“You should. It’s the only round you’re getting.”
Caprice pointed toward the tables. “Good. That sounded usable. Reset for pickup shots, and nobody add new trash talk unless the camera is rolling.”
Ed adjusted his headset. “You want trash talk scheduled?”
“I want everything scheduled.”
Sunny picked up her remaining s’more and crossed to me. “Taste it.”
“I already know you can cook.”
She stopped close enough that the huckleberry scent rose between us. “That wasn’t the assignment.”
“Sunny.”
“Take the bite, Flint. I lost the round, not my nerve.”
Color warmed her cheeks, and her eyes stayed bright even after the loss. The red scarf, the knotted shirt, the white platform sneakers, and the flour on her fingertips weren’t a costume. They were Sunny refusing to shrink, even in the dirt, and the white apron cinched over her curves made my hands remember every place they had no business wanting to go.
I took the s’more from her.
Our fingers brushed.
She didn’t move back.
Neither did I.
I bit in.
The first hit was smoke and sugar. Then berry, tart enough to cut through the caramel. Then salt, sharp and clean. The marshmallow was softer than mine, the graham richer, the whole thing messier than I’d ever admit to liking.
I swallowed and caught a smear of caramel on my thumb.
Sunny watched my face like she could force the truth out of me by standing close. I wanted her closer. The cameras, crew, and timing made one useful argument against that.
“Well?”
I looked down at the s’more, then at her.
“It’s too complicated.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“And it’s good.”
The anger left her face so fast it almost hurt to see.
“Good?” she asked.
“Really good.”
For once, none of us reached for a joke, a camera line, or a safety lecture.
Just the truth.
Sunny looked away first, toward the meadow grass moving in the heat. When she looked back, the teasing had softened at the edges, and that softness was worse than the arguing.
“Your classic was good too,” she said.
