I looked down at my bare muddy feet, then back at the wedge heels, then up at the six-foot-four lecture on boots and boundaries standing in front of me.
“These shoes,” I said, “have more brand identity than most men.”
“They have no tread.”
“They’re not tires.”
“They’re a turned ankle waiting for a witness.”
“They’re camera-ready.”
“This is a fire-risk meadow, not a soundstage.”
I laughed once, sharp and bright. “And there it is.”
His eyebrows drew together. “There what is?”
“That thing men do when they assume sparkle is the same as stupid.”
“I didn’t call you stupid.”
“No, you looked at my shoes, my apron, my hair, and my flooded dessert table and decided I wandered up here with a lip gloss and a prayer.”
“I decided the fire was unsafe.”
“I’m very good at my job.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“You heavily implied it while holding a hose.”
“My hose put out a fire.”
“Your hose is still pending charges.”
Ed coughed.
Caprice’s eyes were bright in a way I didn’t trust. She bent, retrieved her sunglasses from the mud, shook them once, and slid them back onto her nose even though they were streaked with water.
“Okay,” she said.
“No,” I said.
“You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”
“I know your voice. That was your terrible idea voice.”
Caprice put a hand over her chest. “I have no terrible ideas. I have bold revenue pathways.”
“Last month your bold revenue pathway involved me flambéing cherries beside a rented mechanical bull.”
“The clip did extremely well.”
“The bull wasn’t licensed for dessert.”
Flint looked between us. “Is anyone planning to move this setup to the correct zone?”
“Yes,” Joelle and Flint said at the same time.
