“I’m very practical after sex.”
“Before too.”
“Put the shirt on, Sunny.”
She smiled as she slipped into it. “That one was a command.”
“It was.”
“I’ll allow it because my nipples are trying to retreat into my rib cage.”
I barked out a laugh and grabbed the rest of our clothes. “Come on. Fire’s still safe up top, and I’ve got water in the cabin.”
“Hydration. Aftercare. Emergency sand. You’re a complete service.”
“Don’t put that on a sign.”
“Too late. I’ve already designed the font.”
We rinsed our hands in the creek, and I made sure she had her sandals before we climbed back up the path. She took my hand halfway up when the dirt got steep. She didn’t need me to drag her. She just wanted my hand.
I liked that too much.
At the firepit, the coals still held a dull red glow under the small flame. I banked it down while Sunny curled on the porch bench in my shirt, her bare legs tucked under her, the blanket around her shoulders. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks still pink, and she looked better on my porch than anything had a right to look.
I brought her water.
She accepted it with both hands. “Thank you.”
“You need food?”
“I’m eighty percent marshmallow and bison dog, but I appreciate the romance of the question.”
“I’ve got eggs. Bread. Leftover beans.”
“Beans after sex feels like a crime.”
“Noted.”
She leaned her head against the porch post and looked out toward the dark ridge. “You live like this every night?”
“Mostly.”
“No wonder you’re impossible. You’ve got sunset, creek, firepit, and nobody telling you your brand voice needs more sparkle.”
“Nobody should tell you that.”
Her attention came back to me.
I looked down at my hands. The old scar along my forearm caught the porch light, pale against skin gone darker from sun.
Sunny reached out but stopped short. “Can I?”
I gave her my arm.
She traced the edge of the scar with one finger. “This is from fire work?”
“Bad season.” I kept my voice even. “Dry August. Wind changed faster than the forecast. We were cutting a line, and a spot jumped where it shouldn’t have.”
