An infuriatingly large man.
He was tall enough to make the meadow look smaller, broad across the shoulders in a dark fire-resistant work shirt that clung damply to his chest and arms. Faded canvas pants sat low on his hips, tucked into scuffed boots planted wide in the mud. A short beard shadowed his jaw. Sun-streaked dark blond hair curled at his temples beneath an old cap. His eyes were blue-gray and hard as river stone, fixed not on my face but on the drowned patch of grass behind me.
A pale scar cut along one forearm where his sleeve had been pushed up.
The hose looked natural in his grip.
So did the audacity.
“What,” I said, water streaming off the end of my nose, “the actual toasted hell was that?”
His attention moved from the wet grass to me, slow and steady and not even slightly guilty.
“You had a spot fire.”
“I had a spot—” My voice jumped high enough to summon bats. “I had a controlled production setup.”
“You had flame in dry grass with wind pushing east toward pine.”
“I also had water, a fire blanket, an extinguisher, and a permit.”
He looked past me at the dead raised pit, the flooded table, and the soggy remains of my campaign. “You had a permit for that location?”
Caprice stepped forward, one hand up, smile bright enough to qualify as emergency equipment. “Hi. Caprice Calloway,producer. We’re fully permitted for Cinder Ridge Meadow. I have paperwork.”
The man didn’t look impressed. “Which zone?”
Caprice’s smile twitched.
My wet apron slapped against my thighs. “The meadow zone.”
“This meadow has three permit zones.”
Naturally, it had three ways to be wrong.
Joelle lowered the extinguisher by two inches. “We were given the north access clearing.”
“You’re east of the north access clearing,” he said.
Caprice’s phone appeared in her hand so fast it might have been spring-loaded. “I’m pulling up the map.”
“You should’ve pulled it up before lighting flame.”
I stepped toward him, mud squishing between my bare toes. “Excuse me, Smoky the Uninvited Bear, but I didn’t personally draw the map.”
His eyes flicked down for one quick, inconvenient second. Wet red bandana. Gingham top plastered to my skin. Apron. Bare feet in the mud. Abandoned wedges lying on their sides like two tiny crime victims.
Then he looked back at my face.
His jaw tightened.
Good. I hoped it was regret. Or basic fear.
“You’re Sunny Burns,” he said.
“That depends. Are you about to apologize with money?”
“No.”
