"I won the overall competition last year. The winner always judges the following year. And it wasn't food poisoning. Mrs. Landry died peacefully in her sleep, fortunately. She was a lovely woman."
"Oh. I amsosorry..."
"Don't be.” I pull her chair out, scooting her in so easily that she yelps and grabs the table. “Mrs. Landry had an even darker sense of humor than me."
Sam relaxes as best she can in that admittedly ridiculous dress—ridiculous, but tempting. She scans all the tents where competitors are preparing their chili. The smells of beans, Cajun spice, onions, and garlic are so thick in the heat that I can taste them.
Some pent-up frustration bursts out of her. "I don't even like chili."
"What?" I gasp as if she just confessed to murder.
"Sorry, but I wasvoluntoldto be here. My boss thinks it will boost ticket sales for the show." She picks up the paper placard in front of her:Valkyrie, of Charles's Magnificent Traveling Circus, two shows every night, tickets near the purple tent!The sloppy purple print shrinks with every word.
"I assume he chose your outfit... not exactly cook-off garb."
Sam snorts; I find that undeniably attractive. "Right? He's just hoping a bunch of married men gawk at my tits and convince their wives that they suddenly need to take the kids to the circus. I honestly hate that he’s right."
The casual mention of her tits nearly sinks my gaze down her cleavage. I’m a strong man, and I find it almost impossible to resist the urge.
I'm sure the asshole who took a lemonade shower wasn't the first to harass Sam. Men can be so weak sometimes... it makes me ashamed of my thoughts, but I can't help it.
I control my actions, not the way I feel.
"Luckily, I'm not married." I throw the information out like a fishing line. If she doesn't bite, so be it.
"I'm not surprised."
I hold her gaze, searching that mischievous grin for the answer to the only question that matters anymore: is this woman feeling what I'm feeling?
"How could you have time for a relationship? With cooking chili, and judging competitions, and eating the metric ton of food required to sustain all of..." She waves her fingers at me like she's casting a spell... "that."
I look down at myself. "Are you making a joke about my weight?"
"I thinkweightis the wrong word.Masswould suffice. Seriously, have you ever considered joining the circus?"
"Why? Would you like me to toss you in the air? I'd catch you."
Sam's cheeks turn the color of her dress. "I don't doubt it..."
She squirms a little in her chair, running her hands down her thick thighs under the table. That tiny dress is riding up so high that I catch a glimpse of some thin ink dripping down from her hip ending in a jagged line.
Hopefully, that's a mystery she’ll let me uncover.
Our flirting—I pray that's what we are doing—is interrupted by the announcer of the cook-off, a local business owner with a high-pitched voice and an awkward cadence. Sam and I settle back in our chairs, along with the third judge, Mr. Milton, who is doing an admirable job of not stealing glances at the Valkyrie’s cleavage. We are given a short history of the competition, I stand when they announce me as last year's winner, Valkyrie (Sam) gives a practiced wave, smile, and a graceful bow as our guest judge, and Mr. Milton, who teaches home economics at the local high school, straightens his tie and dabs his sweat with a handkerchief.
We enter introductions to the first round of competitors.
I've been looking forward to this all year, and I can hardly focus. What need do I have for chili with a woman so bold and spicy sitting next to me? I want to sample every inch of her, savor the way my tongue glides over her toes, calves,clit, belly, breasts, and that supple neck. I want to taste her lips. I want to see just how perfectly her toned body molds between my muscles. Every flavor of her soul is just waiting to be savored. I want to wake up early, while she's still in bed recovering from our passion, and serve her breakfast in bed with nothing on but an apron strained by my erection.
The time finally comes to make our rounds, meet the competitors, and taste their hopes and dreams. Each day of the fair, a different type of chili will be showcased, one winner will be chosen, and the three winners will compete in the overall competition for the grand prize: bragging rights, a feature in a cooking magazine, and a shot at a distribution deal.
Today's chilis are those classics featuring beans.
I pull out Sam's chair and help her down the steps of the stage; although, she's more graceful in those heels than I am in anything. She sticks close to me as we follow the announcer to the first tent, a mom-and-pop operation well-known locally. Theold couple refrain from me shooting dirty glances, but I know they’re sour that I beat them last year in the final round.
As the announcer does his spiel, Sam hooks her arm in mine and forces me to lean down so she can whisper in my ear. "I don't know the fuck I'm doing."
"We'll cast our votes anonymously at the end. It's ranked choice, so you list them from best to worst."
