Page 4 of One S'more Time

"You should try one," I hear myself say before I can think better of it. "Quality control, you know?" I'm immediately mortified by my attempt at flirting, but his smile widens, his expression warming in a way that makes my heart stutter. God, what am I doing? I haven't flirted with anyone in months, and here I am, practically shoving pastries at this gorgeous man like some desperate bakery pusher. But there's something about the way Nate looks at me—not at my desserts, but atme—that makes me feel bold in a way I'd forgotten I could be. My cheeks burn hot enough to rival my industrial ovens, but I don't look away, can't look away, even as my inner critic is screaming about how rusty my flirting skills have become.

"How could I say no to that?" he asks, staring directly into my eyes as he takes a bite. His eyes widen a bit, and I can't help the spark of pride I feel. My cupcakes made him do that. I made him do that. There's something deeply satisfying about watching someone experience my baking for the first time, especially when that someone has forearms like Nate's and a smile that makes my insides feel like freshly whipped meringue. I catch myself leaning forward slightly, waiting for his verdict like it's some kind of professional review and not just a man eating a cupcake at a community event. But with the way he's looking at me, nothing about this moment feels random at all.

I can't help it. I've never been good with patience, unless you count waiting for cookies to bake, and even then I'm usually hovering near the oven window like some kind of pastry-obsessed sentinel. My fingers tap against the counter as I wait, betraying my nerves. "Well?" I ask, somewhat breathlessly, my voice coming out higher than I intended, a dead giveaway of how much his opinion actually matters to me.

He smiles, and it feels like my heart stops for a moment. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that makes my knees go a little weak, and I silently thank the counter for keeping me upright. It's ridiculous how a simple expression from this man affects me, like someone's replaced my blood with sparkling cider, all fizzy and warm. I've seen plenty of customers smile after tasting my pastries, but this is different. This smile isn't just about the cupcake. It's meant for me.

"Delicious," he says, and I'm not at all sure that he's talking about the cupcake. His eyes haven't left mine, and there's something in his gaze that makes heat bloom across my cheeks. The way he's looking at me—like I'm the real treat—has my heart doing gymnastics behind my ribs. I fiddle with my apron string, suddenly very aware of the flour probably dusting my hair and the smudge of buttercream I can feel on my wrist. But he doesn't seem to mind any of that. If anything, his smile just grows wider.

"I could… show you how I make them," I breathe, even as my brain is screaming at me to not be forward. "If you wanted to stop by my bakery sometime." The invitation hangs in the air between us, and I immediately want to snatch it back. What am I thinking? Inviting this gorgeous man to watch me fumble with pastry bags and mixer attachments? But there's something about the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles thatmakes me want to see him again, even if my heart is currently doing its best impression of a hummingbird trapped in my chest.

His smile widens, transforming his already handsome face into something that makes my knees feel distinctly unreliable. "How do you feel about exceptionally well-trained dogs?"

"I love them!" I blurt out, perhaps with more enthusiasm than the question warrants, but dogs are my weakness. My ex always complained that a dog would get hair on everything, but I'd take a loyal pup over his attitude any day. "I even have a recipe for dog biscuits. Peanut butter and pumpkin. They're actually human-grade—I may have taste-tested a batch or two myself." I tap my hip with a self-conscious laugh. "Occupational hazard of being a baker."

"Maybe I'll bring Cooper by some day. Soon," he says, his voice warming with the suggestion. There's something about the way he says it—casual yet deliberate—that makes my heart do a little skip. I have a sudden, vivid mental image of this gorgeous man and his dog showing up at my bakery door, and it's embarrassingly appealing.

"Yes. Sure. I'd like that." My babbling problem hasn't gotten any better. The words tumble out of my mouth before I can arrange them into something remotely sophisticated. I press my lips together to stop myself from adding another unnecessary confirmation. Three affirmative responses to one invitation is probably enough, even for someone as socially awkward as me. Still, the thought of him and Cooper-the-well-trained-dog visiting the bakery makes my stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

He smiles warmly. "See you soon, then, Ellie." He walks back towards the bonfire, which is just starting to grow, golden flames licking at the darkening sky.

I watch him as he walks away, my eyes lingering a bit too long on the broad set of his shoulders and the confident stride that probably comes from years of rushing into burning buildings. It's only then that I realize I never actually told him my name. A little shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the evening breeze. How did he know? And why does the sound of my name on his lips feel so unexpectedly intimate?

