Tacos for Two, page 23
After he’d left the truck with the tomatoes, she’d immediately started hauling their Christmas decorations to the judging station near the courthouse, where Nicole had joined her. They’d strung Christmas lights, set up the mini tree, and plated the heated tamales while having a hastily whispered conversation about the near-kiss.
Now they were waiting on the judges, who were perched at a table piled high with Mexican food, colorful paper plates, Christmas decorations, and fried chicken stacked inside a miniature cardboard food truck.
Jude strolled into view, pausing to take a seat, wearing a pinched expression as he settled into a chair at the far end of the row they sat in, next to Alton. Rory swallowed hard and leaned back in her seat, out of his line of sight.
Her eyes darted to the chairs on the stage, where the town council members sat chatting with Mr. Worthington and Jude’s brother, Warner. Maybe if she just stared straight ahead, she could get through this whole event with her heart—and sanity—intact. But that depended on the outcome of the contest.
“We’re going to talk more about that non-kiss later, you know.” Nicole leaned over, thankfully remembering to whisper this time.
“Fine. Later.” Rory sucked in a tight breath. “Are you nervous?”
Nicole shrugged. “I think we have this in the bag, honestly. Those tamales came out fantastic, your pozole was perfect when we taste tested it this morning, and I’m pretty proud of those buñuelos Grady talked me into making.”
Maybe she was right. The sweet cinnamon sugar bread Nicole had made at the last minute as their optional second side dish was sure to score them bonus points. It was another favorite holiday recipe of Aunt Sophia’s, and—surprisingly—Nicole had nailed it.
Maybe they did have this in the bag.
Thankfully, the judges began lining up to take their places, and Mayor Whit headed to the microphone on stage. Rory’s internal torture was almost over.
Feedback squealed through the mic, and Whit tapped it twice. “Sorry about that.” He pulled it from its stand and gestured to the three judges. “Our team here is getting ready to sample all of these delicious goodies, but first, I wanted to give a round of applause to our contestants for presenting such a delightful display.”
The crowd began a slow clap, and Rory’s stomach twisted. This was it. Finally.
“And I’d like to give an extra show of appreciation for the contest’s last-minute sponsor, the Worthington Family Law Firm.” Whit led the clapping for that round, then continued talking over the din. “Without their generosity, the contest would have been indefinitely postponed.”
And there was Jude’s family, back in the middle of another sudden change. Was the entire contest rigged? If she had doubted it before, she knew now. She was dodging a bullet. How could Jude be trusted?
Rory watched as the judges were reintroduced to the crowd. She was unable to remember their names but recognized the same features from the previous weekend—suspenders on the male judge, cleavage on the second, and a tie-dye T-shirt featuring multiple grandkids’ names on the third.
The judges took their places in a huddle around Cluck Truck’s table first, and Rory sighed in relief. She hadn’t wanted Salsa Street to be first.
They slowly made marks on clipboards, whispered among themselves, and bit into each item with as much concentration as a college student taking the MCAT.
Mayor Whit read from a note card as the judges continued working their way down the row of tables. Salsa Street would be last. “What’s a tree’s favorite drink?” He grinned at the audience as he turned the card over. “Root beer.”
Everyone groaned on cue.
Rory craned her neck to try to interpret the look on the female judge’s face as she sampled a taco from Jude’s table. Her eyes closed. In bliss? Focus? The male judge frowned as he shoveled a big bite of a queso-covered chip into his mouth. So did Rory. What did that mean?
“You’ve got to calm down.” Nicole slapped Rory’s hand, which was gripping her arm. She hadn’t even realized she’d been digging her nails into her friend’s skin.
Rory pulled her hand back. “Sorry. I’m ready for this to be done.”
“Why do bees have sticky hair?” Mayor Whit asked.
Nicole smirked as she whispered, “I’m ready for that to be done.”
“Because they use a honeycomb!” an older kid shouted from the back row.
Mayor Whit’s eyes widened. “Hey, you must have eaten that popsicle too.”
