Chapter Three | SUNNY
Chapter Three
SUNNY
By Saturday afternoon, I’d learned one important thing about losing on camera.
It stung worse when the man who beat you had shoulders like a fire tower, hands built for ruining a woman’s concentration, and the nerve to make one plain toasted marshmallow seem profound.
I snapped the lid onto the apple-cabbage slaw and slid it into the cooler beside the smoked gouda. The inside of my camper smelled like mustard, chopped apples, cold metal trays, and the last shreds of my dignity.
Joelle checked a box on her clipboard. “Bison dogs are chilled. Cheese is sliced. Slaw is packed. Mustard drizzle is ready.”
“That’s good.”
“That was almost calm.”
“I’m evolving.”
“You threatened a squeeze bottle ten minutes ago.”
“It needed boundaries.”
Joelle’s mouth twitched. Outside the camper, Cinder Ridge Meadow buzzed with Saturday heat: crew voices, dry grass shifting beyond the cleared zone, Ed muttering over a tripod, and the low pop of coals from Flint’s station.
I didn’t look out the window.
Flint’s morning s’more victory was still sitting in my pride like a marshmallow-shaped bruise. Worse, he’d won it by being competent. Patient. Steady. Infuriatingly right about fire.
I reached for the mustard bottle and squeezed it twice to make sure the drizzle behaved.
The camper door opened behind me.
“Your station’s clear,” Flint said.
I turned too fast.
He stood on the camper step in worn jeans, scuffed boots, and a dark T-shirt pulled tight across his chest. Sun caught in his dark blond hair and the short beard along his jaw. He was close enough that I could smell woodsmoke, clean sweat, and hot metal from the fire tools.
My fingers tightened around the bottle.
Flint’s eyes flicked to my apron, then back to my face. “You planning to win this round, Sunny?”
“I’m planning to make you regret underestimating hot dogs.”
His mouth threatened to curve.
That tiny hint of a smile did more damage than it had any right to.
Joelle cleared her throat.
I adjusted the mustard bottle like it had personally requested supervision.
Flint’s gaze shifted to the tray behind me. “Bison?”
“I do need that.”
“Smoked gouda?”
“I do need that.”
“Slaw?”
“Apple-cabbage slaw with cider vinegar, mustard seed, and enough crunch to make a man reconsider every sad squeeze bottle of gas-station relish he’s ever defended.”
He leaned one shoulder against the camper doorframe. The warm little space suddenly felt warmer.
“Sounds busy,” he said.
“It’s layered.”
“It’s a hot dog.”
“It’s a platform.”
His attention dropped to the mustard bottle in my hand.
For one extremely unhelpful second, I imagined him taking it from me, setting it aside, and telling me where he wanted my focus.
Not helpful. Still very effective.
“You always argue with lunch?” he asked.
“Only when lunch has ambition.”
Joelle moved between us with the cooler lid, which was probably wise. “Sunny needs to finish staging, and Flint needs to return to his legally designated old-school corner.”
“I have a corner now?” Flint asked.
“You have coals, bacon, beans, and a territorial radius,” Joelle said. “That’s a corner.”
He looked at me again. “Need help carrying anything?”
“No.”
“Yes,” Joelle said.
I glared at her.
She held up the heavy cooler. “I have wrists I’d like to keep.”
Flint reached for the handle, careful not to crowd me. His forearm brushed my shoulder anyway, quick as a match strike.
I grabbed a stack of paper trays and gave professionalism every chance to survive.
Flint lifted the cooler like it weighed nothing. The man probably hauled felled trees around for emotional regulation.
“After you,” he said.
I stepped down from the camper into the heat.
My Round Two shoes hit the dirt with actual grip this time.
They were cobalt-blue low wedges with ridged soles—still bright, still mine, and less likely to make Flint lecture me about ankles.
My mustard-yellow top, cuffed shorts, white apron, and red bandana said cookout queen with a practical streak, which was new growth and should’ve been celebrated by the county.
The ground dipped near the bottom step.
Flint’s hand closed around my elbow.
Fast. Steady. Gone almost before I could look up.
“Ground dips there,” he said.
“I saw it.”
“You stepped like you didn’t.”
“I was testing your reflexes.”
“They work.”
No kidding.
He let go and carried the cooler toward the cook stations.
I followed with the trays pressed to my chest and my pride only slightly singed.
The correct permit clearing sat open and bright under the sun, with bare dirt around the fire rings and a wide buffer between the cooking zone and the dry grass.
The production van was angled near the access road.
Ed had two cameras set, one on a tripod and one balanced on his shoulder.
Caprice stood beside him in black utility shorts, a sleeveless white button-up, gold hoops, headset, phone, and the expression of a woman trying to turn chaos into a schedule.
She pointed at Flint without looking up. “Your bacon smoke is showing up well on camera.”
