Caprice kept going. “We call the sponsor, explain the permit-zone issue, turn the ruined segment into a challenge format. Twenty-five thousand dollar prize. Ed shoots it. Joelle keeps us alive. We correct the safety setup and make the disaster the hook.”
Joelle looked at Caprice. “The sponsor did mention wanting more episodic content.”
I swung toward her. “Why are you helping?”
“I’m not. I’m remembering with regret.”
“This was my campaign,” I said. “Mine. Not a public mud-wrestle with a man named Flint Sparks who thinks paprika is exotic.”
Flint’s chin dipped. “Paprika is fine.”
“Don’t defend paprika like that’s your personality.”
“I’m not the one who put basil in dessert.”
“It’s called flavor complexity.”
“It’s called leaves in cream.”
I gasped.
Actually gasped.
Caprice pointed between us. “Do you see it?”
“No,” Flint and I said.
“Yes,” Ed said from behind his camera.
I turned slowly. “You’re still filming.”
Ed looked me dead in the eye. “History needs witnesses.”
“History needs consent forms.”
“Caprice has them.”
Caprice did a tiny victory bounce.
I closed my eyes. Behind my lids, I saw the original campaign board: sunset shots, laughter, glowing coals, glossy cones, invoices, prep hours, product cost, and the sponsor email that had made me scream into a dish towel because finally, finally someone bigger than a county-fair crowd had seen what I was building.
Then I opened my eyes and saw my product melting into mud.
Flint Sparks stood beyond it, boots planted, hose slack now at his feet, damp shirt stretched across a chest built by either mountain labor or a vengeful romance-cover algorithm.
But he wasn’t getting away with ruining my day and walking back up his mountain like a fire-hose-wielding act of God.
“What’s the first round?” I asked Caprice.
Her smile turned sharp. “S’mores.”
“No.” I held up a hand. “My brand name is S’more Than Ready, so before anyone gets cute, I’ve spent years proving campfire food can be more than one marshmallow and a candy bar smashed into graham crackers.”
“Exactly,” Caprice said. “You’ll elevate the classic. He’ll defend it.”
Flint crossed his arms. His damp sleeve pulled tight over that scarred forearm. “I’m not competing.”
“Good,” I said. “I accept your surrender.”
