Page 99 of Famous for a Living

Or the face he gave her when she just stood there in the living room, sharing the details of her ordinary day.

A good father.

Somebody who makes it his job to know his child’s weaknesses and guide her through them but chooses to rejoice in her strengths as well.

Just rejoicing in her existence.

It was a completely foreign feeling. And I relished it.

But there was still a point when food became a necessity.

“Here. The Crock-Pots were getting low.” Zaiah moves beside me, holding out chili in a paper bowl. On the plate beneath it are no fewer than five golden-yellow cornbread biscuits.

I smile as I take it, turning away from Terry’s latest rendition of how I flew over the horse to reach victory in the nick of time.

“Thank you,” I say. “Four pieces of cornbread are certainly not going to be enough.”

“I saw you sneak that third breakfast sandwich at lunch the other day. I figured I’d play it safe.” He scans the plastic round tables. Most are full of occupants. Every table at least halfway full. His eyes trail toward the open barn doors to the dark night and flickering blaze of the bonfire beyond. “Care if we . . . ,” he begins.

“Please,” I say, and follow him out the door.

Night has fallen, and the second we get outside, I realize so has the temperature. There’s a sizable bonfire to our left. A couple mingles around it on one end, but frankly, they look so invested in each other, I am fairly certain they wouldn’t even notice a bobcat beside them. The sky above is blanketed with glittering stars, so bright even the locals who have spent their whole lives beneath such beauty admire them with frequent gazes upward.

We walk over. Grab a seat in the middle of the log on the other side of the pair.

The chili smells heavenly, but I try to ignore it and pick up the cornbread. Tear off a piece.

“It’s meatless—or rather, um, vegan.”

I raise my brow. “No way. A guy just told me he named his favorite calf Chili last year. In honor of today. When he cooked him.”

“That man would be Larry Rush, and yes. It’s vegan chili.”

I pick up my spoon. Prod around, looking for clues. Sure enough, the meat seems to have been replaced with cubes of zucchini and small bits of carrot.

Apparently my feeling of elation is evident on my face, because his smile deepens.

I blow off the steam of a spoonful, then take it in.

Delicious.

Absolutely, surprisingly delicious.

“There’s cinnamon in this,” I say, going for a second bite. I eat a third before realizing he’s just watching me. “I need this recipe. Does it say on the Crock-Pot who it’s from?”

“This one’s from me.” He sees my expression. “Glad you like it, because you’re the only one who did. You can take the whole Crock-Pot home.”

“I will!” I am genuinely thrilled at the prospect. I just secured the next breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next three days. It’s so good I find myself squinting as I look at the line back inside. “I am not opposed to packing it up in my car now, actually. Nobody needs to expand their horizons tonight.”

He laughs. “Tell you what. If anyone in there eats it—which I can guarantee you they will not—I’ll make you more.”

There’s fire in his eyes, a genuine reflection of fire, and his pupils dance with the orange and yellow flames.

My own voice shifts at what he’s saying.

The implication in all of this.

“Show me and it’s a deal. So. You made vegan chili for a cook-off. With this crowd.” I blink, my own lashes dancing. “You won’t be winning any awards tonight for this.”