Chapter 1

This isthe most important day of my life.

Fifty habanero peppers. Five contestants, and a crowd that’s filled with so many familiar faces, my head swims. I can’t afford to choke. I’ve been training for this for literal months.

“Welcome to Heatstroke’s Twenty-Fifth Annual Hot Pepper Eating Contest!” The announcer, Richard Walton, is Heatstroke’s favorite newscaster, and he’s exactly what I imagined he’d be like. Elaborately-coiffed, overly friendly, with a thousand-watt smile and one of those combs tucked into the top pocket of his snazzy suit jacket.

It’s easier to focus on his jacket than the way his gaze remains fixed on the TV camera below the makeshift stage in the Heatstroke Public Park.

The crowd cheers and claps.

“Let’s go, Hannah!” June calls from somewhere in the masses.

I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale.

I am so not good with crowds. But I swore I would do this, and I’m not backing out. The sky is peony blue, the grass in the park is lush, and the heat of the day is threatening, though it’s barely past ten. And this is it. My shot.

“As y’all know, this year’s contest is proudly sponsored by the Heatstroke Board of Better Businesses, a collection of local businesses, including the General Store, Beets and Yeets, Bagel’s Bakery, the Heartstopper Diner, Longhorn’s, and your very own News Channel Nine,” Richard continues, in his professional announcer voice. “And get this folks, this year’s prize is bigger than ever before, with the winner walking away with a grand prize of ten thousand dollars.”

Gasps and cheers follow that, and I steel myself, trying not to be intimidated by the cameras, the mass of peppers on the plate, or Paul, who’s last year’s winner, standing next to me with his arms folded, and a look on his face that says, “Why did you even bother to show up?”

I’m here for two reasons.

First, because I want to show my family that “boring” little librarian Hannah can be just as crazy and adventurous as the rest of my siblings.

Second, the money.

With that kind of money, I can revamp the children’s section of the library before I leave.

My stomach twists, and I glance toward Richard.

“—how it’s going to work. In the first round, contestants will eat up to fifty habanero peppers. Those who survive will move on to the final round, in which they will eat as many Carolina Reaper peppers as they can handle. The last person standing wins.”

Sweat beads on the back of my neck. The Carolina Reaper pepper is one of the hottest in the world at over 1.5 million Scoville units. In other words, hot enough to make a grown woman cry or eviscerate this particular woman’s digestive system.

Why am I doing this again? The children. A parting gift. You can do this.

“Don’t touch your eyes,” I murmur. “Do not touch your eyes.”

“Worried, sweetheart? You should drop out now,” Paul says. “Save yourself the pain. We all know I’m going to win, and this ain’t the amateur leagues.”

“What’s the matter, Paul?” I whisper. “Can’t handle a little healthy competition?”

Paul’s eyes widen, but before he can retort, the crowd bursts into cheers again.

“All right, folks,” Richard says. “Let’s get this pepper-eating show on the road! Contestants, come forward and stand behind your eating stations.”

I tie my hair back in a high ponytail as I step forward. I grab the plastic bib that’s been laid over the back of the chair at my station. Really, it’s just a spot behind a long wooden table that might as well be an eating trough.

Hot peppers have a myriad of benefits. They decrease inflammation, for one. They?—

“Take your seats,” Richard says.

I sit down and stare at the hot pepper pile. My gaze lifts to the crowd, and I spot June and Cash out there. Cash is unmistakable, especially since he’s taller than most of the other people, and he’s wearing that “Hannah, what the heck are you doing” scowl. I’m grateful he’s here. He turned down an invitation to host the event, and an interview about me, which would really have been about him.

That’s the cross my famous brother has to bear, and he handles it so well.

I force a smile.

June waves frantically, bobbing up onto her tiptoes, and I wave back.

“At the ready,” Richard says. “Let’s count it down. Three.”

The crowd joins in, clapping on the countdown.

“Two.”

“One! Start eating,” Richard yells.

Next to me, Paul fists five peppers, stem and all, and rams them into his mouth. He chews like a man blessed by ?hicomecoatl, the Mexican goddess of fire and fertility herself.

“Go, Hannah!” June screams above the crowd. If Marci wasn’t on her honeymoon, she’d be here too.

