Page 12 of Billionaire's Bookworm

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Over the next few days,I threw myself into chili prep like a man possessed. Researching new techniques, testing spice combinations—the whole nine yards. Ridiculous how invested I was in this little cook-off. But let’s be honest, it wasn’t just about the chili.

Nope. It was about a certain flame-haired bookstore owner who seemed immune to my usual charms.

Challenge accepted, Cinderella.

At the events office, I filled out the necessary paperwork, rented a booth, and handed over the cash. When I requested the spot right next to Beachy Keen Reads, the elderly lady behind the counter—Mrs. Peabody, according to her name tag—peered over her glasses at me.

“Well, aren’t you particular,” she said, suspicion lacing her tone.

“Couldn’t help but notice it’s the prime location,” I replied, leaning casually on the counter.

She gave me a shrewd look. “Last fella who insisted on a specific booth was tryin’ to one-up his ex-wife in the pie contest. Is there somethin’ I should know?”

I chuckled. “Nothing like that. Just eager to, uh, engage in some friendly competition.”

Mrs. Peabody harrumphed, scribbling down my details. “Friendly competition. Right.” She handed me the receipt. “Well, good luck to you, Mr. James.”

“Thanks.” I pocketed the receipt, fighting back a grin. I was already having fun.

* * *

When cook-off day rolled around,I parked a few blocks away—didn’t want to ruin my entrance by pulling up in a flashy sports car or having Rodney drive me.

Subtlety, Wade.

The town square was buzzing like a beehive. Booths of every color dotted the perimeter, banners flapping in the Florida breeze. The air was thick with the mouthwatering aroma of spices and simmering meats—my stomach rumbled in appreciation.

Kids dashed between booths, faces smeared with ice cream and cotton candy, while parents meandered hand-in-hand. Laughter and chatter filled the air, blending into a cheerful symphony. Not my usual scene, but I had to admit—it had a certain charm.

Pulling my camping wagon laden with pots, pans, and secret ingredients, I navigated through the crowd to find my booth. If my sister Amy could see me now, she’d probably keel over in shock. Wade James, billionaire playboy, participating in a small-town chili cook-off?

She’d be thrilled I’d finally taken interest in someone, though likelynotover the moon that said someone was a feisty bookstore owner who couldn’t care less about my bank account.

A grin ghosted across my lips.

As I set up, the whistling started again, unbidden. An old tune from my childhood days. Huh. I hadn’t whistled that one in... well, I couldn’t remember the last time. Felt good, though. Relaxed. Content, even.

Weird.

My eyes roamed over the crowd until they landed on a familiar flash of flamboyant red hair. Bingo.

Emma stood at her booth, sleeves rolled up, stirring a bubbling pot with fierce concentration. A smudge of chili sauce painted her cheek—adorable. Flour dusted her toned arms, and she had a determined set to her jaw. She looked like a warrior queen preparing for battle.

Alluring didn’t even begin to cover it. I reached down and surreptitiously adjusted myself.

“Well, well, look who means business,” I called out, setting my gear down with a thunk loud enough to grab her attention.

Emma glanced up, her emerald eyes narrowing as they locked onto mine. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, her voice dripping with snark. “Decided to grace us commoners with your presence, did you?”

I grinned. “Couldn’t resist the opportunity to humble myself before the chili masters of Seashell Cove.”

She arched a perfect eyebrow. “You think your highfalutin chili stands any chance against my Grammy’s secret recipe?”

“Only one way to find out,” I shot back, smirking. “Better brace yourself, Ms. Michaels. The Golden Ladle might be about to change hands.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite hide the twitch of a smile.

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