“I think men have built entire reputations on doing one simple thing and calling it tradition.”
Joelle whispered, “Oh, she’s in.”
I didn’t look away from Flint. “I’m in.”
Caprice punched the air silently.
Flint stared at me for one hot, impossible beat. “I’m in too.”
“Great,” I said. “Try not to hose anything tomorrow unless it’s your ego.”
“Try not to light up the meadow.”
“Try not to mistake flavor for witchcraft.”
“Try not to wear furniture as shoes.”
I stepped close enough that my wet apron brushed the hose between us. “Try not to fall in love with my marshmallow technique.”
His hand tightened once on the hose. That tiny motion sent a bright, stupid spark through me.
Then Flint leaned just enough for me to hear him over the wind. “Try not to burn it.”
Caprice made a strangled, delighted sound behind us.
Ed sighed. “I’m never retiring.”
The wind moved through Cinder Ridge Meadow again, carrying the scent of wet grass, dead smoke, strawberries, and lemon cream.
My hair dripped onto my cheek. My shoes were ruined. My original shoot was dead. My new competitor was six-foot-four inches of fire-safety arrogance with blue-gray eyes and a name so on-the-nose it should’ve come with a warning label.
Flint Sparks thought old-school was going to beat gourmet.
I planted my bare feet in the mud, smiled for Ed’s camera, and let Flint see exactly how badly I wanted to win.
Chapter Two
FLINT
By eight Saturday morning, I’d walked the cook site twice and still didn’t like the wind.
It wasn’t dangerous yet. It slid low across Cinder Ridge Meadow from the west, warm and steady, pushing through the dry grass with a soft scrape that made every old habit in me pay attention.
The correct permit clearing sat forty yards from yesterday’s drenched mess. This one had bare dirt around the fire rings, a wider break from the pine edge, and enough open space that a person could roast a marshmallow without trying to turn Fire Mountain into breaking news.
At least, that was the goal.
I crouched beside the nearest cold ring and pressed two fingers into the ash. Nothing live. Nothing warm. No sparks hiding under gray powder.
The ring was clean.
Behind me, Ed Barlow grunted as he hauled a tripod out of the production van. “All this for s’mores.”
“They’re crackers with goo,” I said.
“For once, I don’t hate your attitude.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
