“You’re too close to the flame,” I said.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It does when I’m right.”
The marshmallow browned on one side. She rolled her wrist, smooth and quick. The color evened out.
She’d compensated before I finished the warning.
Sunny’s gaze flicked to me. “You were saying?”
“I was waiting to see if you’d fix it.”
“That’s adorable.”
“I’m known for it.”
She laughed under her breath and reached for a graham cracker. “No, you’re not.”
“No?”
“You’re known for appearing on a ridge with a hose and ruining a woman’s afternoon.”
“You were already having trouble with gravity before I got there.”
“That dessert was delicate.”
“That dessert was leaking.”
“It was expressing itself.”
“It needed supervision.”
Her grin widened. “So do you.”
The first marshmallow reached the shade I wanted. I slid it onto chocolate and graham cracker, pressed the top down just enough to trap heat without crushing the whole thing flat, then set it on the stone for ten seconds. Let the chocolate soften. Not melt into a mess. Not stay hard. A s’more was timing. People forgot that.
Sunny didn’t.
She warmed her chocolate lightly near the coals before assembly. Not enough to melt, just enough to give. Then came huckleberries, a thin ribbon of caramel, a few grains of salt, and the toasted marshmallow, pressed between browned-butter grahams with her fingertips steady and clean.
It looked ridiculous.
It smelled better than it had any business smelling.
She held it up for Ed. “Salted caramel huckleberry s’more. Tart berries, soft smoke, deep caramel, vanilla marshmallow, brown-butter graham, and just enough salt to make the sweet behave.”
I looked at my plain s’more.
Graham, chocolate, and marshmallow.
Done right.
Still, her words changed the air. Even I wanted to taste the thing, and I’d been prepared to hate it on principle.
Caprice stepped in for the camera. “Flint, describe yours.”
