpkins.”

Her gaze narrowed in suspicion. “Did you order them from Grandpappy’s like I told you to? I can’t imagine Will would let you get hundreds of pie pumpkins without double-checking that’s what you actually wanted.”

“Well, no,” I replied. “I mean, I tried. I called over to Grandpappy’s, but all their surplus was spoken for this season. They were happy to put us down for next year though.”

“Next year,” Joan repeated flatly.

I couldn’t know what she was actually thinking, but part of me wondered if she’d envisioned the pumpkin patch—and the rest of my ideas—as a passing fancy that she had to simply endure until I was gone again.

Ignoring the ache those thoughts produced, I admitted, “So I went with Owensby Acres off of Will Clark’s recommendation. The price was nearly the same. I just didn’t realize...” That they were the wrong variety of pumpkin went unsaid.

Mark hadn’t moved from my side, and I was grateful for it because, from this angle, I didn’t have to see the disappointment that was likely on his face.

Joan sighed and shook her head before walking off, and the sight made all my edges go brittle and weak.

A moment later, Brady’s face entered my field of vision. He wore a well, shit expression. With a half-hearted punch to my shoulder, my brother said, “Tough luck, Candy Cane. You’ll figure it out though. Let me know if you need help moving them.” And then he, too, was gone.

Thankfully my parents hadn’t wandered over to the farm yet. Then again, it might be best to get the humiliation over with in one fell swoop with all the orchard employees at once. It wasn’t that my mom and dad would be angry. No, they’d be understanding and kind. And that was almost worse.

I couldn’t believe I’d made such a stupid mistake.

When I could no longer take Mark’s quiet, stalwart presence at my side, I finally looked over to find him watching me .

“I really messed this one up, huh?”

His blue-gray eyes were soft. “When I first started, I pressed a batch of apples that I thought Joan had set aside for that purpose. Turned out those were supposed to be bagged up and used as pre-picked for the store.”

I winced. Typically, we pressed apples that had imperfections or were too small. The pretty apples, or the ones up to standard for selling, were sorted separately.

“Joan eventually got over it. Nick and Amy understood. Brady gave me shit about it for a couple of days. And I never made that particular mistake again.” Mark tapped my elbow once more. “It doesn’t feel like it right now, but it will be okay.”

I nodded. He was right. In the grand scheme of things, this was a blip. But when you’d worked your whole life to be perfect, anything less than that was a personal affront. Not to mention how important it was to me to help my family and prove myself to my sister.

Rationally, I knew it was okay to make mistakes. People made them all the time. But there was a vicious little gremlin in my head that said it was okay for everyone else...but not for me. My brain fed and watered and tended that little gremlin like it was blue-ribbon livestock down at the county fair, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

I appreciated what Mark was trying to do though. He was kind to commiserate with me and share his own experience. And it was nice that he wasn’t making me feel like an idiot.

“Thanks, Mark,” I finally replied.

After heaving a sigh of epic proportions, I realized I’d need somewhere to put the three pallets of pumpkins. They were blocking the employee entrance to the Apple House where Mark and Joan brought in the apples for grading and washing. Shit. What was I going to do?

And like he’d read my mind, Mark smiled and said, “Now then. You want to learn how to drive a forklift?”

Owensby Acres wouldn’t take the pumpkins back .

But I came up with some solid plans to move the produce.

We would still be selling them in the Apple House throughout the month of October. I was currently working on setting up a mini pumpkin patch for kids. Complete with little wheelbarrows and tiny hay bales. Textbook adorable.

We were selling some of our squash at a discount to the local elementary school, thanks to Bonnie. She was going to do a pumpkin-painting project with all her students and had money in the budget to take over one hundred pumpkins off our hands. I’d kissed her on the forehead when she told me.

Mom and I were also taking orders for pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. I was planning to help with those, and my mother was using it as an opportunity to turn me into a baker. Surprising the pumpkin spice right out of me, my brother volunteered to be on pie-making duty too. He said he was a natural and warned me not to get in his way in the kitchen. I fully planned on snapping him with a dish towel until he cried.

