His weathered face lit up. "No kidding? Well, hell, I got stories for days about this place." He was already heading in her direction before I finished talking.
Five minutes later, I watched Keely's whole posture change as Tommy launched into what was clearly a much more animated conversation than she'd been having all night. Her recorder was out, and that professional smile had been replaced by genuine interest.
Good. That was good.
"You playing matchmaker now, Silas?"
I turned to find my buddy Marc grinning at me, beer in hand and knowing look on his face.
"Just helping out a visitor," I said, grabbing a long stick to poke at a log that was burning perfectly fine. "She's trying to do her job."
"Uh-huh." Marc's grin widened. "And the fact that you've been circling this fire like a guard dog for the past hour has nothing to do with said visitor being a gorgeous redhead?"
"I'm tending the fire."
"Fire's been tending itself for the last forty-five minutes, brother."
He wasn't wrong. The thing was burning like a dream now, barely needing supervision. But admitting that meant admitting I was looking for excuses to stay close to Keely, and I wasn't quite ready for that conversation.
"Just being thorough," I muttered.
Marc laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "Well, keep being thorough. But maybe consider actually talking to the woman instead of stalking her from across a bonfire."
He wandered back toward the guys, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my perfectly maintained fire. The truth was, I couldn't get her out of my head. The way she'd looked when she realized she'd messed up my kindling pile—genuinely upset, not just going through the motions of an apology. The concentration on her face as I taught her to build the fire. How natural it had felt, working together like that.
And the way she'd felt as we positioned that last log. Warm and soft and fitting against me like she belonged there.
It was all absurd. I'd known her for all of three hours, most of which she'd spent talking to other people.
I spotted Mrs. Upchurch approaching Keely next—Tommy must have made introductions—and felt a satisfied warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. Mrs. Upchurch had lived here longer than anyone and would remember when this bonfire tradition started back in the eighties. If Keely wanted authentic local color, she'd hit the jackpot.
The rumor mill would definitely be churning by tomorrow. No way word wouldn't get back to Bobbi that I'd been personally arranging interviews for the pretty journalist. Bobbi had matched up half the couples in this town and had been not-so-subtly hinting that it was my turn to "find someone special."
My give-a-damn about the gossip was completely busted. Let them talk. At worst, Bobbi would find some excuse to keep Keely in town longer, and I wouldn't be opposed to that. Not even a little bit.
A burst of laughter from the far side of the fire caught my attention. Some of the teenagers had commandeered a section near the parking area and turned it into an impromptu s'moresstation. Marshmallows on sticks, chocolate bars, graham crackers—the works.
And Keely was over there now, talking to a couple of the high school kids while they roasted marshmallows. She'd moved away from the main crowd, probably trying to get a different perspective for her article.
This was my chance.
I grabbed one of the roasting sticks and speared a marshmallow, holding it over the flames until it was perfectly golden. Not burned black like most people did it, but that perfect caramelized brown that took patience to achieve.
By the time I made it over to where Keely was standing, she'd finished with the teenagers and was alone, typing notes into her phone with one thumb while balancing her camera with the other hand.
"Thought you might want to try the local specialty," I said, offering her the stick.
She looked up, startled, then smiled when she saw the marshmallow. "Is this a peace offering for the kindling incident?"
"Call it a cultural experience. You can't write about a mountain bonfire without sampling the s'mores."
"I don't actually have any graham crackers or chocolate," she pointed out, but she took the stick anyway.
"Pure marshmallow is underrated. Most people rush it, burn the outside, leave the inside cold. But when you do it right…” I watched her take a careful bite, the golden exterior giving way to perfectly melted interior. "Yeah, like that."
Her eyes widened. "Oh my God, that's amazing. How did you get it so perfect?"
"Same principle as the fire. Patience and the right technique." I found myself stepping closer, drawn by thegenuine delight on her face. "Most people would rather have instant gratification than wait for something better."
