“I’m not holding that angle,” I said.
The flame snapped up once more as grease slid toward the lip. I set the pan onto the cooler side of the grate, covered it with the lid, and shut the flare down under black iron. The hiss died fast.
Ed stopped moving.
Caprice’s mouth opened.
Sunny was already beside her own station, griddle pulled back, towel in hand but not crowding me. “He’s right. Grease flame isn’t a beauty shot.”
Caprice looked at her. “I said safely.”
“And the safe answer was no,” Sunny said. Her voice was clear enough for Ed’s mic. “If you want this food on camera, we don’t feed bacon fat to fire for drama.”
The clearing went quiet for one beat.
I kept my hand on the skillet lid and checked the coal bed.
Sunny didn’t look at me for permission. She didn’t soften it. She stood there in her cream blouse, steady on the dirt, coppercurls slipping from that navy scarf, and backed my call like it was hers too.
Something low in my ribs loosened.
Caprice’s expression shifted away from annoyance and straight toward footage.
“Ed,” she said, “get the reset. Sunny, say that again with the pan in frame.”
Sunny pointed at the covered skillet. “The food is the drama, Caprice. The mountain doesn’t need a stunt double.”
Ed grunted. “That one’s better than the flame.”
Caprice’s phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at it, typed fast with one thumb, and smiled without looking away from the screen. “Sponsor agrees. Safety is suddenly very on-brand.”
I lifted the skillet lid carefully. The flare was gone, the bacon was saved, and nothing had scorched.
Sunny caught my eye across the coals.
This time, I didn’t look away first.
The round kept moving.
Sunny built her plate with more restraint than I expected. Two cornmeal griddle cakes stacked slightly off-center, peach compote spooned over the top, candied bacon angled against the side, and whipped honey butter in a soft curl that started to melt as soon as it touched the heat. It was bright without being fussy and pretty without apologizing for being food.
I split one biscuit, spooned sausage gravy over half, set a fried egg beside it with the yolk still glossy, and tucked firepit potatoes and bacon around the edges. Then I put the honey butter on the other biscuit half because Sunny had been right about finishing touches, and I wasn’t too proud to learn from the woman I wanted in my bed and my life.
She walked past with her plate for the beauty shot and slowed near my station.
“Your beige food cleaned up nice,” she said.
“Your fancy pancakes look edible.”
“They’re griddle cakes.”
“They look edible.”
“That may be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to cornmeal.”
I leaned a little closer, low enough that Ed wouldn’t get much. “They look good, Sunny.”
Her mouth parted, then closed. Pink climbed beneath the freckles on her cheeks.
