Chapter One
SUNNY
By the time the third strawberry-basil shortcake cone collapsed into a sugared little crime scene, I’d accepted two things.
One, Cinder Ridge Meadow didn’t care about glamour.
Two, my six-inch fire-engine-red wedges were going to become either a brand signature or the reason the county search-and-rescue team found me face-down in dry grass with lemon mascarpone in my hair.
“Sunny, please tell me that one was supposed to ooze,” Joelle said from behind the prep table.
I lifted the waffle cone in question. Roasted strawberries slid down my wrist, glossy and red, while lemon cream made a dramatic escape toward my elbow.
“Absolutely,” I said. “This is rustic abundance.”
Joelle Bellamy looked at the cone, then at my yellow gingham tie-front top, then at the branded apron failing to contain either my curves or the powdered sugar situation. “It’s leaking on your bracelet.”
“Luxury rustic abundance.”
Across the meadow, Ed Barlow lowered his camera just enough to glare over it. His ball cap sat low on his weatheredforehead, and one of his headset cords had already found the only thistle in a twenty-foot radius.
“I’m getting audio on cream hitting dirt,” he said. “That part sponsored?”
Caprice Calloway clapped once, hard enough to make her statement earrings swing. “Perfect. Sunny, give me bright, sexy, campfire queen energy. Less wrist leak. More national campaign.”
I smiled toward the camera because that was what Sunny Burns did. I smiled when sugar burned, when sponsors panicked, when men at food festivals called my work adorable and then asked who’d really developed the recipe.
The summer air shimmered above the meadow, thick with pine dust, hot grass, butter-cookie crumble, and woodsmoke.
“Reset,” I said. “We’re making fire behave.”
Fire, for the record, had never once behaved because a woman in those wedges told it to.
Joelle handed me a fresh cone from the lined tray, this one packed with toasted butter-cookie crumbs, warm sugared berries, and a swirl of lemon mascarpone that held its shape for exactly the three seconds Ed needed to get the beauty shot. Beyond him, Cinder Ridge Meadow rolled open under a hard blue Montana sky, all dry gold grass and dark pine edges, with Fire Mountain rising in the distance like a postcard that could absolutely kill a person if she wore the wrong shoes.
Which I had, proudly.
The shoes were patent leather, six inches, and completely absurd on dirt. They also made my legs look incredible below my high-waisted denim shorts, caught the same bright pop as the bandana tied on top of my coppery hair, and turned my whole S’more Than Ready campaign look into exactly what the brand deck promised: Firecracker Retro Camp Glam.
No one clicked on a mountain-food video because the chef looked ready to alphabetize bear spray.
“Camera’s still rolling,” Ed said.
“I’m aware.” I angled the cone toward the lens. “Welcome back to S’more Than Ready, where campfire food gets a glow-up and nobody has to pretend a charred weenie on a stick is the height of outdoor cuisine.”
“Careful,” Joelle murmured. “The charred-weenie people have Wi-Fi now.”
“They can come for me in the comments. Engagement is engagement.” I smiled wider, lifted the cone, and let the firelight catch the berries. “Today, we’re making strawberry-basil campfire shortcake cones with lemon mascarpone and butter-cookie crumble. It’s bright, messy, sexy, and exactly the kind of dessert that says, yes, I came to the woods, but I’m not giving up citrus zest just because a pine tree is watching.”
A bead of sweat slid between my shoulder blades beneath the apron. The afternoon heat pressed down hard, the kind of dry summer heat that made the meadow smell like sun-baked grass and warm bark. My fitted yellow top clung under the apron, my freckles were probably staging a hostile takeover of my nose, and my curls had started escaping the bandana in copper wisps.
But the cone held.
For one perfect second, it held.
Then the lemon mascarpone sighed out the side and dropped onto one wedge.
Ed made a sound that might have been a cough or the death of his faith in art.
