Chapter 3
Dylan
The moment Piper steps fully into the kitchen the next morning, the air shifts.
I swear the temperature rises a few degrees, which is ridiculous because the ovens are off and I've been elbow-deep in frosting for two hours without breaking a sweat.
Now, all of a sudden, I'm sweating like someone turned on the broiler.
She studies the counter space with a thoughtful tilt of her head, then pulls her phone out and taps something into a note app. Her hair slips over her shoulder as she leans forward to examine a tray of cooled cupcakes, and for a second, I forget every rule I planned to set.
I remind myself to breathe. I've boundaries for a reason; my life functions because it's structured, predictable, and safe.
I clear my throat. "Morning, are you ready to see the festival cake process?"
She looks up with a smile that goes straight to the center of my chest. "Absolutely, this is what I'm here for."
I gesture toward the workspace where I've laid out my tools and sketches.
"I start with the structure. The phoenix design consists of three tiers, each one representing a different stage in the theme of renewal.
The bottom is the ash and loss. The middle is the struggle and transformation. The top is the renewal."
She steps closer, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. It’s citrussy and something warm. "That's beautiful, the symbolism is going to resonate with everyone here."
"It needs to," I say quietly. "The wildfires hit this town hard; many people lost homes and businesses. Some lost more than that."
She glances at me, and I can tell she wants to ask, but she doesn't push. Instead, she just nods. "Then we make sure this cake honors that."
The way she says we does something to my carefully controlled boundaries.
I pull out the base layers I baked yesterday and set them on the turntable. "The first step is leveling and layering. Everything has to be even, or the whole structure becomes unstable."
"Sounds like life," she murmurs.
I glance at her. "Yeah, it does."
She pulls out her camera and starts filming while I work.
I try to ignore the lens, but it's hard to ignore her.
I watch the way she moves around me, finding angles.
I see the way she bites her lower lip when she is concentrating, and the way she quietly encourages me with small sounds of approval that make my hands less steady than they should be.
"You are a natural on camera," she says after a few minutes. "Most people get stiff, but you just keep working like I'm not here."
"I'm pretending you are not here," I admit.
She laughs. "Is it working?"
"Not even a little bit."
The confession slips out before I can stop it, and her smile turns softer and a little warmer.
"Good," she says quietly.
I focus on the frosting, spreading it between the layers with careful strokes. The repetitive motion usually calms me, but today my pulse is doing something erratic every time Piper shifts closer.
"Can I ask you something?" she says after a while.
"Sure."
"Why a phoenix? I know it represents renewal, but was there something specific that made you choose it?"
I pause, spatula in hand, and consider how much to tell her. Most people in Valentine know parts of my story, but not many know all of it.
"My wife died three years ago," I say finally. "During a wildfire evacuation. There was a pileup on the highway, the traffic stalled, and I was two miles behind her and couldn’t get through."
Piper goes very still. "Dylan. I'm so sorry."
"It was chaos," I continue, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
"There were sirens everywhere. People were shouting.
Cars were trying to reverse through the smoke.
I lost her in the middle of all that. And ever since then, anything involving fire, or smoke, or evacuation alerts feels like that night all over again. "
She sets her camera down gently on the counter. "That is a level of loss most people don't come back from."
"I came back," I say quietly. "For Maddie, but some things linger."
She moves closer until she is standing right beside me, and then she does something I don’t expect: she touches my arm. It’s not a brief pat or an awkward gesture; it’s a real touch, her fingers wrap gently around my forearm, warm and grounding.
"You went through something impossible," she says. "And you are still here, creating something beautiful for your town. That takes strength."
Her words settle into a place in my chest that has been empty for a long time.
"Thank you," I manage.
She squeezes my arm once more before letting go, and I immediately miss the contact.
"So the phoenix," she says, giving me space to breathe, "is about the town rising from the ashes. But it's also personal."
"Yeah," I admit. "It is."
