Rafe Marquez, 51, has spent the last eight years building a vintage travel trailer restoration business so busy he barely has time to grab a hot meal between sanding aluminum shells and running to the parts yard 40 minutes outside town. His only personality flaw, if you ask his older sister who calls every Sunday to nag him, is that he’s refused to go on a single date since his ex-wife left him for a SaaS sales rep who called his grease-stained Carhartts “unprofessional.” He’d laughed when she said that, packed her bags, and hasn’t let anyone who doesn’t know the difference between a 1962 Shasta and a 1964 Scotty get close enough to criticize him since.
The annual town chili cookoff is the only social event he forces himself to attend every year, mostly because the grand prize is a $500 gift card to the parts yard he frequents. He’s leaning against the back of his dented 1972 F-250 wiping a streak of chili grease off his knuckle when he turns too fast, slamming his shoulder into someone standing just behind him. A plate stacked high with cornbread tilts, crumbs dusting the front of his shirt, and he freezes when he looks down and sees Maeve Carter, his next door neighbor of three months, the woman he’s been actively avoiding since the day she moved in.
He’d first seen her carrying a stack of hardcover books up her porch steps, sun hitting the streaks of copper in her dark hair, and he’d panicked, ducking back into his shop before she could wave. A week later she’d brought him a pitcher of cold lemonade while he was dragging a rusted Airstream shell up his driveway, and he’d stammered so bad he’d only managed a gruff “thanks” before rushing inside, leaving her standing on the porch holding the empty pitcher. He’d felt like an idiot, and ever since he’d cross the street if he saw her out watering her tomato plants, or fake a phone call if she pulled into her driveway while he was loading parts into his truck.
Now she’s laughing, a warm, throaty sound that cuts over the twang of the country cover band playing off to the side and the yells of kids chasing each other through the picnic tables. “Whoa, easy there. I know my cornbread’s good, but you don’t have to tackle me for it.” She smells like lavender and old paper, which makes sense, he remembers hearing she’s the new head librarian at the county branch downtown. She steps a little closer, her boot scuffing the gravel next to his, and brushes the crumbs off his shirt with her palm, her fingers brushing the hard muscle of his chest through the thin fabric of his Carhartt. He feels his neck flush, which pisses him off—he hasn’t blushed since he was 16 and got caught skipping shop class to make out with his girlfriend in the back of his dad’s truck.
She tilts her head, grinning like she knows exactly how flustered he is. “I was starting to think you hated me. Every time I wave, you speed up like I’m trying to serve you a jury summons.” He huffs a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t hate you. Just bad at talking to people I don’t know.” She snorts, picking up a piece of cornbread off her plate and holding it out to him. “Bullshit. I’ve heard you yelling at your apprentice about trailer trim for hours from my porch. You talk just fine.”
He takes the cornbread, it’s sweet, still warm, crumbs sticking to the calluses on his fingertips. They end up sitting at a rickety picnic table on the edge of the field, sharing the pot of chili he brought, the one he makes with his abuela’s recipe, the one he never tells anyone about because he doesn’t want people to think the tough trailer restorer guy cooks. She moans when she takes the first bite, it has a slow, smoky chipotle kick that lingers at the back of her throat, her knee pressing against his under the table, neither of them moving away. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. You’ve been holding out on me, Marquez.” He grins, leaning back against the bench, the tension he’s carried around her for three months melting slow, like butter on hot cornbread. “I’ll make it for you sometime, if you want.”
She leans in, elbow brushing his, her eyes dark in the golden hour light. “I’d like that. I was also wondering if you could help me fix the leaky faucet in my guest bathroom? I tried following a YouTube tutorial last week and almost flooded the whole room.” He laughs, loud enough that a couple people at the next table glance over. “I can do that. Tomorrow, after I finish laying the new floorboards in the Shasta I’m restoring for that couple from Portland.”
The sun dips below the tree line as the cookoff wraps up, people folding up chairs and hauling coolers to their cars. He walks her to her beat-up Toyota Tacoma, their shoulders brushing every other step, the cool evening air raising goosebumps on his exposed forearms. When they get to her door she leans up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, her lips tasting like the peach iced tea she’d been sipping all afternoon. She climbs into the truck, rolling the window down, grinning at him. “Don’t stand me up tomorrow, yeah? I’ll even buy you a six pack of that hazelnut craft beer you like as payment.” He grins, leaning against the side of her truck, nodding. He watches her pull out of the parking lot, waving out the window, before he turns to head back to his own truck, picking a stray crumb of cornbread off his shirt and popping it into his mouth.
