His eyes met mine. Blue-gray in morning light, softer around the edges than the first day, still serious enough to stop my mouth before it ran ahead of me.
“What do you want to be doing?”
I laughed once, too quiet. “That question was much more fun last night.”
Heat moved across his face, quick and controlled. “You know what I mean.”
“I know.” I picked up a peach slice because it gave my hands a job. “The final round is today. One of us wins. One of us loses. Caprice gets her footage, the sponsor gets its drama, and then everyone has to decide what was competition pressure and what was...”
I stopped.
Flint waited.
He sat beside me in the morning light, bare feet on the pine floor, coffee cooling in his hand, and waited.
The problem was, I didn’t know how.
Had last night been chemistry, bad judgment, a marshmallow-related emotional incident, or a private detourbefore he went back to his ridge and I went back to my invoices, pop-ups, and people asking whether my food was supposed to be cute?
I bit into the peach instead.
Juice ran over my thumb.
Flint reached for the napkin on the tray. I reached at the same time. Our fingers bumped.
Both of us froze like the napkin had turned into a live coal.
Then he took it slowly, wrapped it around my thumb, and wiped the honey away.
My breath caught.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” Flint said. “I know I don’t want you walking back into that meadow thinking last night was nothing.”
My grip tightened around the peach slice.
“Good,” I said. “Because I was prepared to throw this breakfast at you if you did.”
“I’d deserve it.”
“You would. The peaches are excellent, so it would’ve been a tragic waste.”
The smile it earned was small, crooked, and devastating.
He lifted his mug. “Can we start with breakfast and getting you back safe?”
I reached for the toast. “We can start there.”
Starting there sounded safer than admitting the rest of me wanted to start with his hands, his bed, and an alternate universe where final rounds, cameras, prize money, and emotional consequences could wait until Tuesday.
We ate in the loft with our shoulders almost touching. Flint gave me the better piece of toast without commenting on it. I didn’t comment on him giving it to me. The cabin warmed slowly around us, and the creek kept talking below the porch.
By the time I found my shorts, my red sleeveless top, and the bandana I’d worn around my wrist last night, the clock on Flint’s shelf said eight-fifteen.
I stared at it. “I’m dead.”
“You’re not dead.”
“Caprice is going to kill me, which is similar but includes more emails.”
