CHAPTER SIX

CALEB

After adding the customer opinion to the votes of the three judges from McCoy Security, James announced Buttercream Dreams as the winner of Pastry Palooza half an hour ago, so there’s been a nonstop line of congratulations to Sierra.

Her victory isn’t a total surprise, considering I’m well aware of how much everyone loves her baking. Hell, I’m part of that crowd myself—not that I’d ever tell her, at least not while we’re in the midst of a competition.

But I’m not bitter about her win, and with the chaos of the day finally winding down, it’s time to enact my hastily cobbled together plan. Sierra and I have been working nonstop for The Cafe Clash, so I figure we’re owed a little bit of a reprieve.

Especially after our almost kiss.

It was the perfect hammer to shatter the flimsy walls containing my attraction. Now it”s impossible to keep my feelings in check. Sierra is business smart and curvy with a sassy sense of humor. How the hell am I supposed to resist?

The answer is I’m not.

“Come on, let”s get out of here.” I tug on her arm after the last of the stragglers disappear.

“Yeah, I should get back to perfecting my Suitor’s Crossing inspired latte,” she says, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone. “Then post about the Brew Battle—”

“On the town’s socials. I know, I know. But they can wait. Come on.”

Sierra reluctantly follows me outside to my Jeep Cherokee. It’s 6:30 PM on a Wednesday, so Main Street is practically deserted except for the spaces in front of Brewed and Daffodil’s—a local restaurant that eschews the usual 5 PM closing time of its neighbors. Turning into Suitor’s Crossing’s lone parking garage, a three-story concrete structure next to the bank, we slowly ascend the spiral of parkings spots until we reach the top.

“Your idea for a break is hanging out in a parking garage?” A bubble of laughter fills the vehicle as Sierra searches for the punchline. She twists in her seat, surveying the empty square of concrete around us.

“Trust the process,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers that I haven’t fucked this up already. When the idea first came to mind, it sounded romantic—an excellent way to woo Sierra since I took that conversation we had to heart. But now I’m not so sure. An empty parking garage might read as crazy serial killer more than romantic suitor.

Too late to back out now.

I reverse into a space at the western edge of the lot. A rooftop view of Main Street lies below us as the sun hovers above the horizon, and the mid-March breeze is just cool enough to warrant the extra blankets I brought.

The passenger door slams shut, then Sierra rounds the rear of the car to watch me open the back hatch and reveal folded blankets, a battery-operated lantern, and a red cooler.

“What is all of this?”

“What’s it look like, sweetcakes? We’re having a picnic for dinner.”

“A picnic,” she deadpans. Disbelief wrinkles her brows as I shake out a blanket and lay it out on the Jeep carpet.

Patting the spot, I tilt my head for her to get inside. “Up and at’em. We’re tailgating while enjoying the sunset.”

“You’re serious.” She bites her lip and looks between me and the back of my Jeep. “Is this some kind of mind game before the last round of competition? Because I don’t understand what the heck is going on.”

My hand gently pushes Sierra toward the picnic setup. Of course, she’s hesitant and confused. This wouldn’t be my Sierra if she didn’t question my intentions at least once a day.

“I’m wooing you,” I admit. I hadn’t planned on laying it all on the line tonight. My strategy was to warm her up to me, capitalize on how well we”ve worked together on The Cafe Clash, then admit that I’d like us to be more than business rivals.

But it seems that ship has sailed since Sierra is skeptical as fuck.

“Wooing… me.”

“Yup. Champagne?” The chilled bottle pulls easily from the ice in the cooler, and I quickly pop it open before pouring the bubbly liquid into two plastic cups. They’re not the fanciest things around, but they’ll do for a parking lot picnic.

Sierra accepts the cup then downs the contents in one swift gulp, offering it back to me for an immediate refill. Her bewildered gaze tracks my movements as I arrange food containers in the sliver of space between us in the Jeep. Our meal is basically a deconstructed charcuterie board—or an elevated Lunchable, depending on how you look at it—meats, cheeses, fruits, along with an assortment of crackers. All courtesy of Pickle Rye, a local delicatessen.

Sierra slowly chews and swallows the stack of a pretzel cracker, provolone, and prosciutto I give her. “You need to explain to me why the hell you’re wooing me. We’ve got mere weeks of being civil under our belt due to this contest. As if that isn’t enough of a reason to keep things professional, there are years before that of total animosity. You don’t like me; I don’t like you. So, where is this coming from?”

“I’ve never disliked you, Sierra. And animosity isn’t how I’d describe our relationship. It’s a fun rivalry. I never truly wanted you to fail.” I swallow my own double stack of capicola and colby jack. “I actually wanted to be friends, especially considering how our best friends are married to each other, but you’ve never seemed keen on the idea. Until now.”