Rafe Herrera, 62, retired lineman for the Hill Country Electric Co-op, had only shown up to the annual Liberty Hill Volunteer Fire Department Chili Cookoff because his old line partner Jimmie begged. He’d ducked out of the crew’s table after 10 minutes, leaned against the split rail fence by the beer tent, nursing a Shiner Bock, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked like they might want to small talk. Eight years prior, his wife Carol had left him for a 38-year-old farrier, and he’d held himself deliberately isolated ever since, convinced any romantic connection would only end in disappointment, that he was too rough around the edges—scarred knuckles, sun-cracked cheeks, a habit of grunting instead of talking—to be worth anyone’s time. Most days he just worked on his 1972 F-150 and tended to his backyard beehives, and that suited him fine.
He spotted her through the crowd first. Lila, Carol’s half-sister, 10 years his junior, he hadn’t seen her since the divorce was finalized. She carried a paper plate heaped with chili, wore a faded 1990 Willie Nelson tour t-shirt that hit just above the waist of her cutoff denim shorts, scuffed white cowboy boots, a thin silver chain around her neck with a tiny bee charm on it. There was a smudge of chili powder on her left cheek, right by the dimple she’d had even when she was a snot-nosed 16-year-old sneaking beer out of his cooler at Fourth of July cookouts.
She stopped a foot and a half away, hip cocked, grinning like she knew he’d rather be anywhere else. “Thought that was you. Still hide by the beer at every public event, huh?” Her voice was lower than he remembered, rough around the edges like she smoked a pack a day, but warm, like apple cider on a cold morning.
He tensed up first, instinct screaming this was a bad idea. Carol still called Lila three times a week, half the town knew they were sisters, if anyone saw them chatting it would be all over the local Facebook group by sunset. But then he caught her scent: cinnamon, fried peaches, a hint of vanilla perfume, and the tension eased a little out of his shoulders. “Heard you moved back to take over your mom’s pie shop.”
“Been here three months. Tried to stop by your place last week to drop off a peach pie, but your truck was gone. Figured you were avoiding me.” She stepped closer, now they were less than a foot apart, he could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the faint laugh lines fanning out from the corners. She held out a plastic spoon heaped with chili. “Told them no beans. Remember you hate them, Carol always threw a fit about it.”
Their fingers brushed when he took the spoon. His hands were calloused, crisscrossed with thin scars from years of grabbing hot wires and slipping on ice-covered poles, hers were soft, a little flour-dusted on the knuckles. He felt a jolt go up his arm, the kind he used to get when he’d nudge a live wire by accident—sharp, warm, unexpected. He ate the chili, it was perfect, spicy, smoky, no mushy beans in sight. “Good.”
She laughed, loud enough to make a couple standing nearby glance over. “Just good? I spent three hours perfecting that batch. Rude.” She leaned in a little more, her shoulder almost brushing his. “I used to have the biggest crush on you, you know. When I was 17. Thought you were the coolest guy alive, climbing those poles in the rain like you didn’t care if you got struck by lightning.”
He snorted, a real, deep laugh he hadn’t let out in months. “You also crashed my pickup into a hay bale that same year. Totaled the front bumper.”
“Hey, I was learning to drive stick!” She shoved his arm playfully, her hand lingering on his bicep for a beat longer than necessary. A group of kids chasing a golden retriever ran past, one slammed into her back, she stumbled forward into his chest. He caught her by the waist, his hands splayed across the soft curve of her hips, he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin denim of her shorts. She looked up at him, her breath fanning across his neck, and didn’t step away.
For a second he froze. He thought about the gossip, about Carol blowing up his phone at 2 a.m. screaming if she found out, about the old ladies at the church bake sale whispering about him behind their hymnals. Disgust at the idea of breaking an unspoken small-town rule warred with the hot, thrumming desire in his chest, the kind of taboo thrill he hadn’t felt since he was a kid sneaking out to drag race on the back roads. He hadn’t felt this seen in 8 years—no one else had remembered he hated beans, no one had brought him pie, no one had looked at him like he was something other than a grumpy retired lineman who fixed gutters for cash on the weekends.
She bit her lower lip, like she was nervous he’d push her away. “I got a peach cobbler in the oven back at the shop. Just came out 10 minutes ago. We can skip the rest of this, avoid the crowds. If you want.”
He hesitated for half a second, then nodded. He set his empty beer bottle on the fence post, didn’t bother saying goodbye to Jimmie—they’d give him shit tomorrow anyway, no point dragging it out. She grabbed his hand as they walked toward her beat up green Subaru, her palm soft against his rough one, her fingers lacing through his. He didn’t let go. She tossed her half-eaten plate of chili in the trash can by the parking lot, the chili powder smudge still bright on her cheek. When she pulled the passenger door open for him, he climbed in without glancing back at the cookoff, or the small town gossip waiting for him if he’d stayed.
