That was different.
“Joelle, confirm the zone again,” I said.
She stood, pulled her phone from the pocket of her olive utility vest, and swiped with her thumb. “We’re in the marked meadow area from the brand packet.”
“Thank you.”
“However,” she added, because Joelle believed in killing joy with accuracy, “the map they sent was weirdly zoomed.”
Caprice made a tiny noise.
I lowered the cone. “Caprice.”
She lifted both hands. “The location contact said Cinder Ridge Meadow, north access clearing. This is Cinder Ridge Meadow. We came from the north access road. We’re good.”
A stronger gust pushed through the grass. The smoke shifted, flattening for a second before it lifted again. Heat prickled along the back of my neck, partly from the sun and partly from the unpleasant awareness that grass that dry and wind that pushy weren’t my favorite combination.
I was a chef, not a firefighter, but I’d grown up around fairgrounds, concession trailers, generators, propane tanks, grease burns, and men named Dale who thought safety instructions were a personal attack. I knew enough to respect heat.
I also knew enough to be irritated when heat failed to respect me back.
“Let’s keep it small,” I said. “The food is the drama.”
Caprice’s sunglasses slid down her nose. “The food is the drama because you’re the drama.”
“I’m choosing to receive that as a compliment.”
Joelle passed me another cone. “Fresh hero cone. Less unstable. I reinforced the bottom with crumble.”
“I take back my proposal. We’re already married.”
She straightened the front of my apron, which read S’MORE THAN READY in red script across my chest. “Please stop moving like the meadow is a runway.”
“I can’t. The shoes require commitment.”
“The shoes require a waiver.”
Ed lifted his camera again. “Can we shoot before the whole cone turns into soup?”
I took my mark beside the cookfire, angled my body so the apron sat right over my curves, and lifted the cone. The reflector bounced bright light across the berries. The pines framed the shot. The camper shone behind me. The little flame licked under the grate like it had finally remembered we were paying it.
For one breath, everything worked.
I was thirty years old, standing in a meadow outside Hope Peak with my own brand on my chest, a paid campaign under my feet, and a dessert I’d built from scratch catching the light like edible summer.
Cute could sell.
Cute could cook.
Cute could pay invoices, impress sponsors, and make every man who’d ever asked if my boyfriend did the grilling choke on a waffle cone.
I looked straight into Ed’s lens. “Campfire food doesn’t have to be basic. It can be smart, bright, sticky, beautiful—”
A sharp hiss cut across my line.
Not from the fire.
From somewhere behind me.