And, finally, now that the orchard had its liquor license, I was organizing a wine-and-pumpkin-decorating event for after hours in mid-October. That one was a small event for fifteen people, but it had already sold out. Honestly, I just really liked collaborating with Reggie and Aurora Holmes over at Lonely Mountain. They were wonderful people, and their wine was fantastic. We made a good team.

Despite the inauspicious beginnings of my pumpkin venture, I now felt confident that I could make this work. In the week following the delivery of the sugar pumpkins, I’d gotten the ball rolling on preparations for getting rid of them. All of them.

It was now Tuesday at the orchard—an off day from the public—and I was walking from the garage apartment over to my office in the Apple House. The early October morning was soft and gray, but I could tell it was going to be another stunning autumn day when the sun finally rose and burned away the low-lying cloud cover.

Following their harvest, the apple trees along the path were dotted with red and brown leaves, and the mountains in the distance were changing too. There was a patchwork of gold, orange, red, and maroon making a steady descent to lower elevations. It was a beauty to behold, and I couldn’t believe I’d lived without this fall magic for so long. But it was more than the weather or the foliage. It was something special about my family and this farm. It was a sense of peace and comfort that had reignited in me when my plane had touched down and I’d breathed in my hometown for the first time in seven long years.

I didn’t know if I could follow my six-step plan laid out in my trusty notebook and actually leave all this behind in three months. Maybe that was why I’d been dragging my feet on my job search. I hadn’t even updated my résumé to include the work I’d been doing for the orchard—step two of six.

The truth was...I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to interview for a new position in a big city, be it New York or Atlanta or Nashville. I didn’t want to pack my belongings and don my pantsuits and sit through budget meetings. I didn’t want to work on a team where I was undervalued and taken advantage of and talked down to because of my age and my gender and my accent.

I wanted to read on the porch with my mother every morning. I wanted to work at the orchard with my siblings. I wanted to sit in that farmers’ market booth until my butt went numb. I wanted to visit with my neighbors and get pizza at Apollo’s. I wanted to get the pumpkin patch right next year. And I wanted to start field trips and lead educational tours on the farm.

None of it made a lick of sense, but there it was.

I also wanted to reminisce with my former teachers without getting a stomach ache and feeling like a walking failure. I didn’t want to be one more high-performing child who failed to live up to their potential. Living and working in New York proved to my family and my town that I’d made something of myself.

Getting what I wanted, here in Kirby Falls, meant that all of the sacrifice and the schooling and the money and the quality education had been for nothing. That all my parents’ hopes and dreams for me would be tossed aside so I could be something as inconsequential as...happy.

I shook my head, did my best to get rid of these pointless thoughts, and kept walking.

When I turned the corner on the dirt path, the Apple House came into view, and with it, three figures gathered around the side.

Mark, Brady, and Joan appeared to be staring at the exterior wall, the one that was on the other side of my office and faced the incoming gravel drive from the highway .

Curious, I approached. “What are y’all looking at?”

Brady scoffed. “I think it’s obvious what it is.”

“It is not shaped like the letter M , you asshat,” Joan said in exasperation. It was the same tone she reserved for saying things she’d already damn well said. Ask me how I knew.

My eyes finally took in what I was seeing. The side of the Apple House was covered in little paint splatters. Vibrant reds, yellows, and blues stood out against the faded exterior of the whitewashed wood building.

I reached out to see if it was still wet, but Brady batted my hand away. “Don’t do that. It’s evidence. The sheriff’s office is on their way. And then they’ll likely make an arrest.”

“Arrest who?” I said in surprise.

“It’s obvious,” my brother replied, crossing his arms in front of his flannel-covered chest. “The perpetrator behind this blatant and heinous act of vandalism was none other than MacKenzie Clark.”

Mark groaned. “Come on, man. We’ve been over this.”

Joan sighed loudly.

My gaze snapped to my brother. “What? Why would you think Mac would do such a thing?”

MacKenzie and my brother had been at each other’s throats since birth. I didn’t really know why, but they had a long history of pranks, torture, and general mayhem. However, I couldn’t see the opinionated and sassy Clark cousin doing anything like this. Mischief and shenanigans were one thing—especially in the name of my brother’s suffering—but this was something else. This was the destruction of property. This didn’t impact just Brady. Paintballing our building affected Judd’s Orchard and my family as a whole.