I grab the first three peppers on my plate and shove them into my mouth. And the world becomes fiery pain. My diaphragm contracts, and I start hiccuping so hard it’s a struggle to swallow one pepper, let alone three.

Maybe if I swallow them whole?

My eyes and nose stream.

Paul’s making grunting noises and chewing through habaneros at a rate that’s inhuman.

Eat past the pain. Remember why you’re doing this. Tears trickle down my cheeks, and I shove another pepper into my mouth and then another. I blink, my vision blurry, and try seeking out June in the crowd for moral support, and that’s when it happens.

That’s when I see him.

Carter Savage, striding toward Cash, the crowd parting in front of him effortlessly. My brother’s best friend, who doesn’t know I exist as anything other than Cash’s hopeless little sister.

Carter’s gorgeous, even through tears with his rough, well-kept beard streaked with gray, tattoos that arc up his muscular neck, tan skin and those dark, devilish eyes. A gray T-shirt strains against the muscles that make up this man’s body.

I can’t help staring or the butterflies in my stomach or the fact that I gasp when his gaze wanders to the stage and lands on me.

Thanks to Savage, I’ve conveniently forgotten that I have a mouth full of hot peppers. And now, chunks of them are lodged in my throat.

I can’t breathe. The realization hits me, and I try to inhale again. I gag and smack my hands down on the table. I slap Paul on the arm for help, but he ignores me and keeps deep-throating peppers.

Help me. Help me.

I’m choking on national television. I’m choking in front of the entirety of Heatstroke.

I scramble to my feet.

I’m choking in front of Savage.

I stumble on the stage, heading toward Richard, pointing at my throat. Panic has my mind in an iron grip.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die in front of all these people.

I gag and sputter.

Richard gives me a smile, blissfully unaware. Or maybe he just thinks this is what peppers do to people. “Looks like we’ve got our first tap out, folks. Hannah Taylor is?—”

I pull on Richard’s arm and fall to my knees, trying to drag him down with me, to make him realize.

Please. Help. Anyone. Anyone.

Strong arms wrap around my middle and lift me into the air. The scent of cedar and smoke envelops me, but I barely have a second to register them, because those muscular arms tighten and thrust upward into my abdomen. A rush of air bursts from my lungs, sending chunks of pepper splattering across the front of Richard’s suit.

I suck in air and fire, doubling over, but I’m held upright by my savior.

He sets my feet down on the stage. “Are you all right?” he asks, and his voice is gravelly and impossibly deep.

No. No, no. No. Nope. This isn’t happening.

I turn around and stare up into Savage’s dark eyes, streaked amber by the morning sunlight, and hate my life. He releases me, a frown wrinkling his brow, and holds his arms around me in a protective circle without touching me.

Because why would he want to touch me? I’m the geeky younger sister who just choked on a pepper in front of everyone.

“I’m fine,” I manage, even though my throat is raw, and I am mentally not okay.

I want out of here. The competition is over for me because the rules are simple—leave your station and you’re out.

Savage scans my face, searching me for I have no idea what, and then he finally gives a nod. His gaze shifts over my head and darkens into something beastly. “You,” he says, and then he moves past me.

He walks up to Richard and grabs him by the front of his pepper-spritzed jacket. He lifts him off the stage so that his fancy loafers dangle and kick. Richard’s jaw drops. The reporter’s face is dotted with bits of orange pepper and habanero seeds. He’s lucky he didn’t get any in the eyes.

The crowd shouts, the cameraman is getting every second of the altercation and loving it, and most of the other contestants have stopped their pepper-eating, unsure of whether the contest is still on or not. Except for Paul, of course, who is just about done with his first plate.

“You didn’t realize she was choking? Are you fucking dumb?” Savage growls, giving Richard a shake. “Where are the medics?”

“M-Medics?” Richard manages.

“You don’t have a medical team on standby at this event?” Savage’s words are deathly. “What kind of idiot are you?”

“Hey, man, I’m just the host,” Richard says, his tone reedy. “Listen, I?—”

“Do safety standards mean nothing to you people?” Savage drops him, towering over him.

It’s too much. The choking, Savage saving me. The mortification and the loss. I turn and run down the stage steps as fast as my legs will carry me.

The most important day of my life? Try the worst day of my life. I can’t get out of Heatstroke fast enough.