Chapter Five | SUNNY #2
I wanted to ask whether last night had scared him. I wanted to ask whether after today meant anything to him or whether his cabin was going to become a story I told myself when I needed to remember I’d once let someone see me without the glitter and still felt beautiful.
Instead, I said, “If Caprice asks where I was, I’m saying I got an early safety tutorial.”
Flint’s mouth twitched. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“It had a practical component.”
“It had several.”
My face went hot. “You’re not allowed to get funny now. It changes the competitive balance.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I might not. A dry, amused Flint is a serious late-game threat.”
He glanced at me, and there was warmth in his eyes before he put his attention back on the road. “You calling me a threat, Sunny?”
“I’m calling you a complication.”
He was quiet long enough for the truck to bump over two ruts.
The truck rolled out of the pines and into the edge of Cinder Ridge Meadow.
The production camper gleamed cream and cherry-red under the high morning sun.
The cook stations sat quiet in the correct clearing, tables covered, fire rings cold, water buckets lined up, sand placed beside each station.
Joelle stood by the camper with a clipboard, a headset looped around her neck, and the expression of a woman who had already lived three workdays before nine.
She looked at Flint’s truck.
She looked at me.
She looked at Flint.
Then she lifted her pen. “I’m not asking.”
“Great,” I said. “I’m not answering.”
“Excellent works for me. Caprice wants final-prep footage at ten, your phone has eleven messages, Ed is complaining about cable shadows, and I put your Sunday clothes on the bed because I assumed whatever happened, you’d come back with poor timing.”
Flint came around the truck with the canvas bag. “Good morning, Joelle.”
“Good morning, Flint.” Her eyes flicked to the bag. “Please tell me that doesn’t contain more ruined shoes.”
“It contains exactly that,” he said.
Joelle sighed. “Then the morning is already on brand.”
I took the bag from Flint. Our fingers touched again. Joelle looked at her clipboard like it held state secrets.
“I’ll change,” I said.
Flint nodded. “I’ll check the rings.”
“I’ll check my station first.”
Both of them looked at me.
I lifted my chin. “I listened yesterday.”
Flint’s gaze stayed on my face. “That matters.”
The answer landed softer than praise and harder than a dare.
I walked into my camper before my face betrayed me.
The camper looked like a cheerful crime scene involving coolers, backup aprons, recipe notes, and one emergency mascara tube Joelle had laid out on the tiny counter like a surgical instrument.
My Sunday prep look waited on the bed: a teal sleeveless camp shirt tied at the waist, dark green utility shorts, a mustard-yellow apron embroidered with tiny red flames along the pocket, and white canvas sneakers with mustard laces and actual tread.
It was Sunny better and actual better.
I counted that as a miracle.
I changed fast, pinned my coppery hair into a high twist with a yellow scarf, washed my face, added mascara, and found my phone under a stack of towels.
My phone showed eleven messages from Caprice, three from Joelle, and one photo from Ed of a cable coil with the caption: I hate this snake.
I stared at the phone, then at my reflection in the tiny camper mirror.
The teal made my skin look warm. The yellow scarf was bright enough to be fun, not foolish. The sneakers were cute and useful. The apron was still me. My curves didn’t vanish because I’d chosen safety. My sparkle didn’t resign because I’d tied my hair back.
“Look at that,” I told my reflection. “A woman can have tread and personality.”
Outside, a truck door shut.
I slid my phone into my pocket, grabbed my prep notebook, and stepped back into the meadow.
The heat had already begun to rise. It wasn’t brutal yet, but it was present.
It lifted the smell of dry grass and meadow dust, sharpened the pine at the tree line, and made the metal prep tables warm under my fingertips.
Camera stands waited like patient insects.
Ed was crouched by a cable, his ball cap low, muttering to himself.
“I heard that,” I said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were spiritually insulting the cable.”
“It knows what it did.”
Joelle handed me the call sheet. “Final round begins after lunch. Caprice wants pre-round material now, station readiness after that, sealed prompt reveal later. Nobody gets the theme early. Nobody gets the ingredient list early. Nobody gets to ask me whether I know, because I don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“You were going to try with cupcakes in your voice.”
“I do not have cupcakes in my voice.”
“You do when you want information.”
“Fine, I was going to have one tiny frosting inquiry.”
“You can save the frosting inquiry.”
“That is rude but efficient.”
Joelle pointed to the tables. “You can organize flexible prep. Shelf-stable, cold-safe, sweet, savory, neutral base, sauce components, garnishes, pans. No actual dish planning until the prompt drops.”