“Because she is a demon from hell. Plus, I’ve seen her shoot a paintball gun. This has her poor aim and indiscriminate attack pattern written all over it.” He approached the splatters and gestured with his arms. “And if you look right here, it clearly forms an M .”

I squinted and tilted my head. It did not clearly form an M .

“This is her calling card,” Brady added. “She wanted me to know it was her.”

My sister tipped her head up to the sky.

“Well, I don’t see it,” I said.

“Because it doesn’t exist,” Mark mumbled from where he’d covered his face with his hands.

“I don’t have time for this,” Joan said.

“That’s right,” Brady remarked decisively. “I’ll handle it. You and Mark have Evercrisp and Cameos on the picking schedule this week. You go take care of that. And, Candy, you have the kids’ pumpkin patch to finish up. I’ll deal with the sheriff’s department and give a statement. I’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t you worry.”

I winced. “Well, I wasn’t really worried until you said that. But let me know when they’re done. I have time this week. I can paint the exterior wall today and cover up the damage.”

Brady ignored me at the sound of gravel crunching. Sure enough, it was an SUV from the sheriff’s department. My brother took off in the direction of the vehicle, arms waving.

“Candy, do you think you can stick with him?” Joan asked. “I don’t trust him not to be an idiot about this, and I don’t want to worry Mom and Dad. They’re taking the day off.”

Shock flooded my system, but also a tiny little burning ember of hope. Joan asked me for help. Joan wanted me to handle something. She was still pretty standoffish in general since my return. After the tiny-pumpkin debacle, I was pretty sure she’d lost all faith in me.

“You—you want me to take care of it?” I stammered out.

She eyed me like she might be changing her mind already. “I have too much on my plate right now. Even you should be able to handle this.”

I saw Mark flinch at my sister’s statement, and admittedly, felt a pang of disappointment myself.

Even you .

That little flickering flame of hope felt a gust of wind, but it stayed lit.

Then Joan continued, “I figured you’d be able to help Boy Wonder over there deal with the sheriff’s department. MacKenzie didn’t do this. Probably some kids with nothing better to do, but I’d feel better if you kept an eye on Brady.”

“I can do that,” I readily agreed. “I’ll head over now. You got it.”

“Thanks,” Joan said with a nod my way before she took off to start her day.

With a glance in Mark’s direction, I saw he was watching me closely. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

Mark stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his jeans, a sympathetic smile lingering on his face. “I’ll see you later.”

Throwing a thumb over my shoulder, I said, “Yeah, I better get going too.”

Rationally, I knew Joan only thought I was slightly more trustworthy and capable than our brother. But she’d still entrusted me with something. I was self-aware enough to know there was hope and sisterly devotion mixed up in there. Joan’s attention was a spotlight burning a hole through my heart at center stage, and I didn’t even care.

I would suffer through whatever stupidity Brady had locked and loaded and ready to go. I wouldn’t let Joan down. She hadn’t felt the need to handle it herself. She’d given me space in her life and the orchard, and I would take it—minimal as it was. Maybe it would lead to more. Conversations. Trust. A sisters-only group chat.

Okay, probably not that last one.

I just hoped I didn’t crash and burn.

Three hours later I was feeling slightly less appreciative of the task I’d been given.

After I’d explained to the sheriff’s deputies that, no, we did not have video surveillance on the property, they’d listened to my brother’s long-winded explanation of events and then finally gone on their way with reassurances and promises to look into the matter .

Thankfully they’d agreed that it was likely bored teenagers and not our neighbor. Who, according to Brady, was a representative of our number one rival.

My brother had made it exactly forty-two minutes before he tried to get out of helping me paint over the vandalized wall by insisting on confronting Mac over at Grandpappy’s. I’d told him he might hinder the investigation if he charged over there, accusations blazing. Then I’d rolled my eyes behind his back and grabbed the fresh paint can.

On the days when the orchard was closed to the public, we’d taken to eating lunch together at one of the picnic tables in front of the refreshment stand. Occasionally, Mom and Dad would join us, but mostly it was me, my siblings, and Mark in attendance.

Today, I was the last to arrive, and the only open seat was next to Mark.

