Page 18 of Second Chance Spring in Paradise

“Well, I got to thinking.” He jumps off the porch and grabs two sticks from one of the chairs and a bag of marshmallows. “If you’ve never had a sleepout, maybe you’ve never roasted marshmallow or made s’mores under the stars.”

“I’m not so-city girl I’ve never made a s’more.” As I join him in front of the fire, every thought of sending him home is gone. Vanished. Hasta la vista’d. “I’m a pro, as a matter of fact.”

Rowdy eyes me suspiciously as he hands me one of the metal sticks. “I apologize for underestimating you. Do your thang, Miss S’more," he says while sticking a marshmallow on the pointy end of the stick.

He sweeps his hand toward the chairs and lets me pass. I settle into one of them while he takes the other, then thrust the stick into the fire.

Ten seconds later, my marshmallow is in flames. Ten seconds after that, the pile of black ash that once was a marshmallow drops into the fire.

Rowdy looks at me from his chair. “So that’s how the pros do it in California, is it?”

“Not exactly.” I stare at my stick, wondering how I’m going to get the sticky residue off of it. “We cook them in the microwave, like normal people.”

He lets out a loud laugh and tosses me the marshmallow bag. “How about I teach you the Idaho way? Which is actually the normal way, like most things.”

“Ha! Is it normal to let kids drive when they’re fifteen years old? Is it normal to put a potato on a license plate? Is it normal foreveryoneto carry a gun?” I stick another marshmallow on my stick, while side-eying Rowdy to see how he’s cooking his. Nothing is catching on fire that shouldn’t be, so he must be doing something right. Not that I’m going to tell him that.

“Yes, when you’ve got kids driving tractors by the time they’re in kindergarten. Yes, when all the best foods are made from potatoes.” He pulls his perfectly golden marshmallow away from the fire while he talks and lays it on the graham cracker and chocolate he’s got ready on a plate. “And not everyone carries a gun. That’s a myth.”

“Just most people?” I hold my marshmallow close to the fire, not in it this time, like Rowdy had done.

“A lot do. But most of them know how to handle firearms.”

“Uh, huh.”

I’m about to say more, but suddenly there’s flames and my second marshmallow is on fire. I panic and wave the stick back and forth to put out the fire before Rowdy notices, but that only makes things worse. Fire plus oxygen equals big fire. That's Chemistry 101.

“Whoa there!” Rowdy jumps up and catches my arm. “Are you trying to light this whole place up?”

He’s laughing at me, but I relax and let him take the stick. His lips form a perfect O as he blows softly on the marshmallow. When he raises his eyes to mine, he’s half a foot away, his perfect lips still in perfect kissing position.

My breath catches, and I say the only thing I can think of. The only thing that will keep me from leaping out of this chair and pressing my lips to his, which is the one thing that could actually burn everything down.

“Did you whoa me?”

“Whoayou?” His eyes narrow with a question—or maybe that’s guilt—and he lets go of my arm. It’s dark, but not too dark for me to see his cheeks redden.

I nod confidently. “Like I was a horse. You said ‘whoa there’.”

I like red on him. He looks good in it.

Or maybe I just like knowing I’m the one making his face turn that color.

“No, I didn’t.” He shakes his head and pokes my marshmallow stick into the fire. “You’re not a horse.”

“I know. Which is why it’s so weird you would say that to me, right?” I keep my eyes glued to his face while he keeps his glued to the fire where the marshmallow is turning to ash.

His jaw twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. “This is where I’d make a joke about you being a filly if you were a country girl. But you’re not, so I’m sticking to my story. I never said whoa.” Rowdy pulls the stick out of the fire and slides a new marshmallow on it.

“That works with country girls? Teasing them about being a horse?” My eyes follow his fingers from the marshmallow to his lips, where he licks the sticky remnants from his thumb and forefinger.

The fire isn’t the only thing hot now. Marshmallows are my new favorite food. I will write to the Jet-Puff people to thank them for their product. I will leave five-star reviews wherever reviews can be left for products that require finger-licking of men with full lips, dark hair, and dark blue eyes. If there were a KFC in this little town, I’d be driving there right now for a bucket of their finger-licking goodness just so I could watch Rowdy Lovett suck on the tip of his thumb again.

“Only the sassy ones. It’s a compliment.” Rowdy hands me the stick.

I take a second to remember what we were talking about.

Fillies.We were talking about fillies.

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