I should’ve told her goodnight.
Instead, I said, “I’ve got a fire ring at the cabin.”
One brow arched. “That sounds like a very specific flex.”
“It’s safer than this one. Stone base, cleared perimeter, water on hand, no cameras, no Caprice.”
“No Caprice is a powerful selling point.”
“I’ve also got a private creek.”
Sunny went still.
“And if you want to bring some of that chocolate you hid from Caprice,” I said, “I won’t report it.”
“I hid emergency chocolate. That’s not the same thing.”
“Looks like chocolate.”
“Emotionally different.”
“I’ve got marshmallows.”
“Naturally.”
“Ice too, if you bring it from your cooler.”
Her attention flicked down, then came back up. “Are you inviting me up to your cabin for a private s’more rematch?”
“Not a rematch.” I nodded toward the scoreboard sign still leaning against the prep table. Flint 1. Sunny 1. Final Round Tomorrow. “Score’s tied.”
“So what is it?”
The answer sat heavy under my tongue. A bad idea. A good idea. The only thing I’d been thinking about since she’d looked over her shoulder at me after Round Two and smiled like she knew exactly how badly she’d gotten under my skin.
“A victory dessert,” I said. “For you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “With your marshmallows?”
“With my fire ring.”
“My chocolate.”
“My cabin.”
She checked the ridge road, then my face. “And no cameras.”
“No cameras.”
“No crew.”
“No crew.”
“No sudden hose attacks.”
“Depends on what you do with open flame.”
She pointed at me. “Romantic.”
