Epilogue | SUNNY
Epilogue
SUNNY
Six weeks later, Cinder Ridge Meadow had rope lines, water buckets, sand buckets, two volunteer firefighters, and a waiting list for cherry-lime pie-iron turnovers.
I took the waiting list as a personal victory.
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.
The rush carried us until the line eased and the lanterns burned brighter than the last strip of sky.
I crimped pastry, passed plates, answered questions, and watched people eat food that belonged to both of us.
Flint kept the coals steady and the skewers moving.
He shifted one grate before smoke could bother the pickup line and moved a napkin stack behind the wind screen before a gust scattered it.
Then he stole a corner of cherry-lime filling from my prep spoon when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I was always looking.
When the order board finally cleared, Joelle took the fork from my hand.
“You get five minutes,” she said. “Flint is waiting by the camper, and you just gave a tray of pastry the look you usually save for men who question dessert.”
“That tray needed leadership, but I respect your timing.”
Flint stood beyond the last lantern, his apron folded over one arm. Firelight brushed the edges of his hair, and the blue dusk behind him made his eyes look softer than they ever had across a competition table. He held out a metal cup.
I wiped sugar from my fingers, crossed the packed dirt, and took it from him.
“Are you hydrating the talent?” I asked.
“The talent argues when she’s thirsty.”
“The talent argues as a lifestyle.”
“Then the talent should drink before she judges pastry again.”
“Your concern is touching and bossy.”
“My concern is practical.”
I drank, and the cold water tasted like relief.
Flint led me around the quiet side of the camper, where the noise softened behind us. Crickets sang in the grass. The pines held the last warmth from the day, and the air carried woodsmoke, cherries, charred peppers, and summer grass.
He reached into his pocket. “I have something for you.”
“If it’s a lecture about pastry placement near flame, I’m returning to my public.”
“It isn’t a lecture.”
“Your face says practical romance.”
He brushed his thumb over my palm once. Then he opened his hand.
A brass key lay there on a leather cord, simple and warm from his skin.
“There’s a red hook by the cabin door,” Flint said. “I put it up for your apron, but I’m hoping you’ll use it for more than work nights.”
I closed my fingers around the cord. “That sounds like a serious commitment to laundry access.”
“I cleared half the closet.”
“You’ve seen my wardrobe.”
“I fought wildfires. I can handle your packing system.”
“Bold words from a man who owns three colors and calls one of them dress dark.”
He settled his hand at my waist. “I also cleared a pantry shelf.”
“Can I use that shelf for my spices?”
“For the spices you pretend are emotionally organized.”
“My spices have categories.”
“I know. That’s why it’s a tall shelf.”
I slid the cord over my wrist. “Next summer’s Fire Mountain night goes on the calendar after we both choose the menu.”
“That’s what I want.”
“I get naming rights for dessert.”
“You can have dessert.”
“And veto power over shirts for the feature call.”
He looked down at his dark T-shirt. “This shirt is clean.”
“That sentence didn’t answer me.”
“You can have one shirt veto.”
“I’ll earn more.”
“I know you will.”
I kissed him beneath the camper awning, with his key on my wrist and sugar still on my apron. Flint held my waist, warm and steady, and the kiss stayed sweet enough for public decency but hot enough that I had to lock my knees.
When we went back to the pickup table, the donation jar was full, the last turnover tray was empty, and the contained coals glowed low under the Montana night.
The painted sign over the table caught the lantern light and showed both our names side by side.
A little girl near the rope line tugged on her mother’s sleeve and pointed at the camper. “Can we take a picture with the food people?”
I looked at Flint. “Do we answer to food people now?”
He leaned close enough for only me to hear. “I’ve answered to worse.”
Joelle lifted the order board from its easel. “They asked for both of you.”
“Then we definitely answer to food people,” I said.
We stood under the lanterns while the family gathered in front of the camper. The little girl grinned between us, holding an empty pastry box like a trophy. Her mother lifted her phone.
“Three, two, one.”
Flint settled his arm around my waist like it belonged there.
After the picture, I touched the key at my wrist.
“Ready to close up?” Flint asked.
“Give me one minute.”
The last family left with boxes tucked under their arms. Flint lifted the rope line so I could duck beneath it. I tucked the key into my apron pocket, bumped my hip against his, and walked with him toward home.