Page 173 of Never Let You Go

Wow, look at that. Kiara is paying me a compliment. I stop in my tracks, and I probably blush. “I’d love to. Who’s our target?”

She cocks her head, not understanding my question.

“Who do you want coming to the party?”

She thinks about it. “The party should be just for the townspeople, but if we could broadcast the party and make some noise about us, that’d be great.” She glances toward the reporters.

“You want to use the competition and the party as a way to showcase the businesses and the village in general, to attract visitors.”

“Exactly.”

“Especially if the asshole from Burlington wins the competition. We can still turn that into a win for Emerald Creek, if we play our cards right.”

She smiles at my use of profanity. “That’s it. I hope we don’t lose, though. I don’t want to be the one picking up the pieces of Christopher if that happens.”

“What do you think his chances are?”

“You heard the theme. It’ll be entirely subjective.” She shrugs. “It’s bullshit.”

Tomorrow, it’s freestyle. They must create a whole meal celebrating a single bread-based confection and will be judged on their “creative interpretation of baking tradition.” Whatever that means.

I don’t sleep much that night. I try to send good vibes to Christopher.

I start planning the party, hoping I don’t jinx his chances.

The next day, Christopher looks like shit. He’s not shaved, his uniform is wrinkled. I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep at all, just went straight from day two to day three without any sort of break. It’s seven in the morning when I log into the show from my phone, and my guess is he’s been twenty-seven hours without sleep already. And he has about sixteen more hours to go.

This isn’t going to end well.

The good news is, the other guy doesn’t look any better.

When I get to the theater, the news is that Justin came back from Boston, where he’d driven Christopher, to pick up a list of ingredients Christopher needed for today. Justin and Colton made the rounds of Emerald Creek’s producers and drove back down to Boston.

Christopher asked for smoked trout from the Henderson’s smokehouse, garlic scapes from Cassandra’s plot at the community gardens, cheddar and ice cream from the Kings’ Farm, flowers from Miss Angela’s patch, and god knows what else.

We’re not clear what Christopher is making, and he hasn’t given anyone on the show any clue.

I glance at Kiara, and she gives me an I-have-no-idea shrug.

Finally, at seven fifty-nine, the countdown starts, and at eight, Christopher and the guy from Burlington pull back from their masterpieces.

Burlington goes first, and he’s good.

Like, really good.

The stuff he made is impressive, all ornate and beautiful. They’re real pieces of art. Carved breads with mini sandwiches nested inside. Soufflés and other elaborate things that look positively delicious.

It’ll be tough to beat, but if someone can, it’s Christopher.

But after Christopher makes his masterpiece statement—a short presentation explaining his choice—the crowd around me is stunned silent.

And my heart sinks.

We’re going to lose.

fifty-one

Christopher

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