And I tripped.
I did not fall,thankfully, but it was a close enough call that I stumbled, pinwheeled my arms, and made a noise that could only be described as startled goose meets off-brand yodel.
Ben blinked and reached for me, but I straightened, smoothed my hair, and cleared my throat.
“That was intentional. A... dance move. Rustic firepit interpretive stumble.”
“The striptease you’d mentioned a while back?” He looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. His mouth twitched, but it was there.
Progress.
I shook my head and held out my hand.
“Hi,” I said brightly, stepping forward. “Glad you made it, Mr. Jensen.”
“Oddly formal, but I’ll roll with it. You okay?” he asked, eyes sweeping from my still-standing, but wobbly legs, to my slightly disheveled ponytail as we shook hands.
“Yep! No injuries. Just my pride. But she’s used to taking hits. I’m sure you’re aware of that by now.”
He chuckled under his breath, and I swore it warmed me more than the fire.
I gestured to the setup. “So. Casual. Totally spontaneous. No luring involved.”
He arched a brow. “I do see snacks.”
“Tragic coincidence.”
“Right.”
He stepped closer, hands back in his pockets. The firelight cast amber shadows across his face, softening the edges, catching in his eyes.
I suddenly forgot every word I’d ever learned.
“Want to sit?” I asked. “Or stand. Or… hover mysteriously like a sexy wraith. Your choice.”
He snorted. “Sitting sounds safer.”
“If I’m around, yes…probably so.”
We settled into the chairs, not too close, not too far. I passed him a marshmallow stick, trying not to overanalyze every blink, breath, and body angle.
He leaned in slightly. “So… rustic dance move?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, nodding sagely. “Part of my performance routine. I usually follow it up with interpretive stripping—”
Silence.
Dead silence.
Ben looked at me.
I looked at Ben.
My soul exited my body.
“I meant—tripping!” I blurted. “I trip! Over things. Objects. Furniture. Emotions. Notstrip.Definitely not strip. I keep my clothes on. Religiously.”
His lips twitched.