“I understand.”
“Also, Caprice said she wants color.”
“Caprice always wants color.”
“She said she wants color and tension.”
“I’m not responsible for tension.”
Joelle looked past me.
I followed her gaze.
Flint stood at his station in a clean slate-blue work shirt with the sleeves pushed up, dark canvas pants, scuffed boots, and work gloves tucked into one back pocket.
His hair was still a little damp from the cabin sink, and the morning sun caught the blond in it.
He had a bucket in one hand and a shovel in the other.
He looked up.
I forgot the word color.
Joelle made a neat checkmark on her clipboard. “You’re at least partially responsible.”
“I’m choosing not to hear that.”
“Your ears are red.”
“My ears are enthusiastic.”
“They’re not alone.”
I turned on her. “Do not start, Joelle Bellamy.”
She gave me the call sheet with saintly calm. “We need station readiness in ten minutes.”
I got to work.
Final-round prep without knowing the round was like packing for a vacation where the destination could be beach, blizzard, or a murder dinner with gluten restrictions. I had to think in systems, not dishes.
Neutral dry mix went into one clear-labeled bin: flour, cornmeal, baking powder, sugar, salt, and spice options separated in small jars.
Protein options stayed cold: bacon, sausage, eggs, and a small container of leftover bison I could use only if the prompt made sense.
Fruit stayed chilled: peaches, apples, huckleberries, and berries I could turn sweet, smoky, tart, or bright.
Butter, cream, honey, maple, mustard, herbs, chiles, cheese, and vinegar lined up in categories.
The jars were cute and practical, which I counted as personal growth.
I set cast iron within reach but away from the table edge.
I moved the squeeze bottles back from the heat path.
I checked the wind by watching the grass instead of pretending the sky would send me a memo.
I put water at the front left, sand at the back right, and the fire blanket on the open side of the table where no one would have to dig under towels to reach it.
Then I looked at Ed’s cable.
It ran behind my station, close enough that someone stepping backward with a hot pan could snag it.
I pointed. “That snake is moving.”
Ed glanced up. “The snake is there because Caprice wants a side angle.”
“The snake is going to kill a camera operator, a chef, or a skillet.”
“The snake resents that.”
“Move it.”
He squinted at me. “You sound like Sparks.”
“I sound like me after two days of learning the mountain is actively waiting for paperwork errors.”
Flint’s voice came from behind me. “Cable needs to move.”
I turned. He stood a few feet away, bucket set down beside his boot, gaze on the cord.
“I already said that,” I said.
“I heard you.”
“And yet you repeated it.”
“To Ed.”
Ed lifted both hands. “The snake will move. Everybody stop forming a safety committee around my ankles.”
I looked at Flint. “I had it handled.”
“I know.”
That stopped me more effectively than if he’d argued.
Flint checked my table from water to sand, from fire blanket to pan placement, from dry grass edge to my stance. He didn’t look smug. He kept the earlier lecture to himself.
His gaze came back to mine.
“Good setup,” he said.
Heat spread under my apron.
“Careful,” I said. “Compliments before lunch can cause confusion.”
“Then your setup is acceptable.”
“Now we’re back to normal.”
His mouth curved. “Is that better?”
“Worse, actually. I liked the compliment.”
“Your setup is good, Sunny.”
My name in his voice still did things I couldn’t list in a production environment, especially with Ed and his emotionally unstable cable snake within hearing distance.
Caprice appeared between the tables with her phone, headset, sunglasses, clipboard, and the strained brightness of a woman who hadn’t slept enough but had monetized stress before breakfast.
“Great. I love this. Safer setup, brighter outfit, Flint looking less like he wants to report us to three agencies. Sunny, give me a little final-round prep energy. Talk flexibility, pressure, tied score, rivalry. Do not mention the prompt because we don’t have it yet.
Ed, get the low angle without lying in the heat path.
Joelle, make sure nobody says anything legally interesting. ”
“I can’t control miracles,” Joelle said.
Caprice pointed at me. “Sunny, how are we feeling?”
“Like a tightly labeled bin of possibility.”
Caprice stared. “I can work with that.”
Ed lifted his camera. “Rolling in five.”
Flint started to step away.
Caprice snapped her fingers. “No, Flint. Stay nearby. We need both competitors in frame.”
“We’re not cooking yet,” he said.
“We’re producing emotional stakes.”
“We’re prepping.”
“Same thing if the editor is good.”