Rafe Marquez, 57, spends 90% of his waking hours covered in two-stroke oil and steel wool, restoring vintage snowmobiles for collectors across the upper Midwest out of his cinder block shop outside Grand Rapids, Minnesota. He’d avoided the county’s annual fall chili cookoff for seven straight years, but his 16-year-old niece had shown up at his door at 8 a.m. with a bag of venison and a pout he couldn’t say no to, so there he was, leaning against a folding table, grease still crusted under his fingernails, a half-drunk Hamm’s in his hand, his crockpot bubbling with a recipe he’d perfected alone on hunting trips. The air reeked of cumin, burnt hot dogs, and sweet pressed apple cider from the local 4-H. A group of kids screamed as they chased a golden retriever past the tables, kicking up dust that stuck to the sweat on his forearms.
He’d been half planning to slip out early when Lila Wainwright stepped into view. Lila was 49, the county’s first female sheriff, elected six months prior, and Rafe had spent a decade actively staying ten feet away from her. She was his ex-wife’s least favorite cousin, for one, and for another, he’d been half in love with her since he was 22, when she’d helped him pull his first totaled Ski-Doo out of a blizzard ditch, cussing him out the whole time for riding in zero visibility. She wasn’t in uniform today, just worn dark jeans, a faded Packers hoodie, and work boots caked in mud from that morning’s hiker search up in the Chippewa National Forest. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, a few strands stuck to her forehead, and when she spotted him, she grinned that same sharp, unapologetic grin that had tightened his chest 35 years prior.
She walked straight over, leaning against the table next to him so close her shoulder brushed his bicep. He could smell pine soap and cinnamon gum on her, mixed with the faint tang of pepper spray she carried on her belt even off duty. “Your niece said you entered the chili this year,” she said, nodding at the handwritten sign taped to the crockpot: OLD YELLER: WILL BURN YOUR TONGUE AND YOUR DIGNITY. “Said you threatened to hide her phone if she told anyone you put maple syrup in it.”
Rafe huffed a laugh, shifting his weight like he might step back, half convinced if he stayed that near he’d do something stupid like tuck that loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Kid can’t keep a secret,” he said, grabbing a sample cup and scooping a spoonful for her. Their fingers brushed when he handed it over, and he felt a jolt run up his arm, sharp as the shock from a live shop battery. He hadn’t felt anything like that since his ex left. He held still, watching her take a sip, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second.
“Holy shit, that’s good,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Better than the garbage my ex used to make, that’s for sure.” The divorce had been final three months prior, everyone in town knew, her ex was a high school principal who’d cheated on her with a math teacher. Rafe had heard the gossip at the gas station, had felt a stupid spark of anger when he did, like he had any right to be mad on her behalf.
He was about to mumble a generic response, make an excuse to leave, when she leaned in even closer, her breath warm on his ear over the crowd noise. “I stopped by your shop three times in the last month,” she said, quiet enough no one else could hear. “Sat in the parking lot 20 minutes each time, too chicken to come in. Knew you’d probably turn me down, thought you still hated all of my ex’s family.”
Rafe froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. He’d noticed her truck parked across the street a few times, had assumed she was there on official business, had hidden in the back until she drove away. The thought she was there to see him made his throat tight. He’d spent so long telling himself she was off limits, too tied to his old marriage, too much of a risk in a town where everyone gossiped over diner breakfast. He’d told himself the attraction was just a stupid fantasy, that she’d never look twice at a guy who spent all his time covered in oil, who hadn’t been on a date in 8 years.
“I don’t hate you,” he said, before he could think better of it. He looked down at her, hazel eyes steady, no embarrassment, no hesitation, the same way she looked breaking up bar fights at the edge of town roadhouse. He could count the freckles across her nose, the tiny scar on her left cheek from a 17-year-old snowmobile crash. All the reasons to say no, to walk away, to go back to his quiet life where no one bothered him, felt stupid and small next to the way she was looking at him.
“Good,” she said, grinning again, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear like she’d read his mind. “Because I don’t feel like waiting another 35 years for you to make a move.”
He laughed, loud enough that a few people at the next table glanced over, and he didn’t even care. “I finished restoring a 1978 Ski-Doo last month,” he said. “Got a spot up by the north end of Lake Winnibigoshish, no one goes out there this time of year, got a cooler of bourbon stashed in my truck. Wanna skip the awards ceremony and go for a ride?”
She nodded, already stepping back, her hand brushing his wrist for half a second before she turned to leave. “I’ll meet you by your beat-up silver Ford in an hour,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t be late, I’ll arrest you for wasting my time.”
Rafe watched her walk back to her deputies’ table, yell something at the one holding up a plate of pie, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, she winked. He picked up his beer, took a long sip, and didn’t even glance around to see who was watching.