“It’s smoke,” he said.
“It’s useful smoke. Say less about breakfast meat and more about process when Ed comes close.”
Ed grunted. “Process doesn’t smell this good.”
“You’re behind the camera for a reason,” Caprice said.
I set my trays at my station. “Please tell me Round Two has a written judging brief and not just Caprice making the face she makes when she smells money.”
Caprice lowered her phone. “Round Two is campfire main. Hot dogs, broad interpretation. Dish must be handheld, recognizable as a hot dog, and practical enough that a normal person would eat it outdoors without needing tweezers or emotional support.”
I looked at Flint. “So he’s already in trouble.”
Flint set my cooler where Joelle pointed and straightened. “My food doesn’t need tweezers.”
“Your food thinks tweezers are witchcraft.”
“My food knows what it is.”
“Good for your food. Identity is important.”
Caprice snapped her fingers. “Save the bickering for the cameras, or stop doing it. Ed, are we rolling?”
Ed lifted his camera. “I never stopped.”
“Ed,” I said.
He shrugged. “Evidence is useful.”
Joelle handed me my white apron. “Please tie this before you start threatening people with condiments.”
I slid the apron over my head. Across the clearing, Flint went back to his station, where strips of bacon waited beside long metal skewers, a cast-iron skillet, a pot of beans, and a cooler marked FLINT / DOGS in blocky black letters.
My station looked like a tiny county fair got a culinary-school scholarship. Bison dogs. Split buns brushed with butter. Smoked gouda. Apple-cabbage slaw. Mustard drizzle. A little charred onion tucked away for depth because I was magnanimous and also right.
Flint noticed the onions.
“Thought you said onions were basic,” he called.
“I said sad onions were basic.”
“What makes those different?”
“They’ve had an education.”
His eyes creased at the corners.
I looked away before that tiny reaction became more distracting than an open flame.
Caprice clapped once. “Places. Round Two intro in three, two—”
“Wait!” a woman called from the access path.
Mandy Klein came into the clearing with four kids trailing behind her like a snack-fueled weather event. Mandy wore hiking shorts, a camp T-shirt, and the easy, brisk expression of a woman who could locate bug spray, bandage a knee, and detect contraband candy at fifty paces.
“Sorry we’re late,” Mandy said. “Benny had a sock situation.”
Benny, the tallest of the group, lifted one foot. “It had a burr in it.”
“It had drama,” said the girl with dark pigtails and purple-framed glasses.
“Lily,” Mandy warned.
“I’m providing context.”
Caprice strode toward them, headset wire bouncing. “Mandy Klein, perfect timing. You’re on release forms, right?”
Mandy gave her a look. “You emailed them three times and texted once in all caps.”
“Great. Love a paper trail.” Caprice crouched slightly to address the kids. “You four are our guest taste-testers for Round Two. Honest reactions, clear words, and no grabbing hot food.”
A boy with a camo backpack studied Flint’s station. “Is that bacon?”
Flint nodded. “It is.”
The boy turned to Mandy. “I can be honest about bacon.”
“That’s Tyler,” Mandy said. “Honesty isn’t his problem.”
The smallest girl, Genevieve, waved at me. “Are you the lady with fancy s’mores?”
“I prefer gourmet campfire-food chef,” I said, “but yes, tragically, I’m also the lady who lost to a marshmallow.”
Lily pushed her glasses up her nose. “Mandy said the marshmallow had structural integrity.”
I looked at Mandy.
Mandy smiled with too much innocence. “Children value truth.”
Flint made a low sound from his station.
I pointed a pair of tongs at him. “Don’t enjoy this.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re doing it with your shoulders.”
Caprice snapped her fingers again. “Round Two. Kids, you’ll stay with Mandy until tasting. No one near the fires unless Flint or Joelle says so. Ed, get Sunny’s station first. Bright color. Pretty food. Then Flint’s station for the bacon and beans.”
Flint looked at Ed. “Thank you for not calling bacon rugged.”
Ed adjusted the camera. “I respect bacon too much.”
For once, agreement didn’t feel like surrender.
Caprice pointed at me. “Sunny, intro.”
Ed’s red light blinked.
I faced the camera and smiled the smile that had carried me through collapsed cones, county fairs, and men who thought propane grills qualified as personalities.
“Round Two of the Get Fired Up! Cook-Off is all about the campfire main,” I said.
“Hot dogs are fast, familiar, and beloved for a reason. But familiar doesn’t mean flat.
I’m making bison dogs with smoked gouda, apple-cabbage slaw, and mustard drizzle.
They’re smoky, tangy, creamy, crisp, and designed for people who want their cookout food to have a little ambition. ”
From behind Ed, Tyler whispered, “That sounds like a lot.”
“It is,” Lily whispered back. “That’s the point.”