The judges finished at Nacho Taco’s table with a few more scribbles, then stopped in front of Salsa Street’s station.
This was it. Rory sat up straight and fought the urge to cover her eyes. A warm breeze flapped the edge of their red tablecloth draped in Christmas lights. Thankfully, the mini tree was heavy enough to withstand the gust.
Everything was as perfect as they could have made it. With Hannah’s help, the tamales had come out even better than Rory had expected—which only proved the point Hannah had made in the kitchen yesterday. Rory could cook.
She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do with that information.
“Where do books sleep?” Mayor Whit didn’t wait long enough for someone to steal his glory this time. “Under their covers!”
Nicole groaned. The crowd snickered. Rory studied the judges, who were slowly unwrapping tamales, taking cautious bites, and pouring pozole into soup mugs. The middle-aged judge in the tie-dye shirt bit into a buñuelo, nodding eagerly as she marked on her board.
All good signs. A bit of tension rolled off Rory’s shoulders. She took a deep breath as the others finished sampling, chugged water, conferred with each other, and finally gave a thumbs-up to the mayor.
“Looks like they’re ready to announce the winner!” Mayor Whit extended the wireless mic toward the row of judges as they joined him on the makeshift stage.
The blonde judge squared her shoulders and smiled. Rory half expected her to launch into a speech on world peace. “We want each chef to know this was a tough decision, and we’re so proud of their hard work and remarkable entries.”
Now Nicole was the one squeezing Rory’s arm. Rory gripped her friend’s hand with her free one, and they held on.
“Like Tonya here said, it was a mighty close call. That was possibly the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.” The male judge grinned. “And those taters! Whew!” He slapped the leg of his jeans.
“The tacos from Nacho Taco were especially top-notch,” the blonde added.
“One entry in particular was too spicy for our liking.” The male judge shrugged as he leaned closer to the mic. “Make that a lot too spicy.” He snapped his suspenders in emphasis.
“I didn’t use anything spicy.” Rory’s hopes lifted. That eliminated one of the other contestants.
The woman in tie-dye leaned into the mic. “Personally, I was a big fan of the buñuelo. I felt like Goldilocks—it wasn’t too sweet, and it wasn’t too dry. It was just right.”
Nicole held out her hand, and Rory slapped it in a high five. Her spirits soared into the “dare to hope” stratosphere. This could be it. Her ticket to providing Salsa Street with enough cash to get ahead—maybe even open a storefront. Grow the business. Stabilize Grady’s career and protect Hannah’s future. Prove she could contribute something worthwhile to her family’s legacy and heritage—even if it didn’t bring her soul joy.
The blonde judge handed their verdict to Mayor Whit. “Here you go. The first-place winner!”
“Thank you very much.” Whit pressed the card against his chest. “Instead of reading this myself, I’d like Warner here from the Worthington Family Law Firm to do the honors. After all, whoever’s name is on this card will be catering your engagement dinner.” He chuckled and gestured for Warner to step up. But something didn’t read genuine about the mayor’s laugh—and Warner’s smile looked downright catty as he accepted the mic.
“With pleasure, Mayor.” He cleared his throat, then held out his hand for the card.
“Get on with it.” Nicole practically squealed under her breath. “Man, I really don’t like that guy.”
Rory didn’t either, but at this point she couldn’t think straight or remember exactly why. She wiped her sweaty palms down the front of her apron, which she’d forgotten to take off.
Mayor Whit hesitated, then glanced at the card as he handed it over to Warner. Then his eyes locked directly with Rory’s.
Rory’s breath caught in her chest, and her mouth went dry. They’d done it. Why else would he have given her that look? With a win for Salsa Street, everyone Rory cared about won.
Except her. But all that mattered was that Aunt Sophia’s legacy would remain intact.
“The official winner of the food truck festival cook-off and the recipient of the catering gig and the grand cash prize is . . .” Warner’s voice trailed off, and his cagey smile shone over the waiting crowd. “Nacho Taco.”
Twenty-One
The next few minutes blurred as chaos erupted. The crowd clapped, the noise droning in Rory’s ears like a mosquito she couldn’t escape.
