Page 74 of Fire and Icing

Then again, maybe I should take the floor.

If I’m capable of crossing my own lines so blatantly against my own will in my sleep, who’s to say what I’ll do next.

“Smoke,” Dustin says.

I look around. “What?”

“Your ears should be emitting smoke with the amount of thinking you’re doing right now.”

He chuckles, sets another pillow in place, then pauses to stare right into my eyes.

The room is still dark, but my vision has acclimated enough to make out his features.

“Emberleigh,” Dustin says in a soft voice. He drops down onto the mattress and his weight shifts everything, including me, in his direction. “We’re friends. And we’re adults. So, we ended up snuggling. We didn’t break the law. We didn’t even break one of your—our—rules. Let it go, okay?”

“Okay.”

I want to. But he wasn’t the one to wake up all cozy and warm, nestling further into his arms. Not that he could nestle into his own arms, of course. Just … I was the one. I was nestling. And I don’t nestle. Not even a little.

“Are we good?” he asks, a soft smile on his face.

“Yeah. We’re good.”

“Good. Let’s get some sleep so we can kick some baking booties tomorrow.”

Dustin gives me one last look—something unreadable in his eyes—then he lays down and shifts his weight around a bit.

I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling. We’re good. I didn’t lie about that. But as for me, I’m a mess. Dustin makes me feel safe. Safe enough to push a pillow wall away and curl into his arms while I sleep.

And I learned a long time ago that there’s nothing more dangerous than a man who makes you feel safe.

Chapter 16

Dustin

Life is full of questions, cupcakes are the answer.

~ Unknown

I’m sizingup the competition.

We’re each at our own basic kitchen station, lined up in four rows with three couples per row. I’ve seen this setup on shows my sister watches. She’s always been obsessed with food and cooking. Not obsessed in a way that requires therapy—ask my dad, he’s a therapist. But she’s as focused on food preparation and feeding people as I am on my guitar and fighting fires. So, whether I wanted to or not, I’ve seen the guy who yells at everyone, the one who spikes his hair and drives cool cars while he travels around eating in divey places where you’re sure to get the best tasting food and possibly a coronary. I’ve watched so many culinary shows in passing.

And now it’s me. I’m the guy standing next to his partner, trying to focus on the host while she explains that today’s theme is cupcakes.

“Cupcakes?” I whisper under my breath to Emberleigh. “Aren’t those kinda easy for a contest like this?”

“Shhh,” she whispers back like a mom in church.

I nod. She’s right. If anyone needs to focus right now, it’s me.

I’ve had Emberleigh’s cupcakes. They’re not like anything I’ve ever tasted before. Light, creamy, flavorful. There must be some hidden magic to making a cupcake. It’s a magic everyone else I ever knew missed out on. Emberleigh has that magic in spades. She’s got more incredible qualities and skills than she gives herself credit for. I’ve honestly never met a woman like her.

The host continues her spiel. “You’ll be judged on cake consistency, flavor complexity and balance, and overall visual appeal and presentation. Only nine of you move forward to the next round.”

I’m tempted to look behind me and make the Robert De Niro “I’m watching you” gesture to each and every competitor in the room: fingers in a V, pointing to my eyes and then theirs.

I don’t.

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