“No,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
I held up both hands, palms out, sticky, wet, and shaking with leftover adrenaline. “Not no, never. No, not until we figure out what’s salvageable, what’s reimbursable, and who exactly is paying for the strawberry massacre.”
Caprice’s head tilted.
I knew that tilt. That tilt meant danger.
“That’s the thing,” she said.
“No.”
“Sunny.”
“No.”
“We have something better than reimbursement.”
“I swear on my last clean apron, Caprice, if you say exposure—”
“Competition.”
Silence dropped over the meadow.
Flint frowned. “No.”
I turned on him. “You don’t even know what she means.”
“I heard enough.”
“For once, Hose Beast and I agree.”
“Hose Beast?” he said.
“Working title.”
Caprice stepped closer, eyes moving between us like she could already see the edited trailer. “Listen. The original segment is wet. Painfully wet. But Ed got the fire, Flint charging in, Sunny furious and dripping, and the argument. Gourmet campfire queen versus old-school Fire Mountain smokejumper.”
“Former,” Flint said.
“Even better. Former smokejumper. Current safety contractor. Big shoulders. Local credibility. Deeply annoying moral certainty.”
Flint’s eyes narrowed. “That isn’t a pitch.”
“It absolutely is.” Caprice smiled. “Get Fired Up!Cook-Off.”
My stomach sank.
Her smile widened.
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Three rounds. Gourmet versus old-school. Sunny Burns and her elevated campfire food against Flint Sparks and whatever terrifyingly practical thing he thinks belongs over coals.”
“Food,” Flint said. “Food belongs over coals.”
I pointed at him. “See? Terrifying.”