Vaguely, she became aware of Nicole’s hand warming her shoulder through the sleeve of her shirt. Absently, as if removed from her own body, she observed Mr. Worthington take hold of Mayor Whit’s elbow and lean over to whisper in his ear. Sudden motion caught her peripheral vision and jolted her back—Alton taking a stick and smashing a piñata dangling from a stand above Nacho Taco’s table. Candy began to rain to the ground. Kids shouted and charged, shoving each other as they grabbed fistfuls of treats. The table wobbled under the sudden attack. Parents hollered instructions about sharing as Alton grinned from the middle of the huddle.
Nicole’s grip tightened on her arm. “Um, what’s happening?”
But Rory couldn’t respond. Couldn’t take in a full breath of air. She could only stare as Jude hesitantly took the stage, his gait faltering on the riser steps, his cheeks fiery red as he accepted the mini trophy Mayor Whit held out.
He’d beaten her.
“Speech! Speech!” the crowd chanted. Somewhere behind her, a baby cried, and Rory wanted to yell along with it.
The timing of all this felt so shady. Jude knowing who she was before he let her in on the secret . . . the way he handled things at Pizza Butler . . . the attempted kiss in the food truck. And now securing the competition he’d entered at the last minute—the one his own family had commandeered along the way.
Had he known the truth of her identity longer than he’d let on?
Her thoughts raced, swirling into a chaotic, clanging mess. She’d been used, all right—in more ways than she’d ever anticipated.
She refused to let her gaze linger on Jude, even as he stared down at her from the stage. Refused to listen to whatever impulsive speech he was stumbling over as his eyes tried to send a message she refused to absorb, refused to interpret. He’d gotten what he’d wanted all along.
He’d won it all.
And she’d lost.
A congratulatory crowd pressed in on Jude, separating him from the only person he wanted to reach—Rory. It was all he could do to force a smile at the well-meaning community offering him their praise.
“Guess you found your calling, after all.” Cody gave Jude a high five, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everything had just crashed down hard around him. He’d won.
Rory had lost.
How would he ever recover from that?
“Good job, man.”
Before he could respond, someone else pressed up against his elbow. “Very impressive. Your tacos are even better than my mother’s.” Mrs. Johnson, the elderly owner of the vegetable stand at the farmers’ market, squeezed his arm with strong but bony fingers.
He tried to focus on her sweet smile. “That’s high praise.”
“But don’t tell her.” Her grip tightened. “God rest her soul.”
“Um, I won’t.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. That’s very kind.” And creepy.
He peered over her puffy white head at Warner, who stood talking with their dad, the mayor, and the rest of the council. The judges lingered nearby. The one in suspenders had snagged a handful of the piñata candy and was munching away. Unfortunately, the blonde judge—Tonya?— looked up at the same time and caught his eye. He quickly averted his gaze, but he wasn’t fast enough.
He cast a desperate glance at his friend and spoke fast. “Cody, when I give the signal—it means help.”
Cody frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Wait. What signal?”
No time to answer. Tonya was immediately on Jude’s arm, the one Mrs. Johnson had just vacated. This time, a red manicured grip held his bicep hostage instead of arthritic fingers.
“Congratulations.” He was certain she was attempting to purr, but the word rolled out more like a hoarse Italian. She coughed at the end.
He pulled his arm free. “Thanks. I know everyone tried their best.”
“Some more than others.” She flipped shaggy bangs out of her eyes and cast him a sultry look.
Cody looked back and forth between them, obviously waiting for the signal Jude hadn’t specified. He tried to think of something to say that would clue Cody in on taking over the conversation. He didn’t want to talk to Tonya—or anyone, for that matter. He wanted to get to Rory. Fix what he’d damaged. Panic rose in his chest. What must she be thinking right now?
“Cluck Truck did good, but there’s only so much you can do to impress with chicken, you know what I mean? And good grief, that one side dish from Salsa Street was so incredibly spicy.” She stuck out her tongue, probably thinking it made her look cute rather than ridiculous. “I thought poor Maggie was going to drink that whole pitcher of water afterward.”
