“I charge extra for destiny,” I said, tying my apron tighter.
“You charge extra for everything,” Ed muttered.
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.”
Joelle passed my table and tapped the edge. “Your table is cold, clear, and ready.”
“Thank you.”
Flint’s voice came from across the clearing. “Wind’s steady west.”
I checked the grass before I answered.
Smoke would rise once we had flame. Cords were clear. Water and sand sat within reach. The fire blanket waited uncovered. My sneakers gripped the packed dirt.
“Then we’re good,” I said.
Flint looked at me across the space between our tables.
I put my fingertips on the prep edge. The metal was warm from the sun. My mustard laces stayed clean against the packed dirt, my jars stayed where I’d put them, and Flint’s gaze stayed on me.
Caprice held up the sealed envelope for Ed’s teaser shot.
“Round Three,” she said. “This is the final round, and winner takes the title.”
Flint’s eyes met mine.
I lifted my chin toward Ed’s camera.
“I’ll be ready,” I said.
Caprice lowered the envelope without opening it. I kept my smile on for Ed’s camera and counted the hours between me and whatever came next.
Chapter Six
FLINT
By six Sunday evening, I’d retied the white apron over my clean dark henley twice and still didn’t know what to do with my hands.
The final cook station waited under the gold light of Cinder Ridge Meadow. My cast iron, knives, butter crock, flour, and empty skillet sat in a straight line. Caprice held the sealed envelope at the center table, her thumb already tucked under the flap but not tearing it open until Ed had focus.
Yesterday, that money had been the point.
After the wardrobe reset, Sunny stood across the clearing in a cream sleeveless blouse with red piping, cuffed dark denim, and cognac lace-up ankle boots with enough tread to keep me quiet about footwear. Her copper curls were pulled high with a navy scarf. She looked bright, sharp, ready, and so much like the woman who’d slept against me last night that I picked up a towel and folded it before I forgot where the cameras were.
I wanted to win.
Fire Mountain always had something that needed fixing or funding, and twenty-five thousand dollars could do more good than another filmed argument about marshmallows.
Sunny wanted it too. She’d earned the right to want it. Every inch of her had fought to turn a ruined shoot into something bigger.
I couldn’t hand it to her.
She’d hate that, and I’d hate myself for treating her like she needed me to step aside.
If my food beat hers, it had to be because I’d done my best. If her food beat mine, I’d stand there and take it like a man who respected her.
