Chapter Four | FLINT #4
I eased out of her and reached for the towel. “Stay put.”
“I can move.”
“I know.”
Her gaze warmed at that. “Okay.”
I cleaned us up with the towel, then took her hand and helped her sit. The night had cooled fast around the creek. I wrapped the blanket around her shoulders before she could pretend she wasn’t shivering.
“Cold?” I asked.
“My pride says no.”
“And the rest of you?”
“Would like to lodge a complaint with the tiny snow demons.”
I pulled on my jeans, then handed her my shirt.
She looked at it, then at me. “You’re giving me your shirt.”
“You’re cold.”
“You’re very bossy after sex.”
“I’m very practical after sex.”
“Before too.”
“Put the shirt on, Sunny.”
She smiled as she slipped into it. “That one was a command.”
“It was.”
“I’ll allow it because my nipples are trying to retreat into my rib cage.”
I barked out a laugh and grabbed the rest of our clothes. “Come on. Fire’s still safe up top, and I’ve got water in the cabin.”
“Hydration. Aftercare. Emergency sand. You’re a complete service.”
“Don’t put that on a sign.”
“Too late. I’ve already designed the font.”
We rinsed our hands in the creek, and I made sure she had her sandals before we climbed back up the path. She took my hand halfway up when the dirt got steep. She didn’t need me to drag her. She just wanted my hand.
I liked that too much.
At the firepit, the coals still held a dull red glow under the small flame.
I banked it down while Sunny curled on the porch bench in my shirt, her bare legs tucked under her, the blanket around her shoulders.
Her hair was tangled, her cheeks still pink, and she looked better on my porch than anything had a right to look.
I brought her water.
She accepted it with both hands. “Thank you.”
“You need food?”
“I’m eighty percent marshmallow and bison dog, but I appreciate the romance of the question.”
“I’ve got eggs. Bread. Leftover beans.”
“Beans after sex feels like a crime.”
“Noted.”
She leaned her head against the porch post and looked out toward the dark ridge. “You live like this every night?”
“Mostly.”
“No wonder you’re impossible. You’ve got sunset, creek, firepit, and nobody telling you your brand voice needs more sparkle.”
“Nobody should tell you that.”
Her attention came back to me.
I looked down at my hands. The old scar along my forearm caught the porch light, pale against skin gone darker from sun.
Sunny reached out but stopped short. “Can I?”
I gave her my arm.
She traced the edge of the scar with one finger. “This is from fire work?”
“Bad season.” I kept my voice even. “Dry August. Wind changed faster than the forecast. We were cutting a line, and a spot jumped where it shouldn’t have.”
Her finger stilled.
“It got close,” I said. “Close enough that three seconds still feels like something I can measure.”
She looked at the scar, then toward the firepit, where the coals sat low because I’d made sure they had no other choice. “That’s why yesterday hit you so hard.”
“Partly.”
“And today.”
“And tomorrow.”
“Flint.”
I looked at her.
“I’m not careless with fire.”
“I know.”
Her breath caught, like she hadn’t expected the answer to come that fast.
I kept going before I could make it harder than it needed to be.
“I didn’t know that when I came down the ridge yesterday.
I saw smoke, dry grass, wind, and a glossy setup in the wrong spot.
Then I saw your shoes and your apron and the whole production circus, and I decided too much before I knew enough. ”
Sunny’s finger moved over the scar again, softer this time. “I was furious.”
“You should’ve been.”
“You hosed my hair.”
“Your hair wasn’t my target.”
“Still a crime.”
“Probably.”
She smiled, but her eyes stayed serious. “I know what it feels like when someone looks at the surface and decides they already know the recipe.”
“I saw the shoes first.” I turned my wrist under her touch. “Should’ve looked harder.”
She went quiet for a second, then tapped the scar lightly. “And I saw the hose first.”
“Fair.”
“I’m still mad about the hair.”
“You should be.”
“But I’m less mad about the man holding it.”
I caught her hand in mine. “I’m less mad about the woman in the shoes.”
“Good. Because tomorrow I’m wearing practical color. Not beige.”
“I’d never ask for beige.”
“Smart man.”
“I’m learning.”
She leaned in and kissed me, slow this time. No rush. No sharp edge of hunger driving it, though the hunger hadn’t gone anywhere. It waited under my skin, warmed by the sound she made when my hand found her waist beneath the blanket.
When I pulled back, her eyes were half-lidded.
“I should drive you back to the camper,” I said.
She blinked. “Should you?”
“Your clothes are there. Your bed’s there. Call time’s tomorrow.”
“And you’re here.”
My chest locked before I could answer.
I rubbed my thumb along her knuckles. “I want you to stay. But I’ll take you back if that’s what you want.”
Sunny set her water glass on the porch beside her foot. “I want to stay.”
I waited.
She sighed. “Do you need that in a complete sentence for safety documentation?”
“I do need that.”
Her smile turned soft. “I want to stay here with you tonight.”
“That’s good.”
“That’s all you have for me?”
I stood and held out my hand. “Come inside before the tiny snow demons get you.”
She took my hand and let me pull her up. “That was almost sweet.”
“I’m managing expectations.”
The cabin was warm from the day, dim under the single lamp I switched on beside the bed. Worn plank floor. Small kitchen. Fire tools by the door. Two chairs. One bed I’d made that morning without any idea Sunny would be in it by night.
She stepped inside ahead of me, still wearing my shirt and the blanket. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs. Her hair fell over one shoulder in tangled copper waves.
For once, she didn’t make the room smaller with chatter.
She walked to the table and set her bandana beside my keys. Red cloth against scarred wood. My throat went tight.
I locked the door and checked the stove because habit was habit.
Sunny watched me. “You really do check everything.”
“Most things only go wrong once.”
“That’s both reassuring and ominous.”
“I’ll work on my pillow talk.”
“Oh, please don’t. I’m not sure I’d survive you being smooth.”
I pulled a clean T-shirt from the shelf near the bed and handed it to her. “You can wear this in the morning if you want it.”
She held it against her chest. “You’re giving me clothes twice in one night. People will talk.”
“There are no people here.”
“That might be my favorite thing you’ve said.”
I turned down the sheet. Sunny climbed into bed with one last quick smile, then tucked the blanket aside and watched me take the other side. I left space between us until she looked at it, then at me.
“Flint.”
“What is it?”
“I didn’t stay for a respectful six-inch gap.”
I laughed and pulled her to me.
She came willingly, warm and soft in my arms, her back against my chest, one leg sliding between mine under the sheet. I fit my hand over her hip and felt her settle there. No argument. No camera. Just Sunny breathing in my cabin with the window open and the creek running below us.
“You okay?” I asked.
She covered my hand with hers. “I’m good.”
A minute passed.
Then, softer, she said, “You?”
I pressed my mouth to her hair. “Yeah.”
Her foot slid against mine under the sheet, and I stayed awake long after she drifted off, my hand open on her hip and the creek running in the dark below us.