“I do need that.”
“Smoked gouda?”
“I do need that.”
“Slaw?”
“Apple-cabbage slaw with cider vinegar, mustard seed, and enough crunch to make a man reconsider every sad squeeze bottle of gas-station relish he’s ever defended.”
He leaned one shoulder against the camper doorframe. The warm little space suddenly felt warmer.
“Sounds busy,” he said.
“It’s layered.”
“It’s a hot dog.”
“It’s a platform.”
His attention dropped to the mustard bottle in my hand.
For one extremely unhelpful second, I imagined him taking it from me, setting it aside, and telling me where he wanted my focus.
Not helpful. Still very effective.
“You always argue with lunch?” he asked.
“Only when lunch has ambition.”
Joelle moved between us with the cooler lid, which was probably wise. “Sunny needs to finish staging, and Flint needs to return to his legally designated old-school corner.”
“I have a corner now?” Flint asked.
“You have coals, bacon, beans, and a territorial radius,” Joelle said. “That’s a corner.”
He looked at me again. “Need help carrying anything?”
“No.”
“Yes,” Joelle said.
I glared at her.
She held up the heavy cooler. “I have wrists I’d like to keep.”
Flint reached for the handle, careful not to crowd me. His forearm brushed my shoulder anyway, quick as a match strike.
I grabbed a stack of paper trays and gave professionalism every chance to survive.
Flint lifted the cooler like it weighed nothing. The man probably hauled felled trees around for emotional regulation.
“After you,” he said.
I stepped down from the camper into the heat.
My Round Two shoes hit the dirt with actual grip this time. They were cobalt-blue low wedges with ridged soles—still bright, still mine, and less likely to make Flint lecture me about ankles. My mustard-yellow top, cuffed shorts, white apron, and red bandana said cookout queen with a practical streak, which was new growth and should’ve been celebrated by the county.
The ground dipped near the bottom step.
