Page 14 of Billionaire's Bookworm

“Well,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “That was... unexpected.”

She glanced around, as if suddenly remembering we were in the middle of a crowded square. A few of the locals were gaping, but looked away quickly when I stared them down.

“Maybe,” I murmured, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “But not unwelcome?”

Her shock melted into a saucy grin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. James,” she quipped, that familiar spark returning to her eyes. “This competition’s not over.”

I reached up, brushing away a smudge of chili sauce from her cheek. “Indeed,” I said, stepping back. “May the best chili win.”

As we caught our breath, a colorful flyer taped to her booth caught my eye. “Saturday Story Time at Beachy Keen Reads,” it announced in cheerful letters. “Join us for our monthly children’s reading program!”

“Planning a career change to professional storyteller?” I asked, tapping the flyer.

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even think about it, Playboy. The last thing I need is you terrorizing innocent children with your massive ego.”

“Come on, I bet I do great voices. My Little Red Riding Hood impression is legendary.”

“In your dreams,” she scoffed, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice. “Besides, this requires actual commitment. Not exactly your strong suit, I would imagine.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the head judge’s voice cut through our banter. “Attention Seashell Cove! In all my years, I’ve never seen such a close call,” he proclaimed.

Emma and I shared a glance, all teasing forgotten.

“And so, after much deliberation,” he continued, “the winner of this year’s Seashell Cove Chili Cook-Off is...”

I held my breath.

“A tie!”

The crowd cheered, and I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan.

A tie? Really?

Emma shot me a smug grin. “Looks like neither of us gets bragging rights.”

“Or maybe we both do,” I countered.

My smoky chipotle chili and Emma’s spicy chorizo concoction both taking top honors did little to quell the simmering tension between us. We accepted our joint victory with a mixture of pride and playful antagonism, the shared Golden Ladle a tangible reminder of that unexpected kiss.

As the crowd dispersed and the sun dipped lower, painting the sky with hues of pink and gold, I found myself lingering by her booth, reluctant to let the day end.

“So tell me. How does a chili champion celebrate around here?” I propped a hip against her table, crossing my arms as I regarded her.

She arched a brow. “Besides basking in the glow of victory?”

I chuckled. “There’s always that. But I was thinking something more... celebratory. Maybe a drink? That café by the pier comes to mind.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. James?”

“Maybe I am,” I said, matching her tone. “Unless you’re too afraid to accept.”

Something crossed her face, a hint of wariness, but she covered it quickly with a smirk. “Afraid? Not in the least, Playboy. But unfortunately, I’m wiped out. Maybe some other time.”

I masked my disappointment with a smile. “Sure. How about you give me your number, and we’ll set something up?”

She hesitated a fraction of a second, before handing me her phone, giving me a small smile that did funny things to my insides. I typed in my contact info and sent a text to myself before handing it back to her.

“See you around, Wade James, playboy billionaire.”

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