“Hey, no pressure,” I call over my shoulder, catching hot dog girl’s scandalized stare. “I’ve always wanted backstage access.”
The soda machine greets me with a hiss that sounds suspiciously like good luck, sucker. I crouch, peel open the metal panel, and pretend I’m a certified beverage surgeon. Truth: nine times out of ten it’s a loose hose or a clogged syrup line. Hose this time. Easy. I tug it free, wipe gelatinous goo on a napkin, refit the clamp, and try not to think about the ten percent chance I’ll shower everyone in cola.
Hot dog girl hovers as if she’s guarding the crown jewels. Arms crossed, shoulders tense, cheeks shaded a little too pink for the end of summer air. “Sorry about Maggie,” she murmurs. “She’s… very direct.”
“Direct saves time.” I tighten the clamp, shoot a smile up at her. “Plus, it makes life interesting. I like a challenge.”
She smirks. “Then she’d be your dream girl — if she wasn’t already taken.”
“I’m more inclined to think that you are my dream girl.”
That earns a real laugh. “Great. Now Maggie’s probably drafting a flyer: ‘Hot guy fixes machines and flirts.’”
I flip the power switch. The machine rattles, wheezes, then settles into a steady purr. Carbonated hiss stabilizes, syrup flows clear and strong. “Moment of truth.” I fill a translucent cup, taste — cold, fizzy, decidedly non-poisonous. “Your turn, miss hot dogs.”
“Don’t call me that unless you want me to start calling you sir mustard sleeve.”
“Catchy. Might order custom jerseys.”
“Only if the team name is ‘Snack Bar Shenanigans.’”
Our fingers brush as she takes the cup, and something sparks straight up my arm, like static but warmer.
She raises an eyebrow. “Did Maggie just pull a soda savior off the street, or do you moonlight as a vending machine whisperer?”
“I’m a man of many talents,” I say, mock bowing. “You’ll want to be nicer when this thing starts shooting caramel at high velocity.”
“Guess we’ll see.” She takes the cup. “If this tastes like sadness and expired syrup, I’m blaming you personally.”
She sips, tries — and fails — to hide a relieved smile that kicks up the corners of her eyes. “Fine. You win.”
“Told you I’m handy.”
She offers me a napkin as if knighting me. “Do you put that on your business cards? Hot dog rescuer, soda machine whisperer.”
“If I had business cards, absolutely. Might add ‘Occasional Miracle Worker,’ depending on union rules.” I grin back, then reattach the panel. Syrup dribbles onto my forearm; Hot dog girl promptly passes a dish towel across the counter.
“Cost of heroism,” she teases.
“Hazard pay is an extra chili dog.” I dab at the stickiness, then glance at the diamond beyond the concession window, where late-day sunlight paints the outfield in gold. “So — local?”
“Born and raised.” She straightens, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “You?”
“Birch Harbor,” I say, rubbing syrup off my knuckles. “Forty-five minutes east. Coaching the Hawks tonight — my nephew’s our starting shortstop.”
Her eyes narrow in playful suspicion. “I know Birch Harbor. The competition!”
“Don’t hold it against me.” I lift both hands in surrender. “We’ve got a solid team this year.”
“The Bluewater Beavers will wipe the floor with you.” She tries for ferocious, lands mostly on adorably stubborn.
“We’ll see.” I straighten, the concession’s low ceiling grazing my hair. “Pretty invested for someone running a snack bar.”
“She’s basically our town’s entire organizing committee,” Maggie pipes up from a tangle of ketchup packets. “Every festival, every parade, every wedding in a twenty-mile radius — Addy runs ‘em.”
Addy, maybe it’s short for Addison?
Her flush deepens, but she nods. “Guilty as charged.”