She picks up her camera again, but doesn't lift it. "Would you be willing to talk about that on camera? Not the details, just the idea that the cake represents collective and personal renewal. I think people would connect with that."
I consider it. The idea of being that vulnerable in front of a lens makes my skin itch. But something about the way Piper asks, like she will respect whatever answer I give, makes it easier.
"Maybe," I say. "Let me think about it."
"That's fair." She lifts the camera and films a few more minutes of me working before Maddie bounds into the kitchen, with her backpack bouncing.
"Daddy, Grandma is here to pick me up for school!"
I glance at the clock. How is it already eight thirty?
My mom appears in the doorway, waving at me. She is a small woman with silver hair and the kind of energy that makes people half her age feel lazy. "Morning, Dylan. Oh, hello! You must be Piper."
Piper sets the camera down and offers her hand. "Yes, ma'am, it’s nice to meet you."
"Linda," my mom says warmly, shaking her hand. "No need for ma'am. I hear you are doing wonderful work for the festival."
"I’m trying," Piper says with a smile.
"Well, you picked the right baker to feature. This one is special." My mom pats my cheek like I’m twelve. "Even if he doesn’t always believe it."
"Mom," I say in a warning tone.
She ignores me completely. "Piper, you should come to dinner this week. I make a pot roast that will change your life."
"Mom," I repeat, louder this time.
Piper is trying not to laugh. "That sounds wonderful. Thank you."
"Perfect. Dylan will bring you. Now, come on, Maddie-bug. We have to get you to school."
Maddie hugs me around the waist, then surprises me by hugging Piper too. "Bye, cupcake fairy!"
"Bye, sweetheart," Piper says, crouching down to hug her properly.
And just like that, they’re gone, leaving me alone with Piper in a kitchen that suddenly feels far too intimate.
"Your mom is lovely," Piper says.
"She is also incapable of minding her own business," I reply, though there is no heat in it.
"She loves you. That’s not a bad thing."
"She’s also trying to set us up."
Piper tilts her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "Is she wrong to try?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy and loaded.
I set the spatula down and turn to face her fully. "Piper, I need to be honest with you about something."
"Okay," she says carefully.
"I’m attracted to you. Very attracted to you. However, I haven’t done this in a long time, and I've got Maddie to think about. I can’t afford to be careless."
Her expression softens. "I would never ask you to be careless, and I would never do anything to hurt Maddie."
"I know that," I say. "But I also know you are only here for a few weeks. And I don’t know if I can do temporary."
She takes a slow breath. "What if I told you I don’t know if I can do temporary either? At least not with you."
My heart does something painful in my chest. "You don’t know me well enough to say that."
"Maybe not," she admits. "But I know enough to want to find out more."
The honesty in her voice nearly undoes me.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the counter. I glance at the screen and see my brother's name flashing. Of course.
"Do you need to get that?" Piper asks.
"Absolutely not," I say, but the phone keeps buzzing.
She grins. "Answer it. I’ll give you some privacy."
"There is no privacy with Jace," I mutter, but I hit accept anyway.
Jace fills the screen in what appears to be a dance studio. He is shirtless, naturally, and covered in a light sheen of sweat that suggests he just finished teaching a class.
"Dylan," he announces loudly. "I sensed emotional turmoil and needed to check in."
"I’m fine, Jace."
"Are you? Because Mom texted me that you have a woman in your bakery and you’re acting like a nervous teenager."
I close my eyes. "I’m going to kill Mom."
"Don’t blame Mom. She is excited. We are all excited. Is she cute?"
"Goodbye, Jace."
"Wait, wait. Real talk for a second. Are you doing okay? Like, actually okay?"
The shift in his tone surprises me. For all his chaos, Jace knows when to be serious.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I think I am."
"Good. You deserve good things, man. Don't let fear keep you from them."
"When did you become wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just don't listen." He grins. "Now go flirt with your festival girl. And Dylan? Be brave."
He ends the call before I can respond.
I set the phone down and find Piper watching me from across the kitchen, a curious expression on her face.
