But Sunny’s smile held too bright, and her fingers pressed two small dents into the edge of her towel.
I knew that grip. I’d seen men use it on helmets and hose couplings when somebody called them labor instead of knowledge.
Sunny caught me looking. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“You want my vote?”
“You don’t have a vote. You’re biased, underqualified, and sticky.”
“I was sticky because of you.”
Her eyes flashed. “Careful, Flint.”
My name in her mouth did more damage than the caramel. It dragged a hot line down my spine and left me staring at her like the whole crew wasn’t standing ten feet away.
Caprice tapped her pen against her clipboard. “Judges are ready, and I have a call in fourteen minutes. Please face camera.”
Sunny straightened. “Fine. Say it.”
Joelle looked between us. “Sunny’s s’more is more inventive, visually stronger, and the flavor balance is excellent.”
Sunny’s mouth curved.
“But Flint’s is cleaner for the category. The marshmallow texture is better, the chocolate melt is exactly right, and it tastes like what people want when someone says s’mores.”
Sunny’s smile held. Barely.
Ed nodded. “Flint.”
Caprice sighed and checked a box on her clipboard. “Round One goes to Flint. Sunny photographs better, but the classic wins the brief.”
Sunny turned toward the camera, smile bright enough to burn.
My chest tightened.
“Round One to Flint Sparks,” she said. “Apparently, crackers with goo have their loyalists.”
“They have standards,” I said.
“They have nostalgia.”
“They have results.”
“They have no imagination.”
“They won.”
Her smile changed.
This one was for me.
“Enjoy it.”
“I’m savoring it.”
