Chapter One | SUNNY #3
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.
“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.”
Caprice kept going. “We call the sponsor, explain the permit-zone issue, turn the ruined segment into a challenge format. Twenty-five thousand dollar prize. Ed shoots it. Joelle keeps us alive. We correct the safety setup and make the disaster the hook.”
Joelle looked at Caprice. “The sponsor did mention wanting more episodic content.”
I swung toward her. “Why are you helping?”
“I’m not. I’m remembering with regret.”
“This was my campaign,” I said. “Mine. Not a public mud-wrestle with a man named Flint Sparks who thinks paprika is exotic.”
Flint’s chin dipped. “Paprika is fine.”
“Don’t defend paprika like that’s your personality.”
“I’m not the one who put basil in dessert.”
“It’s called flavor complexity.”
“It’s called leaves in cream.”
I gasped.
Actually gasped.
Caprice pointed between us. “Do you see it?”
“No,” Flint and I said.
“Yes,” Ed said from behind his camera.
I turned slowly. “You’re still filming.”
Ed looked me dead in the eye. “History needs witnesses.”
“History needs consent forms.”
“Caprice has them.”
Caprice did a tiny victory bounce.
I closed my eyes. Behind my lids, I saw the original campaign board: sunset shots, laughter, glowing coals, glossy cones, invoices, prep hours, product cost, and the sponsor email that had made me scream into a dish towel because finally, finally someone bigger than a county-fair crowd had seen what I was building.
Then I opened my eyes and saw my product melting into mud.
Flint Sparks stood beyond it, boots planted, hose slack now at his feet, damp shirt stretched across a chest built by either mountain labor or a vengeful romance-cover algorithm.
But he wasn’t getting away with ruining my day and walking back up his mountain like a fire-hose-wielding act of God.
“What’s the first round?” I asked Caprice.
Her smile turned sharp. “S’mores.”
“No.” I held up a hand. “My brand name is S’more Than Ready, so before anyone gets cute, I’ve spent years proving campfire food can be more than one marshmallow and a candy bar smashed into graham crackers.”
“Exactly,” Caprice said. “You’ll elevate the classic. He’ll defend it.”
Flint crossed his arms. His damp sleeve pulled tight over that scarred forearm. “I’m not competing.”
“Good,” I said. “I accept your surrender.”
“I didn’t surrender.”
“No? Because it sounded like fear.”
“Sunny,” Joelle murmured.
I ignored her. “It’s fine. Not everyone can handle lemon zest and public accountability.”
Flint’s mouth did something small at one corner. Almost not there. Almost.
My pulse kicked anyway.
“That what you call this?” he asked. “Accountability?”
“I call it making me whole.”
“I don’t owe you for stopping a fire.”
“You owe me for turning my paid campaign into a splash pad.”
“You owe the mountain for lighting up the wrong patch of grass.”
“I owe the mountain nothing but better signage.”
Caprice’s phone was already at her ear. “Hi, Marla. Don’t panic. Nobody’s hurt, but the segment evolved.”
I snapped my head toward her. “Evolved?”
Caprice turned away and lowered her voice, which fooled nobody because Caprice’s whisper still had bullet points. “Think bigger. Think gorgeous food feud with actual fire-safety stakes and the hottest local man I’ve ever seen holding a hose.”
Flint’s eyebrows rose.
I pointed at him. “Don’t enjoy that.”
Joelle stepped around the puddle of cream and retrieved my wedges. She held them out with funeral-director solemnity.
“Casualty report,” she said. “The right shoe may survive. The left shoe has mascarpone in the buckle.”
I took them from her. “She died doing what she loved.”
“Being impractical?”
“Being iconic.”
Flint looked down at the shoes. “You can’t wear those near the fire zone again.”
I hugged them to my chest. “She’s not even cold.”
“She’s not fire-safe.”
“She has a name.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“She does now. This is Liza Minnelli.”
Joelle pressed her lips together.
Flint looked at me for a long second. “You named your shoe Liza Minnelli.”
“Her twin is also Liza Minnelli. It’s a family name.”
The corner of his mouth moved again. This time I caught the smile. Tiny. Irritating. Attractive enough to make me want to bite something, preferably not on camera.
Caprice came back toward us, phone clutched in both hands. “Sponsor loves it.”
“No, they don’t,” I said.
“They love it. They’re adding prize money.”
Flint’s head turned. “Prize money?”
Caprice’s smile went bright enough to power the camper. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
The meadow went quiet again.
Even I stopped dripping with attitude for half a second.
Caprice pointed first at me, then at Flint. “Three rounds. Filmed over the weekend. Gourmet versus old-school. Safe fire setup. Correct permit zone. Winner takes twenty-five thousand.”
Joelle cleared her throat. “Or the prize structure can be adjusted if the sponsor wants goodwill.”
Caprice nodded fast. “Details flexible. Drama essential.”
Flint shifted his attention toward the drenched fire pit, the dry grass beyond it, and the pines waiting in the heat. “If this happens, I approve the fire setup.”
Caprice beamed. “Wonderful.”
“I didn’t agree.”
“But you negotiated.”
His jaw flexed.
I crossed my arms. The wet apron made an unfortunate squelch. “I also didn’t agree.”
Caprice looked at my ruined table, then at me. “Sunny, sweetheart. This salvages the campaign. It pays if you win. It gives the sponsor a bigger arc. It lets you prove your food isn’t just pretty.”
Pretty landed where it always landed, right between cute, adorable, and fun.
I looked at the flooded cones, the red berries bleeding into the mud, the camper with my name on it, the camera still aimed my way, and the man who’d blasted my day apart.
Fine.
If Flint Sparks wanted to stand there with his scarred forearm and his practical boots and his deeply annoying competence, I’d stand right back. In safer shoes tomorrow, but I’d stand right back.
I lifted my chin. “Round One is s’mores?”
Caprice’s smile returned. “Yes.”
Flint looked at me. “You sure you want to start with the classic?”
I smiled sweetly enough to make my own teeth hurt. “I’m sure you want me to be worried about it.”
“I know how to toast a marshmallow.”
“That’s precious.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t think that matters?”
“I think men have built entire reputations on doing one simple thing and calling it tradition.”
Joelle whispered, “Oh, she’s in.”
I didn’t look away from Flint. “I’m in.”
Caprice punched the air silently.
Flint stared at me for one hot, impossible beat. “I’m in too.”
“Great,” I said. “Try not to hose anything tomorrow unless it’s your ego.”
“Try not to light up the meadow.”
“Try not to mistake flavor for witchcraft.”
“Try not to wear furniture as shoes.”
I stepped close enough that my wet apron brushed the hose between us. “Try not to fall in love with my marshmallow technique.”
His hand tightened once on the hose. That tiny motion sent a bright, stupid spark through me.
Then Flint leaned just enough for me to hear him over the wind. “Try not to burn it.”
Caprice made a strangled, delighted sound behind us.
Ed sighed. “I’m never retiring.”
The wind moved through Cinder Ridge Meadow again, carrying the scent of wet grass, dead smoke, strawberries, and lemon cream.
My hair dripped onto my cheek. My shoes were ruined. My original shoot was dead. My new competitor was six-foot-four inches of fire-safety arrogance with blue-gray eyes and a name so on-the-nose it should’ve come with a warning label.
Flint Sparks thought old-school was going to beat gourmet.
I planted my bare feet in the mud, smiled for Ed’s camera, and let Flint see exactly how badly I wanted to win.