“I’m practical.”
“I noticed. It’s deeply inconvenient.”
I waited. She had to choose this. I wasn’t going to push her, not with the permit mess behind us, not with competition money still on the table, and not with enough heat between us to turn a small mistake into something neither of us could take back.
Sunny looked toward the camper. “Give me five minutes to change and collect supplies.”
My hand flexed once at my side before I made it still. “Only if you want to.”
She stepped closer. Close enough that I could see a tiny smear of mustard near her wrist and a dusting of freckles across her nose. “Flint, I’ve spent two days being hosed, judged, filmed, and taste-tested by children who considered my bison dogs more trustworthy than most adults. I know what I want.”
My pulse hit hard.
“Five minutes,” she said.
“Take six. I’ve got to load the safety gear.”
“Be still my heart.”
She disappeared into the camper before I could make a bad decision right there beside a bucket of sand.
I loaded the last of my gear into the truck. Fire gloves. Extinguisher. Water can. One pan that had somehow become more controversial than cookware had a right to be. The work helped. It gave my hands something to do besides remember the way Sunny had smiled before stepping into the camper.
The camper door opened.
Sunny stepped out in cuffed denim shorts and a soft red sleeveless top tied at her waist. She’d washed the mustard off her wrist, but her hair was mostly loose now, copper curls falling around her shoulders with the red bandana knotted around onewrist. She carried a canvas tote that clinked faintly, probably with jars, chocolate, utensils, and half the contents of a gourmet supply truck.
She’d changed shoes too.
This pair was still bright: flat yellow sandals with a strap around her ankle and a sole that looked like it could survive six feet of honest dirt.
I looked at them.
She lifted her chin. “Don’t make me regret being teachable.”
“I wasn’t going to say a word.”
“You were thinking several.”
“I respected the tread in silence.”
“That’s growth.”
I took the tote from her before it pulled her shoulder down. “You pack rocks?”
“Chocolate, marshmallows, graham crackers, caramel, flaky salt, a jar of emergency fudge sauce, and enough ice to maintain my dignity.”
“That’s a lot of dignity.”
“I’m a professional.”
I put the tote in the truck. “You always bring emergency fudge sauce?”
“Only when the situation requires courage.”
The drive up to my cabin took ten minutes, maybe twelve with the ruts. Sunny sat beside me with one hand braced on the door and the other keeping the tote steady between her feet. The ridge road climbed out of the meadow, past the production glare and into lodgepole shadow, where evening came faster and the temperature dropped by a few degrees.
She didn’t fill every second with words.
