Page 62 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

“Don't make plans.”

I look at him, trying to read whatever's behind that. “Why not?”

“I want to take you on a real date.”

That catches-me-off-guard. Because somehow, in the middle of everything we've done together, we haven't actually gone on a date. Not the classic version. Not Beck deciding, asking, planning.

“The hike wasn't a date?” I ask.

“We looked at plants. I can do better.”

“I liked the plants.”

“I know you did. I still want to do better.”

“Where are we going?”

“You'll find out Friday.”

I try a few more angles, casual questions disguised as innocent curiosity, direct requests, even an attempt at bargaining that involves promising him more lefse. He gives me nothing, just keeps wiping down the counter like he hasn't just made the rest of my week considerably more interesting.

“Fine,” I say. “Keep your secrets.”

“I intend to.”

I watch him finish cleaning, flour still dusted through his hair, looking too pleased with himself for a man who spent an hour losing to potato dough.

I'm going to spend the next six days wondering what he's planning.

twenty-two

Beck

I've changed shirts twice, which is more consideration than I've given my appearance in roughly a decade. I'm standing in front of the mirror in the crew-house bathroom second-guessing a button-down like it's about to be graded.

It's not that I don't know how to take someone on a date. It's that I haven't done this in a while, not the real version, planning and reservations and a destination I've kept secret for almost a week. Ivy and I have spent plenty of time together. But this is different. Something I planned for her.

I hear her coming down the hall and step out to meet her. Whatever I was about to say gets lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

She's wearing a sundress, soft yellow, simple, nothing complicated about it. It falls mid-thigh, and my brain decides this is the moment to stop functioning entirely.

“Beck.”

I drag my eyes back up to her face. She's trying not to smile and mostly failing.

“Were you staring at my legs?”

“Yep.”

That gets a laugh out of her, surprised, like she expected me to deny it. “Do you have a thing for legs?”

I look at hers again, briefly, because I seem to have lost all self-control tonight. “I have a thing for yours.”

She doesn't have a response ready for that. I count it as a win and grab my keys before she can recover.

We're on the road before she starts fishing for information. “You're really not going to tell me.”

“Nope.”