Cookfires glowed inside cleared rings while mountain dusk settled blue over the pines. The crowd stretched from my red-and-cream camper to Flint’s grill station. Customers carried paper plates loaded with cedar-plank trout bites, fire-roasted mushroom-and-steak skewers, and charred pepper salad, while cups of smoked-maple lemonade sweated in their hands. People stood in dirt and smiled like dirt was part of the experience.
My outfit had matured with me. I still wore glossy wedges, because personal growth didn’t require surrendering height, but these had tread deep enough that Flint had inspected them and nodded once. A cherry-print halter tied at my neck, dark cuffed shorts kept me mobile, and my white apron read S’MORE THAN READY in red script across a pocket dusted with sugar.
A woman at the pickup table bit into a warm turnover, closed her eyes, and made a sound that should’ve been illegal in mixed company.
“These are dangerously cute,” she said. She pointed at the flaky half-moon in her hand. “And they taste like somebody knows exactly what she’s doing.”
I lifted my crimping fork like a trophy. “That somebody accepts applause, cash, and enthusiastic social-media tagging.”
Flint looked up from the grill, firelight catching in his short beard and along the old scar on his forearm. He wore worn jeans, boots, and a dark T-shirt under a white apron. I tightened my grip on the fork and kept my attention on his face instead of the deeply unfair things that apron did to his chest.
“She also crimped that pastry into submission,” he said.
“I guided it.”
“With a fork.”
“It respected authority.”
People laughed. Flint met my eyes over the little flames, and I smiled back without checking for a lens.
Near the register, the sponsor-match banner stood beside a donation jar already stuffed with bills for the Hope Peak Volunteer Fire Fund. My half of the prize money had paid for permits, tables, coolers, lanterns, and enough folding chairs to give my accountant a private crisis. Flint’s half had gone straight into fire-safety work, and every clear path, wind screen, and bucket line had his fingerprints all over it.
Joelle handed a tray of trout bites across the pickup table and checked the order board. Her ponytail was still neat because apparently sorceress powers came with no respect for humidity.
“We have eight pie-iron orders waiting and four skewers left on the grill,” she said.
A man near the donation jar lifted his cup. “Will you sell jars of that mushroom marinade next time? I’d buy three.”
I pointed the crimping fork at him. “You’re officially my market research.”
Flint turned one skewer with steady, maddening control. “You heard the next-event part too?”
“I heard a customer with excellent judgment.”
Joelle fought a smile. “I’ll add jars to the list.”
“I haven’t approved a list,” I said.
“You’re holding a fork like a scepter,” Joelle said. “Approval seems implied.”
Before I could defend my leadership style, Caprice Calloway appeared near the camper with her phone in one hand, her headset around her neck, and gold hoops flashing in the lantern light.
“The Tuesday feature call is still on,” she said. “The streaming team wants the two of you, the fire-safety angle, the volunteer-fund match, and the yearly summer-night setup.”
Flint pointed his tongs at her. “The fire-safety angle comes with actual rules.”
“That’s why they want you.” Caprice looked at me next. “And they want Sunny because she can make three hundred people fight politely over pastry.”
“They’re specialized turnovers,” I said.
Flint almost smiled. “They’re powerful.”
“That was an excellent recovery,” I said.
Caprice tapped her phone against her palm. “Ed needs one more lantern shot, and I need nobody to trip over a cooler before the sponsor sees the donation total. Please keep being adorable in a legally walkable area.”
She crossed back toward the register, leaving us with the order board, the crowd, and one call on Tuesday that we could handle together.
