“Round Two,” she called.
The huckleberry taste still sat on my tongue, sharp under the smoke.
I pressed my boot into a stray coal until the last orange glow went black. “I’ll be ready.”
Chapter Three
SUNNY
By Saturday afternoon, I’d learned one important thing about losing on camera.
It stung worse when the man who beat you had shoulders like a fire tower, hands built for ruining a woman’s concentration, and the nerve to make one plain toasted marshmallow seem profound.
I snapped the lid onto the apple-cabbage slaw and slid it into the cooler beside the smoked gouda. The inside of my camper smelled like mustard, chopped apples, cold metal trays, and the last shreds of my dignity.
Joelle checked a box on her clipboard. “Bison dogs are chilled. Cheese is sliced. Slaw is packed. Mustard drizzle is ready.”
“That’s good.”
“That was almost calm.”
“I’m evolving.”
“You threatened a squeeze bottle ten minutes ago.”
“It needed boundaries.”
Joelle’s mouth twitched. Outside the camper, Cinder Ridge Meadow buzzed with Saturday heat: crew voices, dry grassshifting beyond the cleared zone, Ed muttering over a tripod, and the low pop of coals from Flint’s station.
I didn’t look out the window.
Flint’s morning s’more victory was still sitting in my pride like a marshmallow-shaped bruise. Worse, he’d won it by being competent. Patient. Steady. Infuriatingly right about fire.
I reached for the mustard bottle and squeezed it twice to make sure the drizzle behaved.
The camper door opened behind me.
“Your station’s clear,” Flint said.
I turned too fast.
He stood on the camper step in worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a dark T-shirt pulled tight across his chest. Sun caught in his dark blond hair and the short beard along his jaw. He was close enough that I could smell woodsmoke, clean sweat, and hot metal from the fire tools.
My fingers tightened around the bottle.
Flint’s eyes flicked to my apron, then back to my face. “You planning to win this round, Sunny?”
“I’m planning to make you regret underestimating hot dogs.”
His mouth threatened to curve.
That tiny hint of a smile did more damage than it had any right to.
Joelle cleared her throat.
I adjusted the mustard bottle like it had personally requested supervision.
Flint’s gaze shifted to the tray behind me. “Bison?”
