Death and Relaxation (Ordinary Magic #1)(65)

“Reserve officer. You might want to take your seat. I think Satan’s about to start the torture.”

He pulled out the empty chair next to me and settled in it, his wide shoulders brushing mine before he shifted slightly to make room.

“What are you doing?”

He rested his forearms on the table and smiled at the audience. “I’m your assistant.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He wasn’t looking at me. “Have you found any way to refuse Bertie when she’s on the warpath to acquire volunteers?”

I groaned.

He agreed with a nod.

“When did she get you?”

“This afternoon when Jean sent me out of the file room. I would have been much happier doing menial paperwork.”

“So noted. At least you don’t have to eat this crap.” I mimicked him, smiling out at the crowd.

See? I could do this. Be a happy person helping out her community one plate of gooey pink fruit at a time.

“Honor and duty, officer,” he said.

“Stuff it, Bailey.”

He chuckled then cleared his throat. “Here we go. Smile for the cameras, darlin’.”

His voice, low and intimate, rolled through me, and I laced my fingers together on top of the table to keep from reaching for him. He was so close that our hips and legs were almost touching.

But there would be no touching here. This was serious business.

Bertie took the stage with the strut of a professional ringleader, and then gave a short speech on the history of the Rhubarb Rally that ended with her thanking the community for being so flexible with their hours and allowing for a change of judges under such terrible circumstances.

She asked for a moment of silence for the passing of Heim, a good man and judge who had served on the rhubarb panel for the last two years.

The crowd complied. While I bent my head, I also watched the reactions in the audience. If our guilty party really was connected in some way to the rally, they would be here.

Everyone lowered their heads, except for a couple parents who were busy trying to keep their children quiet.

Dan Perkin didn’t lower his head. He scowled and messed with the brim of his hat, as if even this slight delay of him winning first prize was an indignity he refused to endure.

Then Bertie thanked everyone and, in an arresting, uplifting voice, introduced the judges and announced we would begin with the savories, of which there were twenty-three entries.

I groaned quietly through my teeth, and Ryder chuckled.

He pulled a pen out of his pocket and clicked the top of it. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”

“You might want to get a barf bucket instead.” One of the food handlers set a small plate with a wedge of necrotic pink cheese in front of me, along with a clean plastic fork and napkin.

“Thank you,” I said with fake enthusiasm. “How exciting.”

She left a glass of water within reach.

“Round one.” Ryder produced a white sheet of paper.

I picked up the fork. I quickly decided there was no way I’d be able to fake a smile through the whole thing, but keeping a straight face was something I had long practice with.

“Something wrong?” Ryder asked.

“Nope. I plan to deal with that cheese like I would any other perpetrator under interrogation.”

“Cheese interrogation. That a special course they teach you in the academy?”

“Maintaining professionalism in unfriendly environments.”

“You think this is unfriendly? People have gathered just to cheer you on as you eat. You couldn’t have stronger support.”

“It’s a hostile work environment. Hostile cheese too.”

“You don’t know that. You haven’t tasted it yet.”

“Yeah.” I had been staring at the cheese the entire time, the fork poised in my hand. I couldn’t bring myself to actually make my arm and hand move down to touch the gelatinous mass. The air shifted a bit and I got a strong whiff of cooked rhubarb.

And goat cheese.

“You might want to get on with stabbing it,” he suggested. “You’re falling behind.”

I glanced down the table. All the judges had already moved on to new plates. One that looked suspiciously like macaroni and cheese. Pink macaroni and cheese.

I fought back my gag reflex. “Switch places?”

“I think they’d notice. Take a bite.”

“It’s rhubarb.”

“Only some of it is rhubarb. Some of it is cheese.”

“Don’t be reasonable with me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

His hand under the table pressed down on my knee and rubbed a gentle circle, fingertips dragging softly down the inside. Even through the heavy denim of my jeans, I could feel the heat, the pressure of his hand.

“One bite and I’ll make it worth it,” he murmured.

I might have been holding my breath. I didn’t look over at him, but from the corner of my eye, I could see his polite and interested expression as he stared down at the plate, and my fork hovering over it.

He was surprisingly good at hiding the truth behind that polite expression. Now where had he learned to do that?

“That’s a dirty move,” I said.