"Your brother?" she asks.
"Unfortunately."
"He seems fun."
"He is a walking migraine," I say, but there is affection in my voice.
She laughs and walks back toward me. "So, where were we?"
"You were telling me you want to find out more about me," I say.
"And you were looking terrified," she adds.
"I am terrified," I admit. "But that doesn’t mean I don't want the same thing."
Her smile is slow and warm and does something dangerous to my resolve.
"Then let us take it slow," she says. "No pressure. Just see what happens."
"I can do slow," I say.
"Good."
She picks up her camera again, and we fall back into the rhythm of working together. But something has definitely shifted between us. The air feels lighter, much more open. And for the first time in three years, the idea of letting someone in doesn't feel like a threat.
It feels like a possibility.
By midday, I’ve finished the base structure of the festival cake, and Piper has captured enough footage to make a documentary. We are both covered in a fine layer of powdered sugar, and I'm pretty sure there is frosting in her hair.
"You have a little something," I say, gesturing vaguely at her head.
She reaches up and touches the wrong spot. "Did I get it?"
"Not even close."
"Where is it?"
I step closer without thinking, reaching up to gently brush the frosting from the strand of hair near her temple. My fingers linger a second longer than necessary, and when I pull back, she is looking at me with an expression that makes my breath catch.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"You are welcome."
We stand there for a beat too long, close enough that I can see the green color of her eyes, close enough that I could lean down and kiss her if I were brave enough.
But I'm not. Not yet.
So instead, I step back and clear my throat. "Lunch?"
"Lunch," she agrees, though her voice sounds a little breathless.
We walk to the Corner Diner again, falling into an easy rhythm. The town is busier now, and people are preparing for the festival that is only days away. Everywhere I look, there are banners and flyers, and the energy of something building.
When we walk into the diner, Rosie takes one look at us and grins like she has won the lottery.
"Well, well," she says. "Two days in a row. This is getting interesting."
"We are just getting lunch, Rosie," I say.
"Sure you are, honey. Sure you are."
Piper is trying very hard not to laugh.
We slide into the same booth as yesterday, and Jenna appears almost immediately.
"The usual?" she asks.
"Please," I say.
"Same for me," Piper adds. "That patty melt yesterday was incredible."
"Rosie will be thrilled to hear it," Jenna says, scribbling on her notepad. "Be right back."
As she walks away, Piper leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. "So, pot roast dinner with your mom, should I be nervous?"
"Terrified," I say. "She is going to interrogate you about your entire life story."
"I can handle interrogation."
"She is also going to ask about your intentions."
Piper laughs. "My intentions?"
"Yes, your intentions with me, with Maddie, and with the bakery. And knowing her, she will want to know your life story as a whole."
"Your mom sounds thorough."
"She is a force of nature," I say. "But she means well."
"I look forward to it," Piper says, and she sounds like she means it.
Jenna returns with our food, and we eat while talking about everything and nothing. She tells me about growing up in five different states because her dad was in the military. I tell her about growing up in Valentine and never wanting to leave.
"You never wanted to see what else was out there?" she asks.
"I did," I admit. "When I was younger. But then I realized everything I needed was here. And after my wife died, leaving felt impossible. This town held me together when I couldn’t hold myself together."
She reaches across the table and touches my hand. "That is a beautiful way to describe home."
"What about you?" I ask. "Do you have a place that feels like home?"
She hesitates. "Not really. I've always been the person who leaves. I think part of me is afraid that if I stay somewhere too long, I'll get stuck."
"Or maybe you’ll finally get to stop running," I suggest gently.
Her eyes meet mine, and something vulnerable flickers across her face. "Maybe."
We finish lunch, and I pay despite her protests again. As we walk back to the bakery, the afternoon sun warm on our faces, I realize something that should terrify me but somehow doesn't.
I'm falling for this woman, and for the first time in years, that doesn't feel like the end of something.
It feels like the beginning.