“Then your s’more will lack emotional range.”
I sat on the low bench opposite her and held out my hand for a skewer. “Give me a marshmallow.”
She handed me one with grave seriousness. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”
“I won Round One with this.”
“You won Round One because nostalgia has a chokehold on America.”
“I won because I didn’t put leaves in cream.”
“Basil is an herb, not a leaf, and your stubbornness is showing.”
I slid the marshmallow onto the skewer. “Watch and learn.”
Sunny leaned back on her hands, bare knees angled toward the fire, yellow sandals planted in the dirt. The flames painted gold over her skin and caught in the copper of her hair.She watched the marshmallow instead of me for about three seconds.
Then her gaze moved to my hands.
I turned the skewer slowly over the coals.
“Your technique is annoyingly elegant,” she said.
“It’s patience.”
“It’s showing off.”
“It’s food.”
“It’s flirtation with a sugar puff.”
I kept turning the marshmallow. “You’re the one giving it a personality.”
“It deserves a rich inner life before you smash it into chocolate.”
The marshmallow browned evenly, puffing at the sides without catching. Sunny leaned in despite herself. Her shoulder brushed mine, and every useful thought I had took a step back from the fire.
I pulled the skewer away. “Chocolate.”
She put a graham cracker in my palm, then a square of dark chocolate. Her fingers brushed my skin. Brief. Deliberate. Not an accident.
I set the marshmallow on top and pressed the second cracker down.
Sunny accepted it with both hands. “If this is bad, I’m never letting you recover.”
“It won’t be.”
She took a bite.
Her eyes closed.
Her lashes lowered, her shoulders eased, and the fight in her face went sweet for one second before she caught herself.
I stared at the fire.
Not at her mouth.
Not at the bit of melted chocolate near the corner of it.
