Sienna’s brows lifted. “I didn’t know we’d started offeringthoseservices. Do Mom and Dad know?”
My arms folded over my chest, and I shook my head. “If Dad were here…”
“Well, he’s not. He’s up gallivanting in Alaska with his seventy-year-old brother.” She stuck out her tongue. “So, I can torture you all I want.”
“You just wait until you can’t stop thinking about a guy, Sienna, and then…oh, it’s on.”
She flashed a wicked grin. “That will never happen. Mark my words. But peace out.”
My sister wandered out of the kitchen as quickly as she’d entered, and now I was even more frazzled.
It was acasual hangoutwith a guest who happened to look like he’d been carved by a team of brooding forest elves and sent to test my ability to form coherent sentences.
No big deal.
Nothing was on fire.
Except, possibly, my dignity.
I rounded everything up and put it in a small wagon and pulled it to the fire pit.
I set everything up exactly as planned. The fire pit glowed gently, flames dancing. The sky above melted from deep blue into indigo, stars beginning to blink awake. I added a few lanterns, set the drinks in a cooler, fluffed the seat cushionstwice, and then moved a log because I suddenly thought it lookedtoo intentional.
Then I moved it back.
And forth.
And back again.
And then I threw a marshmallow at it because I was spiraling and the log was giving me judgmental energy.
I forced myself to sit. Breathe.
“You are calm,” I muttered, adjusting my ponytail. “You are confident. You are absolutely not about to trip over your own emotional shoelaces in front of a man who probably doesn't even own shoelaces because he’s too cool for them and just has boots that lace themselves.”
Crunch.
My spine straightened.
The gravel.
Footsteps.
I turned, heart doing a cartwheel in my chest.
And there he was.
Ben Jensen. All broad shoulders and blue eyes and that ever-present expression of mild disbelief at my entire existence.
He wore a grey flannel button-down that should’ve been outlawed and jeans that were probably justaccidentallyfitted in a way that made me reconsider the sanctity of personal space. His hands were in his pockets. His eyes were locked on me.
He looked good.
Toogood.
And I, being the very picture of grace and poise, stood up too fast.
My toe caught the edge of the firewood rack.
