Chapter Twelve
Miles
I eat my Baja Bowl slowly, savoring every delicious bite of chicken and quinoa. It pairs nicely with the creamy wheat ale, and for the first time since we set out on this trip, I’m fully relaxed, enjoying a quiet evening by the fire. Next to me, Lucy nibbles on her sad little hot dog, looking like someone just kicked her hamster.
Guilt gnaws at my conscience, and I almost feel bad for her.
Almost.
But then my foot brushes against the delivery bag, and I remember she has other options.
“I’ll put the soup and salad in the fridge. In case you want it later.”
She shrugs, but I don’t miss the way her eyes light up at the prospect of fresh food.
The woman is stubborn as fuck. Why not just eat the damn salad if she wants it? It has to be better than eating processed meat for the third night in a row.
Because for a woman who’s typically great at planning, the contents of her tiny fridge show a surprising lack of variety. It’s like it never occurred to her she might tire of eating beans and franks.
Then again, maybe it hadn’t.
For all I know, it’s a childhood dream come true.
When I was a kid, I would’ve given anything for a proper home-cooked meal, but I knew plenty of kids who complained about the stuff their parents forced them to eat. Kids who would have happily traded pot roast and salmon for a bologna sandwich.
Not me, though.
I’ve always known the value of a good hot meal.
And so has Mama Hart. One taste of her chicken and biscuits, and I was a goner.
“I’m going to make dessert,” Lucy announces, climbing to her feet. “And since you’re too fancy to eat a campfire dinner, you don’t get the campfire dessert.”
“And what is this mysterious campfire dessert I’m not allowed to eat?”
Whatever it is, it can’t be worth choking down more faux meat.
Lucy smirks. “You’ll see.”
She turns on her heel and marches into the travel trailer, leaving me to ponder the mystery dessert. The thing is, I’ve got nothing, so I just sip my beer and watch the sun sink below the horizon.
A few minutes later, she returns, carrying a small basket.
There’s a smug grin on her face, and it’s clear she’s waiting for me to crack and ask what she’s up to, but I’m not about to give her the satisfaction.
Instead, I watch as she unpacks her supplies and arranges them on the edge of the stone firepit. When she drops into her chair, I get my first good look.
Graham crackers. Marshmallows. Hershey’s chocolate bars.
I’m not going to lie—I was hoping for ice cream. Or hand pies. But from the looks of it, I’m not missing much.
I mean, who the hell even likes marshmallows?
Lucy must see the disgust on my face because she gestures to her haul and says, “I’m making s’mores.”
Now that she’s said it, it seems obvious, but… “I’ve never had a s’more.”
She straightens. “You’ve never had a s’more?”