He hesitated, tuning in to her monologue. Salsa Street—spicy? Rory didn’t even like spicy food.
Tonya trailed one finger down his shirt sleeve. “I like some things spicy, though.” She peered up at him.
Cody’s eyes widened. Yeah, now he was getting it.
Jude sidestepped out of her touch and shot Cody a clear look. “Tag.”
If that wasn’t obvious enough for Cody to pick up that he was being passed the baton named Tonya, he didn’t know what was—and no longer cared.
“I’m Cody.” His friend held out his hand and flashed a smile.
From his peripheral vision, Jude caught Tonya’s confused look, then she shrugged and turned her charm toward his frat brother. “Nice to meet you. I’m Tonya.”
Good luck, Cody. Jude pushed past a lingering crowd of teenagers clutching skateboards and made his way to the stage. Maybe if he got somewhere higher, he’d be able to see where Rory went. See how she was handling the loss. Mayor Whit started to intercept him with a smile, but Jude just lifted one hand in a wave and didn’t slow his pace. He waved off the judge in tie-dye—Maggie, he guessed—with a forced smile, nodded at the candy-eating judge in suspenders, and briefly thanked another townsperson who shouted congrats, all without hesitating. He had to see where Rory went.
Then suddenly, his dad and Warner stood before him. He stopped short.
“Congrats.” Warner’s face, neutral for the crowd’s sake, couldn’t disguise the disdain in his voice. “Well done.”
“I’m sure you think so.” Jude wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s games. But one fleeting thought registered over the aggravation and the desperate urge to find Rory—he’d done it.
He was free.
He temporarily faltered in his search.
“Now, boys.” Hollis’s firm voice rose over Jude’s—the one that used to leave Jude cowering in his room as a child and still caused anxiety to shoot through his stomach as an adult. “Play nice.”
“I don’t think I have to anymore, Dad.” Jude used the term more to irk his father than as an endearment. To attempt to maybe, just maybe, remind him that they were family. But Hollis and Warner didn’t seem to care about any of that anymore. It was only ever about what they could do for themselves. But they’d lost this one, and he’d won. “I’m a free man.”
Warner scoffed. “You’ll be back. You think you’ll actually make a living doing this?”
“Boys, remember where you are and who you are.” Hollis shot them a firm look. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“You can’t just say congratulations, can you?” Jude tilted his head toward his father. “You have no idea how to handle something not going your way.”
Warner snorted. “Shows how much you—”
“That’s enough!” Hollis’s firm tone still worked on Warner at least. He shot Warner a glance. “Save it for later.”
“Still worried about that positive family reputation, huh, Dad?” Jude jerked his head toward the small knot of people pressing closer, obviously eavesdropping on their escalating conversation.
Hollis’s face immediately transformed into a faux grin as he headed in the group’s direction, arms extended wide like he was about to hug them all. “Ladies and gents, can you believe my good fortune? My own son—a cooking champion.” He wrapped his arms around the two men nearest him and started slowly herding them away from Warner and Jude, like Jude knew he would.
He turned back to Warner, lowering his voice. “What do you mean, shows how much I know?” They were still up to something. They had been all along, and nothing had changed. He could read it in Warner’s eyes.
“You’ll find out.” Warner shrugged, his face cold and callous as he stared into the crowd somewhere over Jude’s shoulder.
“Why do you hate me?” The words slipped out before Jude could censor himself, before he could weigh the pros and cons of uttering them. Raw honesty, brother to brother. “What in the world did I do? If anything, I figured you’d be ushering me out the law firm door, not hoping I lost the bet or scheming with Dad behind my back. I don’t get it.”
Then the mask slipped, and suddenly, Jude was standing before his brother. Not a potential politician, not a manipulative lawyer, but the same big brother who used to sneak into Jude’s room at night during thunderstorms and deny it the next morning. “Because you’re the golden child, Jude. You’ve always been.”
