Chapter Two | FLINT #3
We finished the first batch without another caramel incident, though Sunny kept her squeeze bottle pointed away from people. I kept my attention on the coals. Mostly.
The judges tasted on camera.
Caprice went first with Sunny’s. She took a bite, chewed, then pointed the remaining half toward Ed’s lens. “Good color contrast. The huckleberry reads local, the caramel reads indulgent, and the salt keeps it from going flat. This is usable.”
Sunny frowned. “Usable?”
“I mean that as praise.”
“You’re terrible at praise.”
“I’m excellent at sponsor language.”
Joelle tasted next. “Good texture. Messy, but contained. The berry cuts the sweet. I’d want more graham support if kids were eating it, but for the camera and adult tasters, it works.”
Sunny nodded. “That’s fair.”
Ed picked his up like it might sue him. “This thing has more parts than my first truck.”
“Your first truck had three parts and tetanus,” Joelle said.
He bit into Sunny’s s’more. Chewed. Frowned.
Sunny leaned forward. “That frown better be reverence.”
“It’s good,” Ed said grudgingly. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“Audio got it,” Caprice said. “Try to remember we’re working.”
Then they tasted mine.
Caprice lifted the plain s’more. “Visually, this is simple.”
“It’s food,” I said. “Eat it.”
She took a bite.
Her eyebrows rose.
That felt better than it should have.
Joelle tasted next and nodded once. “The toast is perfect.”
“Thank you.”
Sunny folded her arms. “Perfect is a strong word.”
“It’s the correct word,” Joelle said.
Ed took his bite, then stopped grumbling entirely.
Sunny noticed.
So did I.
Ed looked at the s’more like it had betrayed his cynicism. “That’s what it’s supposed to taste like.”
The meadow went quiet except for the low push of wind through grass and the soft pop of coals in the ring.
Sunny’s arms loosened.
I should’ve enjoyed the win right then. I should’ve leaned into it, let the old-school point land, let her fancy huckleberry caramel surrender to the thing people actually wanted from a fire.
But Sunny’s smile held too bright, and her fingers pressed two small dents into the edge of her towel.
I knew that grip. I’d seen men use it on helmets and hose couplings when somebody called them labor instead of knowledge.
Sunny caught me looking. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“You want my vote?”
“You don’t have a vote. You’re biased, underqualified, and sticky.”
“I was sticky because of you.”
Her eyes flashed. “Careful, Flint.”
My name in her mouth did more damage than the caramel. It dragged a hot line down my spine and left me staring at her like the whole crew wasn’t standing ten feet away.
Caprice tapped her pen against her clipboard. “Judges are ready, and I have a call in fourteen minutes. Please face camera.”
Sunny straightened. “Fine. Say it.”
Joelle looked between us. “Sunny’s s’more is more inventive, visually stronger, and the flavor balance is excellent.”
Sunny’s mouth curved.
“But Flint’s is cleaner for the category. The marshmallow texture is better, the chocolate melt is exactly right, and it tastes like what people want when someone says s’mores.”
Sunny’s smile held. Barely.
Ed nodded. “Flint.”
Caprice sighed and checked a box on her clipboard. “Round One goes to Flint. Sunny photographs better, but the classic wins the brief.”
Sunny turned toward the camera, smile bright enough to burn.
My chest tightened.
“Round One to Flint Sparks,” she said. “Apparently, crackers with goo have their loyalists.”
“They have standards,” I said.
“They have nostalgia.”
“They have results.”
“They have no imagination.”
“They won.”
Her smile changed.
This one was for me.
“Enjoy it.”
“I’m savoring it.”
“You should. It’s the only round you’re getting.”
Caprice pointed toward the tables. “Good. That sounded usable. Reset for pickup shots, and nobody add new trash talk unless the camera is rolling.”
Ed adjusted his headset. “You want trash talk scheduled?”
“I want everything scheduled.”
Sunny picked up her remaining s’more and crossed to me. “Taste it.”
“I already know you can cook.”
She stopped close enough that the huckleberry scent rose between us. “That wasn’t the assignment.”
“Sunny.”
“Take the bite, Flint. I lost the round, not my nerve.”
Color warmed her cheeks, and her eyes stayed bright even after the loss.
The red scarf, the knotted shirt, the white platform sneakers, and the flour on her fingertips weren’t a costume.
They were Sunny refusing to shrink, even in the dirt, and the white apron cinched over her curves made my hands remember every place they had no business wanting to go.
I took the s’more from her.
Our fingers brushed.
She didn’t move back.
Neither did I.
I bit in.
The first hit was smoke and sugar. Then berry, tart enough to cut through the caramel. Then salt, sharp and clean. The marshmallow was softer than mine, the graham richer, the whole thing messier than I’d ever admit to liking.
I swallowed and caught a smear of caramel on my thumb.
Sunny watched my face like she could force the truth out of me by standing close. I wanted her closer. The cameras, crew, and timing made one useful argument against that.
“Well?”
I looked down at the s’more, then at her.
“It’s too complicated.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“And it’s good.”
The anger left her face so fast it almost hurt to see.
“Good?” she asked.
“Really good.”
For once, none of us reached for a joke, a camera line, or a safety lecture.
Just the truth.
Sunny looked away first, toward the meadow grass moving in the heat. When she looked back, the teasing had softened at the edges, and that softness was worse than the arguing.
“Your classic was good too,” she said.
“I know.”
She laughed. “Do you ever just accept a compliment?”
“I just did.”
“No, you received it like a tax notice.”
“You want me to say thank you?”
“I want you to look pained while saying it.”
“Thank you.”
“More pained.”
“I’ve reached my limit.”
“Then I’ll take it.”
Caprice came between the tables with a roll of tape in one hand and a schedule tucked under her arm.
She didn’t look at either of us. “Round Two is campfire mains this afternoon. I need a hot-dog beauty shot, a safety reset, and two competitors who can speak in usable sentences without bickering over every noun.”
Sunny stepped back. “I speak beautifully.”
“You speak constantly,” Caprice said. “There’s a difference.”
I covered the last coals with the shovel. “Hot dogs are hard to overcomplicate.”
Sunny’s attention snapped back to me. “Bison dogs with smoked gouda, apple-cabbage slaw, and mustard drizzle.”
“Hot dogs,” I said.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re overcomplicating lunch.”
“You’re going to lose to coleslaw.”
“Not likely.”
She stepped back, taking the scent of caramel and huckleberry with her. “Keep telling yourself that, Fire Mountain.”
I didn’t correct the name.
I didn’t want to.
The crew started breaking down the tasting setup, and Caprice launched into instructions about sponsor cutdowns, Round One reaction shots, and where Ed needed to stand for the next pickup. Her voice stayed clipped and practical, with no patience for the argument she clearly considered bad workflow.
I carried the ash bucket to the cleared edge and checked the wind again.
Still west. Still warm. Still steady enough.
Across the clearing, Sunny snapped a lid onto a cooler and wiped her fingers on a towel. She moved fast, but not carelessly. Every jar sealed. Every used skewer placed in the metal tray. Every wrapper kept away from the rings.
She looked up and caught me watching.
No smile this time.
She planted one white platform sneaker in the dirt, lifted her chin, and pointed the towel at me like a warning.
“Round Two,” she called.
The huckleberry taste still sat on my tongue, sharp under the smoke.
I pressed my boot into a stray coal until the last orange glow went black. “I’ll be ready.”