“You won that round.”
A smile broke across her face before she could stop it. Fast. Bright. Gone almost as quickly, tucked behind suspicion.
“Did that hurt?” she asked.
“Some.”
“Good. I’d hate to think I beat you and robbed you of personal growth.”
“You made a hot dog with smoked gouda and slaw.”
“Bison dog.”
“You made a bison dog with smoked gouda and slaw,” I corrected. “The kids liked it. The adults liked it. It fit the round.”
Sunny stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
“You said that like it had teeth pulled out of it, but I’m choosing to receive it as praise.”
“It was praise.”
“Careful, Sparks. A woman could get used to this.”
I looked at the mustard bottle still in her hand. “A man could get concerned about that condiment.”
She glanced down as if she’d forgotten she was armed. “This? This is for emotional support.”
“Mustard?”
“Don’t judge my process.”
“I judged the process two hours ago. It won.”
The smile came back, smaller this time. It caught in the last light and pulled low under my ribs.
Sunny set the bottle on the camper’s little foldout shelf. “Now I’m worried. You’re being gracious. Is this a trap? Are you about to lure me into the woods and make me identify safe wind direction for extra credit?”
“You already know how.”
“I know smoke running sideways is bad. I don’t know if that earns me a merit badge.”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you wear shoes with tread tomorrow.”
She gasped. “My shoes have grown as people. Give them space.”
I glanced down at the cobalt wedges. They were still ridiculous, glossy as candy, and only marginally practical. They were also planted on dirt like she’d made a point of learning the ground instead of fighting it.
I wanted my hands on her.
The thought had been getting less quiet all afternoon.
The meadow had emptied around us. No crew. No kids. No Caprice turning every spark between us into a bullet point for the sponsor. Just Sunny, the cooling cook site, and the private ridge road that led up to my cabin.