With streaks of white paint dried on my worn jeans, I sat down at the table with last night’s leftovers in my hand. I’d reheated a helping of Mom’s baked penne in the microwave in my office.

It sounded like Brady and Joan were in the middle of a bickering match over my brother’s vacation schedule. I ignored them and bumped Mark with my elbow, aiming for friendly and hitting the bullseye. “Hey, how are you?”

“Good,” he replied quietly. “I’d ask how it went with the sheriff’s department, but Brady already gave us the rundown while you were getting cleaned up.”

I rolled my eyes and Mark chuckled, his shoulder brushing mine in the process.

“He is such an idiot,” I muttered. And then I used the excuse of reaching for my water bottle to shift on the bench, putting a few more inches between our bodies. It felt safer that way. Friendlier.

The new distance didn’t seem to matter because a moment later I felt Mark’s thumb skim my temple and along the length of my jaw.

On a shuddering inhale, I pulled back in surprise to see Mark’s waiting grin.

He lifted his hand to show me the paint on his thumb. “I think you missed a spot.”

“Oh, geez.” I released another unsteady breath. “I guess I did.” I swallowed. “Thank you. ”

Mark held my gaze for a long moment before he nodded and went back to his lunch.

I could feel embarrassment flood my face. But I didn’t really care about the white paint smudged across my skin. The reason for my sudden awkwardness was the way I’d reacted to Mark’s simple touch.

Friends sat next to each other. They bumped legs and elbows and it was fine . Mark should have been able to casually wipe a drop of paint off my face without me making a big hairy deal out of it. Without my heart racing like a jackrabbit and my awareness dialing up to ten. I shouldn’t have noticed the gentle way he’d touched me or how the rough pad of his thumb made my skin tingle. I needed to get myself together and remember my place.

Guiltily, I glanced at my siblings. At some point, the conversation had shifted to the opening of a new restaurant, but I caught up pretty quickly.

“It’s in that little shopping center in Horse Shoe near the post office,” Brady said after he’d finished chewing a bite of calzone.

“What’s it called again?” I asked as I blew on a forkful of pasta and did my best to ignore the heat lingering in my cheeks.

“Flyers. It’s Abby’s new place. They serve wings and beer and the best rosemary fries you’ve ever had.”

Abby was Cole Abernathy, my brother’s best friend since kindergarten. They’d grown up going to school and playing soccer together. They’d even gone to the same college and roomed with one another in the dorms. Most friendships couldn’t survive that, but nothing seemed to separate those two boneheads.

From what I’d gathered, Cole owned several successful restaurants in town and did everything from front-of-house management to cooking to bussing tables, whatever was needed. Flyers was just the newest one on his roster.

“Y’all are going, right?” Brady asked. “I told him we’d be there to support the grand opening.”

“Sure. I’m in,” I replied.

“I can’t tomorrow,” Joan said with no further explanation.

“What about you, Mercer? You coming?” Brady asked .

I eyed Mark discreetly. I could feel the side of his knee beneath the crowded picnic table, but I was ignoring it.

In the past few weeks, I’d been doing a lot of ignoring where Mark was concerned. We were firmly back in the friend zone, and that was safest for everyone. I was also ignoring the way that knowledge made me feel.

Maybe Mark was hesitating because he and Joan had plans—secret relationship plans—tonight. I shoved a bite of too-hot pasta in my mouth and then inhaled through the pain.

My eyes slid to Joan, who didn’t seem to be giving Mark signals with her facial expression. She wasn’t even looking at him. Her gaze was focused on her ham sandwich. I still wasn’t sure what—or if—anything was going on there.

With another knee bump, Mark shifted uncomfortably and drew my attention again. “I don’t know, man.”

“Come on,” my brother begged. “I’ll buy you a beer. Abby’s a friend. I want him to have a good turnout. Plus, I hear there’s going to be a timed hot-wing-eating contest. I’ll need moral support.”

“Oh my God,” I said with glee. “You should have led with that. I can’t wait to see you suffer.”

My idiot brother deserved it, too, after this morning with the whole MacKenzie-Clark-attacked-my-honor-and-my-home routine and the subsequent pouting. I couldn’t wait to see him get his butt kicked in Scoville units.

