Page 86 of Smokin' Hot Mountain Man Protector
“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.
***
