“You have a naturally smug brow.”
“I have a naturally accurate sense of wind direction.”
Joelle stepped between us with the courage of a woman who had once told me I couldn’t transport crème brûlée by kayak. “The brand packet shows the north access clearing, but the GPS pin drops here. The permit language names the clearing, not the pin.”
I stared at her. “In English, please.”
“In English, the paperwork is sloppy.”
Caprice nodded slowly, still scrolling. “The location contact told us to follow the pin.”
Flint looked at Caprice. “The pin is wrong.”
Caprice looked at me. Joelle looked at me. Ed looked at the sky like he wished a bird would carry him away.
I turned back to Flint. “So this isn’t my fault.”
“The permit mix-up isn’t.”
There was just enough emphasis in that sentence to make my hands curl.
“The permit mix-up,” I said slowly, “is the reason we were standing here.”
“The fire happened because the setup was too close to dry grass with wind shifting downslope.”
“My setup was where the production directions told me to put it.”
“And now it’s wet instead of spreading.”
I took one more step toward him. Mud squeezed up between my toes. My wet apron clung to my hips. My coppery hair, which had taken forty-five minutes and three products, hung in ropes against my neck.
Flint Sparks didn’t step back.
He should have. For his safety.
“You ruined my shoot,” I said.
“I stopped your fire.”
“You drowned my product.”
“I put out your spot fire.”
“You hosed my hair.”
“Your hair wasn’t my target.”
“It was collateral damage with volume.”
His focus moved once over the wet curls stuck to my cheek. His mouth stayed firm, but the line of his shoulders shifted. Barely.
Then he said, “You shouldn’t have been near live flame in those shoes.”
My entire body went still.
Joelle whispered, “Oh no.”
Caprice whispered, “Oh yes.”