Mark still looked unsure as he poked at his homemade rice bowl, but he eventually said, “Alright. I’ll come.”

Brady’s grin was triumphant. He held his hand up for a high five, but Mark just gave him a look. Then my brother pivoted and held his palm out to me. I grinned and slapped it a little harder than was necessary.

“Damn,” he whined, shaking out his hand. “Okay, this’ll be great. Try to get there around six.”

The following day, I had time to set up the hay bales for the pumpkin patch and put a second coat of paint on the side of the Apple House before I needed to shower and get ready for grand opening at Flyers.

The restaurant was packed with locals—plenty of residents I recognized. I loved that there were so many people here. Neighbors and families all present to support Cole. Even with the noise and the rowdy atmosphere, I had a smile on my face. There was something to be said for community and kinship.

After being away for the better part of a decade, I was surprised to find that I was comfortable in my hometown. I knew that sounded strange, but I’d never really experienced Kirby Falls as an adult, on my own terms. But here I was, waist-deep in my community and just as content here as I had been in Manhattan. I could drink a beer on a Saturday night or visit a food truck for dinner. Attend a restaurant opening where the staff wore matching tee shirts and people stood in line at a counter to order. It wasn’t brunch in Brooklyn or a picnic in Central Park. But as much as I enjoyed my time up north, there was really no comparison.

I’d rather drink tea with my mother every morning than take my lunch break at the Met. While I was comfortable people-watching or reading on the subway, I’d rather walk through downtown Kirby Falls or drive along the highway with the mountains in the distance.

Both settings had a piece of my heart. Attending college in New York had helped me grow up, but Kirby Falls had raised me.

One was home, and the other was not. And my heart knew the difference.

Looking around now, I saw all these laughing, smiling residents, and I was flooded with the overwhelming sense of camaraderie and fellowship, neighborly love and devotion.

Smiling to myself, I took in the rest of the newly renovated space. The Flyers logo was front and center on the brick wall above the order counter, outlined in bright red LED lights. The menu was displayed on three screens overhead and showed all the various sauce options and heat levels.

I glanced around, looking for my brother, but I didn’t see him. After a third person bumped into me and apologized, I made my way toward the back so I could get out of the main thoroughfare .

Mark was easy enough to spot in the crowded restaurant because he’d tucked himself in the corner at a booth for two and seemed to be the only point of stillness in the whole place.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked.

Mark looked up from his phone and straightened. “Of course not. Have a seat.”

“Did you order yet?”

“No,” Mark replied. “I saw them setting up for the contest and figured I’d wait until it died down a little.”

My attention shifted, and, sure enough, there was a long table on the opposite wall being set up and covered with a vinyl tablecloth while people brought over chairs and placed them at intervals on one side. It looked like four brave souls were taking on the ghost pepper dry rub challenge.

“Apparently they have five minutes to finish five wings with no beverage. Anyone who completes the challenge gets a tee shirt and a free meal. But the person who does it the fastest gets their picture on the wall and a gift card.”

I rubbed my hands together. “This is going to be good. Brady can’t handle spicy food. I don’t know what he’s thinking entering this contest.” Grinning, I added, “One time, when we were teenagers, someone dared him to eat a whole habanero. He barfed all night and wouldn’t even touch a bell pepper for years afterward.”

Mark laughed. “This should be interesting, then.”

“Hey, Candy!” The unfamiliar voice caused me to startle in my seat.

When I turned, I found the grown-up version of a boy I hadn’t thought about in years, standing beside our table.

Looking up, I smiled. “Hi, Jay. How are you?”

“I heard you were back in town,” he said with a laugh, like he’d told a really funny joke.

Instinctively, my hackles rose. Was this going to be another awkward encounter where a former classmate wanted to reminisce or talk about my SAT scores?

“Yep,” I replied. “I’m back in town. ”

“Remember that time you cut off all your hair in third grade? Everyone thought you looked like a boy. Man, I’d forgotten about that.” Jay smiled dreamily.

My eyes widened because I had not been expecting that, and I wasn’t sure if the embarrassing reminder was better or worse than rehashing my past accomplishments.

