Is it really so hard to believe? “Nope.”
“Shut the front door.” She shakes her head, and her dark curls, which are pulled back in a ponytail, sway side to side. “What kind of sad, joyless childhood did you have?”
The worst kind, but I’m not about to admit it. I don’t like to talk about my early years, about my life before Mama Hart. The past is the past, and there’s no point dredging it up.
“I swear, my mind is blown.” Lucy rips the marshmallow bag open and pops one into her mouth. As she chews, she pulls out another and spears it with a long metal skewer. “I read somewhere that, like, ninety percent of Americans have tried s’mores. How is it possible you aren’t one of them?”
I shrug. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Not hardly,” she says, holding her skewer over the open flame. “S’mores are amazing. You’re definitely missing out.” She turns, flashing me a wicked grin. “If only you hadn’t broken the rules and ordered out for dinner, I’d be able to share with you.”
“I think I’ll survive.” It might be the first time I’ve bent the rules, but I doubt it’ll be the last. Not with the stakes so high. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
The more I know, the better. After all, knowledge is power. I’m not about to go into another day completely unprepared. And if an opportunity presents itself to convince Lucy this travel-influencer gig isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, even better.
Lucy rattles off a list of locations and activities for tomorrow, gesturing wildly with her free hand. She’s got it all figured out. The route. The stops. The photo ops.
The only problem?
The more she talks, the less I hear.
I’m trying to follow along—I really am—but it’s hard to focus on her words when she’s brimming with enthusiasm. Vibrant. Energized.
I watch her, enthralled. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember the last time she was this excited about a project at Triada.
The job doesn’t challenge her.
The realization is like a sucker punch to the gut.
It’s one of the many things that will need to change when Lucy returns to the office. She doesn’t just deserve a bigger salary; she deserves more responsibility. Real responsibility. The opportunity to challenge herself and contribute in a meaningful way.
Sure, her ability to keep my life and schedule organized is important to me—I’ve clearly proven I can’t function without her—but none of that shit is meaningful to her.
I see that now.
And I was a clueless jackass not to see it before.
Maybe Lucy was right about me, after all.
Shame burns the back of my neck as I watch her, the orange glow of the fire dancing across her face as she uses two graham crackers to slide the marshmallow off the skewer.
“Perfect.” She leans back in her chair, clasping the s’more with two hands like a sandwich.
White goo oozes out the side, sticking to her fingers, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she takes her first bite, the graham crackers breaking and crumbling.
“Yeah, perfectly messy.” I drain my beer and debate grabbing another from the fridge.
“So. Good.” Lucy chews slowly, throwing her head back like she’s in the throes of ecstasy. Hell, maybe she is. Chocolate’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac, isn’t it? “You have no idea what you’re missing.”
Oh, but I do.
Melted chocolate clings to the corner of her mouth, and, with the firelight casting living shadows over her soft features and that thick mane of tousled hair hanging down her back, she looks like a goddess.
My pulse quickens.
The urge to lick the chocolate from her full lips is nearly overwhelming. I can already taste it on my tongue. Can already smell the subtle scent of her floral shampoo mixed with the aroma of woodsmoke. Feel her soft espresso curls tangled around my fist.
Tension coils low in my gut, but I force myself to remain still.
