Page 67 of Salvaged Hearts

“Swell,” I said simply, nodding at the chafing dishes lining the white tablecloths. We made our way down the line, filling our plates as the party rushed around us. Relief washed throughme when she wandered out of the tent and into the burgeoning dusk. I might’ve been born into this dynasty, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed the obligatory events any more than she did. Selfishly, I was sick of sharing her focus with a lineup of brooding athletes. The prepared oceanside bonfires down below would be a breath of fresh air.

“Oh my god,” she gasped excitedly, pulling my attention from the faces of partygoers to the light in her eyes. “Are those S’mores?!”

I chuckled. “Ollie has the pallet of a toddler, so I wouldn’t be shocked—” but she was already making a beeline for the table between the grass and beach. Vaguely, I was aware of Jax trailing behind us and glanced over my shoulder to see him with his own plate of goodies, nonchalantly making his way across the lawn. Good man. Sure enough, this table was full of supplies to make S’mores, and Alice was cheerily stacking them on a fresh plate.

She was cute when she was excited, even if she was trying to downplay it for appearance.

Fire no longer raging, plates cleared about half an hour later, she reached over and snagged a metal roasting stick before stabbing it into a marshmallow.

“Remind me not to piss you off.”

She grinned mischievously, “You don’t grow up on a boat and not learn how to use a blade.”

“Do a lot of stabbing?”

“Fireside?” she clarified, her brows shooting up as she strategically lowered herself onto the ground and hovered her marshmallow just over the coals, slowly rotating it. “Yeah. We spent the bulk of our summers in Mistyvale down on the water. Not a lot to do in town, so we’d all build fires nine feet tall and burn away the summer nights.” Her smile grew more authentic and endearing, eyes going distant as she reminisced. I grabbedmy own marshmallow and joined her. “My big brothers and dad taught me how to build the perfect fire and when the embers were ready to use. We’d roast bratwurst and fill our bellies on skewers of veggies, then Rhyett, Jameson, and Brod would break out marshmallows and spooky stories.”

“Hmm,” I murmured. When her eyes widened, I said, “It sounds absurd, but I wish I’d grown up like that.”

“In some backwoods fishing town?”

“Bonding as a family,” I clarified.

Her brows knitted together. “You and Ollie are tight.”

“Now,” I admitted. “But when you grow up two steps removed from doing all the things, you miss all of the…”

When my words wandered off, she blinked, studying me before finishing, “Connection?”

I sighed, admitting, “Yeah. It’s not the same when your fatherpayssomeone to make you oven-roasted S’mores with ritzy Swedish chocolate and some ridiculous French wafer. God forbid you dirty your clothes actually enjoying the damn thing, bringing shame to the family name.”

“You and Ollie don’t do that to Mattie and Beau.”

“No. We’ve made a point of letting them be kids.”

We sat quietly for a long stretch as she processed all of that, but then a sheepish smile lifted her cheeks. “Your marshmallow is on fire.”

“Fuck,” I grumbled, yanking the stick upright as she burst out laughing. I blew the flame out like an oversized candle. She was covering her mouth when I lifted my eyes from the charcoal exterior. “You can laugh, you know. I can handle it.”

Forcing her face straight didn’t stop her chin from wobbling with the humor begging to go free. Her teeth dug into her lower lip, and I tracked the moment as she carefully freed it. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“It’s pretty pathetic,” I admitted dryly.

“No,” she scoffed. A little giggle broke free before she teased, “Poor rich boy can’t roast a marshmallow.” Before I could respond, she’d rolled her eyes and pulled up her golden-brown, puffed sugar ball, blowing on it like a textbook example. “Here,” she said, taking pity on me as she reached over, but instead of discarding my destroyed disgrace of summer dessert, she curled her nails around the lower lip of it, and slid off the crust in one smooth motion, revealing a gooey ball of melted confection. She blew on it, though I’m sure her fingers were protesting. “You can use it like that or roast it again.” With that, she popped the charred crust in her mouth. “I kinda like ‘em burnt anyways.”

Shaking my head, I questioned, “Twice-roasted marshmallow?”

“Exactly.”

Glaring at her, I slowly lowered it back over the embers. It’s not that Icouldn’tcook outdoors; I just hadn’t spent much time out here since I came home. Who had the time for this? It didn’t help that she wassinfullydistracting, even now, as she sandwiched her prize between crackers and chocolate.

“The real trick is to wrap them in foil afterward and set them back by the fire. This will do for now,” she explained, setting her sweets on the edge of the pit.

“Really?” I pressed.

“Really,” she confirmed. The chatter of the party and crash of waves seemed to vanish when the woman smiled. I’d always seen her beauty. Been painfully aware of her curves and those intense eyes. But I hadn’t ever seen her quite like this. Apparently, I was staring more intently than appropriate because she asked, “What?”

“I like it when you smile.”

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