I finally settled on, “Yeah, wow. I’d forgotten too.”

“You know?—”

“I think we’re going to grab some food,” Mark interrupted with a hard look at the newcomer. “You have a good night now.”

Jay stared at Mark like he hadn’t even known he was there, and definitely didn’t remember him from high school. But Jay must have had some social awareness because he eyed the muscles highlighting Mark’s strength and presence, and wisely backed away. “Yeah, you too. See you around, Candy.”

My finger drew a little squiggle on the varnished tabletop, and I laughed under my breath. “Thanks.”

With a glance, I saw Mark watching me with a concerned expression. “I never liked that guy.”

I smiled. “Well, it was a memorable haircut. Very unfortunate.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Took two years to grow out,” I admitted.

Mark’s eyebrows drew together in sympathy.

“It even made the Humble Shelf.”

“What’s the Humble Shelf?”

My lips parted in surprise. “You haven’t seen it?” He shook his head, still looking confused. “Well, it’s this shelf in the living room of the farmhouse, on one of the built-in bookcases in the corner. Mom keeps childhood photos there—the really bad ones. Says it’s to keep us humble. There’s one of me with my unfortunate third-grade haircut. Another when Brady had braces and had to sleep in headgear.” I laughed a little, remembering. “Oh and Joan at probably three or four during one of her birthday parties, surrounded by streamers and gifts and this Mickey Mouse cake, looking grumpy as hell, hating every minute of it.”

“That’s...wow. I can’t say I ever saw Amy doing something like that.”

“Well, it gets even better.” I grinned. “It’s basically her dream to show it to potential partners and embarrass me and my siblings. She wants to gauge how they might react and find them worthy or wanting. My mother, the romantic, thinks only someone who really loves you could love the unattractive, most awkward version of yourself. It obviously backfired anyway since we’re all still single.”

After my pronouncement, I watched Mark closely, curious if he’d have any sort of reaction. Surely someone who was in a secret relationship with my sister would make a face at hearing her called single. A secret smile, a narrowed gaze, something .

But, no. Mark just shook his head, his amusement plain at my mother’s diabolical plans.

The sound of chairs scraping over linoleum had my attention going to the opposite end of the room.

“Looks like they’re getting started,” I said happily.

“Oh, no,” Mark murmured.

“What is it?”

“Look who the last-minute entry is.”

I followed Mark’s gaze to where Cole Abernathy was squeezing in another chair. He stepped out of the way to reveal none other than MacKenzie Clark.

“Yikes.”

Mac moved to take her seat next to—of course—my brother. They glared at each other in a way that probably wasn’t good for their eye health.

But then Brady said something I was too far away to hear, and his angry features melted into a smirking grin. That seemed to make Mac even more irritated as she thumped down hard in her seat and made a valiant effort to ignore my brother .

The contest kicked off with a brief word from Cole. With a good-ol’-boy grin, he thanked everyone for attending and supporting the opening of the restaurant while a few cooks emerged and passed out red baskets containing the hot-peppered wings.

Cole introduced the contestants next. There was Baker Ramsey, a retired school teacher and avid Jeopardy! fan, followed by Beatrice Michaelson, a roofer from a women-owned-and-operated roofing business here in town. Next in the lineup was a teenage boy named Braiden Hixon, who I was ninety percent sure worked down at Bev’s Sno-Kones. Then there was my idiot brother grinning and hamming it up for the crowd. And last, but not least, Cole introduced Mac Clark.

“It’s like a train wreck,” I said to Mark. “I know something horrible is going to happen, but I can’t look away.”

He chuckled.

“I’ve got five minutes on the clock,” Cole called out as he held his watch aloft for the crowd. “Remember, y’all, you can use as much ranch dressing as you like, but you have to clean the bones and you only have five minutes. Then we’ll get you a glass of milk, a bowl of ice cream, whatever you need to cool down. Although, I can tell you, it’s not going to help. And you’re really going to hurt later. Hope none of you have a big date tonight.”

The customers laughed at the promise of impending gastrointestinal distress for those assembled.

But then Mac said, loudly enough to be heard, “Doubt Judd, here, has to worry about that.”

More laughter from the crowd.

