Page 41 of The Billionaire Mismatch

Olivia either doesn’t catch my tone or doesn’t care. Based on what I’ve learned about her personality, I’m thinking it’s the latter.

“Do you want a s’more?” she asks.

“A what?” I ask and she just looks at me.

“Oh, come on. You might be all suit and tie, but I know for a fact you know what a s’more is,” she says.

“I know what it is. It was just an odd question,” I say as she leads us in that direction.

“You’re right,” she agrees sarcastically. “There’s just a fire and marshmallows and sticks. Why the hell would we eat a s’more?”

“Come on,” I sigh, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the stand.

As we spear our marshmallows onto the provided sticks and grab a couple of crackers and chocolate bars, Olivia is all smiles. So carefree.

“Alright, let’s get things set up,” she says, heading to the fire.

“Set up?” I ask, admittedly struggling to walk through the sand.

“Yes. There is a right way and a wrong way to make a s’more.”

“I didn’t know it was a culinary science,” I say.

“You? Didn’t know there was a formula to the perfectly toasted marshmallow?” she mocks. But it’s a cute mock. One I can’t be mad at. “Watch and learn.”

And I do. I watch intently as she opens the foil from the chocolate bar and places it on the rocks near the flames.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“To melt the chocolate,” she says matter-of-factly.

Then she sticks her marshmallow in the fire, close to the wood, not above the flame. “If you hold it here and turn it slowly, kindof like you’re roasting a rotisserie chicken, you’ll get the perfect toast.”

“A rotisserie chicken,” I echo skeptically.

“For the perfect toast,” she says again. Then she hands me my stick. “Have at it.”

I take the stick and follow suit. Only because I don’t know what else I’m going to do. And, like she said, the marshmallow is coming out perfectly.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” she asks.

“Not the word I would use to describe a marshmallow, but if that’s what you want to call it, sure,” I answer.

Olivia just laughs and bumps her hip to mine. “Oh, come on. You’re having fun. Admit it.”

I keep turning my stick. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fighting a hint of a smile.

Once both marshmallows are gorgeous, by her standards of course, we shove the sticks into the stand. “Alright, now grab your cracker. And then take the chocolate and pour it on.”

“I can’t believe it actually melted,” I grumble as I watch her.

“It’s crazy, right?” she asks. And there’s that sarcasm again. “Fire producing heat, and heat melting chocolate. It’s just wild. You know, for a factual guy, you really should branch out in your fields of science. Less study of the perfect love equation and more study of chocolate’s melting point.”

Geeze, she is on it tonight. All spice with a sugar glaze. I don’t know how to feel about it. But I don’t hate it. Not entirely.

“Alright, now place the marshmallow between the crackers. Pull the stick out. And voila,” she says.

“Voilà,” I echo. I watch her take a bite of hers before taking a bite of mine.