5

THE ART OF TOASTED MARSHMALLOWS

Nate

I find myself standing outside Sweet Somethings for the third time this week, Cooper's leash in one hand and a small kitchen blowtorch in the other. The excuse this time—showing her a "proper" way to toast marshmallows for her cupcakes—is paper-thin, but I don't care. My sister would laugh herself silly if she could see me now, retired firefighter turned bakery groupie with the flimsiest reasons to visit.

But there's something about the way Ellie's eyes light up when she talks about pastry that makes me forget I ever had dignity in the first place. That sparkle when she describes the perfect buttercream consistency or the way her hands dance in the air explaining the science behind a good puff pastry—it's like watching someone speak a language they were born to speak.

Cooper's become a regular too, his tail wagging with anticipation for the treats she always slips him when she thinks I'm not looking. The traitor's loyalty can apparently be bought with leftover cookie dough. It took him all of two visits to figure out where the good stuff comes from, and now he parks himselfstrategically near the counter, those soulful eyes working their magic on Ellie every time.

"This is pathetic, isn't it, buddy?" I mutter to Cooper, who tilts his head in that way that somehow manages to be both judgmental and supportive. A twenty-year veteran firefighter reduced to inventing kitchen emergencies just to see a woman smile. My old crew would never let me hear the end of it. Captain Nate Sullivan, who once ran into a four-alarm blaze without hesitation, now stumbling over his words because a pastry chef with flour-dusted cheeks asked how his day was going. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

The bell chimes as I push through the door, the warm scent of vanilla and cinnamon wrapping around me like a welcome. Ellie looks up from behind the counter, flour indeed dusting her cheeks and a streak of chocolate across her forehead that I have to physically restrain myself from reaching over to wipe away. Her face breaks into a smile that hits me square in the chest, knocking the wind out of me more effectively than any backdraft I've faced.

"You came back," she says, surprise coloring her voice, as if a man would need any excuse to return to her orbit. Those eyes of hers widen slightly, making the chocolate smudge crinkle in a way that shouldn't be adorable but somehow absolutely is. The way she looks at me makes me feel like I'm twenty again, not pushing forty-three with knees that predict rain better than the weather channel.

"I brought reinforcements." I hold up the blowtorch, feeling ridiculously proud of my excuse to see her again. "Real flames taste better than oven-baked. Firefighter's honor." I tap my chest where my badge used to sit, a gesture that's become habit over twenty years of service.

She laughs, the sound warming the room more effectively than any fire I've ever built. It's musical and genuine, not the polite titter I've grown accustomed to on the handful of first dates my sister has bullied me into. "You're really committed to this whole flame expert persona, aren't you?"

"It's not a persona if it's true." I wink and unleash Cooper, who immediately trots to Ellie for his customary head scratch, his tail wagging so hard his whole back end sways. Smart dog. He knows quality when he sees it, which is more than I can say for most humans I've encountered. Years of pulling people from burning buildings taught me to recognize what matters—and right now, that's the way Ellie's eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles down at my dog. Cooper's already figured out what took me forty-something years to learn: some connections are worth pursuing, even if they catch you by surprise.

The bakery is closed for the afternoon—my suggestion yesterday that we could do a private baking session was met with a blush that spread across her cheeks like wildfire. I'd been thinking about it ever since, that pink flush against her fair skin, wondering what other suggestions might trigger the same reaction. Now she's guiding me through her kitchen, showing me her process for the marshmallow topping, her confidence in this space a stark contrast to her shyness elsewhere.

"The trick is getting it fluffy but stable," she explains, whipping the mixture with practiced hands. The muscles in her forearms flex with each movement, hypnotic in their rhythm. Her shoulder brushes my arm as we work side by side, and I notice how she no longer stiffens at the contact. Progress. Small but significant, like the way she's started to meet my eyes for longer than a heartbeat. In my line of work, I learned to appreciateincremental victories—sometimes they're the ones that matter most.

When it's time to top the cupcakes, I fire up my blowtorch. "Stand back, amateur," I tease, enjoying the way her eyes widen as the blue flame ignites with a soft whoosh.

"Amateur?" Her mock outrage makes me grin. The flush that creeps across her cheeks only adds to her charm. "I'll have you know I've been perfecting this recipe for?—"

I silence her with a perfectly toasted swirl of marshmallow, the surface caramelizing to a golden brown under the controlled flame. The sugary peaks transform before our eyes, crackling slightly as they darken to the color of honey. It's a small victory, but the impressed look on her face feels like winning something much bigger.

"Show-off," she mutters, but she's smiling, the firelight catching the warm gold flecks in her eyes.

---