Brady’s eyes narrowed, and he fired back, “Hope this doesn’t cause problems with your IBS, Mac Attack. Did you consult your doctor beforehand?”

Mac shot him a look that could have singed his eyebrows off.

Cole clapped his hands. “Okay, let’s get going before these two strangle each other. Remember, do not touch your eyes. Annnd, ready, set, here we go !”

In a flurry of movement, each of the five contestants lunged forward to grab their respective baskets. They tore into the first chicken wing, and the effects of the spice level were quickly apparent. Faces heated, deep red climbing across the cheeks of Baker and Beatrice. Sweat was visible on Brady’s upper lip and where it beaded beneath his eyes. Mac’s face was expressionless as she discarded the thoroughly cleaned bones from wing number one and then reached for the next.

The contestants were using the ranch dressing cup as a little swimming pool for their wings, all except the gangly teenager Braiden.

I nudged Mark with my knee. “Look at that kid go.”

“He’s a machine,” Mark replied.

Baker tossed his unfinished third wing into the basket and scooted away from the table. “I’m out.” His hands were shaking, and he looked like he was already experiencing some stomach upset. The staff rushed over with a bowl of ice cream, a glass of milk, and some wet wipes for Baker’s spice-covered hands.

“One down!” Cole called. “And two minutes remaining.”

MacKenzie and Brady were jockeying for space at the table, their elbows whacking into one another.

“Give me some space, you jackass,” Mac growled around her chicken wing.

“Keep your bony elbows on your own side, you delinquent,” Brady spat back. But he wasn’t looking so good. My brother still had three wings to go, and time was dwindling. He was starting to sweat through his ball cap.

Mac’s cheeks were the color of Red Hots, and she wasn’t faring much better.

Moments later, the teenage underdog raised his hands in victory. “Done!”

Cole came over to inspect his basket, and the kid was declared the winner.

Beatrice the roofer dropped her final wing back into the basket and moaned, “Thank God,” before the crowd erupted in applause.

Brady and Mac could be heard arguing throughout the aftermath of the ice-cream-and-wet-wipe delivery.

“You know, that kid’s taste buds probably aren’t even fully developed,” Mac complained. “What is he, twelve?”

“Let it go, you sore loser,” my brother said around a laugh.

“ You’re a loser,” Mac snapped .

“I’m going to poke you in the eye with my wing finger,” he said, reaching toward her face.

She grabbed him around the wrist as they struggled. “You mean, ring finger, you dumbass.”

“You’d like to get your hands on my ring finger, wouldn’t you,” Brady said, still grinning.

MacKenzie growled something feral, and the squabbling intensified as she tried to poke him in the eyes with her spice-encrusted finger too.

Unable to hide my laughter, I asked Mark, “Should we intervene before they end up in the emergency room?”

He was already shaking his head. “Cole’s got it.”

And sure enough, Brady’s best friend was wading in to separate them by tugging Brady up and out of his seat. “Come on, you two. Remember what happened at the opening of Carter Bistro downtown?”

Immediately Brady and Mac stopped trying to injure each other and actually looked a little sheepish.

“I can’t feel my tongue,” Brady mumbled as Cole helped him away from the table.

“That’s probably a nice change of pace for you, bigmouth,” Mac called sweetly. Then her eyes widened and she belched loudly.

“Ladylike, as always,” Brady teased. But he was nearly to the front door and too far away for Mac to maim.

I turned to Mark. “Well, that was fun.”

He smiled. “You know, it actually was. You want to stay for some food or are you heading out?”

Did I want to stay and have dinner with Mark Mercer?

We were co-workers. Besides, it was okay to have a beer and some chicken wings on a Tuesday night at the same table with someone you knew. This wasn’t a date .

“Food sounds good,” I replied. “I worked up an appetite watching my brother make a fool of himself.”

Mark laughed. “Yeah, me too. I’ll grab us some menus.”

As he approached the counter to grab the laminated copies, I didn’t let myself think about how nice it was to spend time with Mark outside of work. Or how comfortable I felt around him. Or the way his butt looked in his dark-wash denim.

Muttering a soft curse, I looked away.

This wasn’t a big deal, I told myself sternly.

Mark and I were friends.

And I was determined to keep us that way.