Georgia on Her Mind(56)

I walk among them. “They’re amazing,” I say, observing the fine detail and custom work applied to each one.

“Most of the handiwork is Dylan’s,” he says, obviously proud. “I do the grunt work. He makes them worth buying.”

“I never knew he was so artsy,” I say, running my hand along a hand-tooled leather seat.

“Closet talent, I guess. That boy can do just about anything.”

A look passes between Mr. Braun and me, communicating something deeper than words can say, and it makes me squirm.

“He’s over at the pie-eating contest,” Mr. Braun says, tipping his head toward the tent door.

I grin. “Another hidden talent?”

He flashes the original Braun grin, rakish and white. “He’s the defending champ.”

“Well, then, maybe I’ll go see.”

“Better hurry. It’s over by the barbecue grills.”

I skip-hop-run over to the cooking area. Up on the stage I see the long table of pies. Bibbed men hover over them, hands behind their backs, waiting for the whistle to blow.

Ellen Van Buren, Beauty’s mayor, is giving instructions, her loud, shrill voice causing the cheap sound system to feed back.

I spot Dylan on the end wearing a golden bib. I laugh. Pie-eating champ. Only Dylan. I shove my way through the crowd toward the front so I can say hi to him.

But yellow police tape ropes off the pie-eating area. “Can’t go any farther,” seventy-year-old Rover Whitaker says in my ear.

“Hey, Rover, how are you?” I ask, patting him on the arm.

“Good, though my rheumatism is acting up some.”

Now, not that I don’t care about Rover and his rheumatism, but I’m determined to get Dylan’s attention before he pies his own face. From where I’m standing, about five feet back, I can tell his expression is intense—he’s ready to win.

“You have one minute,” Ellen hollers into the mike. “Get ready.”

Dylan bends down, face toward the pie, hands locked behind his back.

“Dylan.” I psst, leaning close. “Dylan.”

He shifts his eyes to see who’s calling him.

“On the count of three,” Ellen barks, her whistle poised, ready to blow. “One!”

“Good luck,” I say with a big smile and a thumbs-up.

“Two.”

He smiles and winks.

“Three.” The whistle pierces the air and Dylan’s face is buried in a mile-high pile of whipped cream.

Everyone is cheering and laughing. I see something dangling from Dylan’s mouth. He chomps it up and goes for another bite.

“Gummie worms.” Rover chuckles.

Ew!

But before the whistle blows, Dylan jumps away from his pie plate. White cream covers his nose, cheeks, mouth and chin, but he’s the winner. Once again. “Dylan Braun, the defending champ, is our winner!” Ellen walks over to him, a blue ribbon in her hand.

Dylan shoots his arms into the air over his head as if he just won the Super Bowl.

The crowd starts chanting. “Dylan, Dylan, Dylan.”

All at once his eyes are on me and he’s pointing. Grinning. Well, I think he’s grinning. Who can tell with all that white cream around his mouth?

I smile and wave back. He jumps off the stage and strides toward me as if he’s Michael Vartan about to kiss Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed.

What is he…Realization dawns. I’m Macy Moore in About To Be Kissed. The whole town is watching. Oh, my word.

I walk backward, shaking my head. “Now, Dylan…” Dylan stoops under the yellow tape and closes the gap between us.

“Hey, you can’t do that,” I holler, pointing. “Police, police, he just crossed the line.”

The crowd parts to let him pass, exposing me with nowhere to hide. Traitors.

They still chant his name. I turn to run. But he reaches out with one last stride and grabs my arm.

“Ack! Dylan.”

He whirls me around and pulls me to him. For one brief moment his eyes search mine, asking permission. I’m pretty sure both eyes are saying yes.

“You could at least clean off your face,” I murmur, feeling woozy. Umm, sandalwood and spices. My favorite scent.

“I could,” he says, then lowers his lips to mine. His kiss is real, tender and very sweet and messy.

The crowd cheers. I burst into a giggle-snicker and wind up with a snort of whipped cream up my nostril.

“You have something on your face,” he teases.

“Do I, now?” I can’t stop smiling.

Someone—don’t know who—hands him a wet towel. Gently he cleans my face. When he finally releases me, I almost fall down from the swooniness of it all.

He’s so incredibly easy to be around, so incredibly easy to kiss. Yet he gets me so mixed up. Knocks my world off-kilter.

He cleans his face after mine and, taking my hand, walks me over to one of the park benches, tossing the towel onto the pie table.

We’re about to sit when he presses his hand against my back and pushes me to him so he can kiss me again.

“I just wanted to make sure the sweetness was you, not the whipped cream.”

My nerve endings are snapping and firing, but I laugh at his corny comment. Then, naturally, I panic.