Chapter 4
Piper
The next morning, I walk back into Spice Spice Baby with a camera bag over my shoulder and enough caffeine in my bloodstream to power a small festival.
The bakery is already buzzing with customers, and the warm smell of maple scones makes me want to throw away my schedule and start eating my way through the display case like a feral raccoon.
But I've got work to do. And not just any work, today is the day I film Dylan working on the festival showpiece without turning into a swoony puddle of unprofessional hormones.
I take a deep breath and pull out my tripod. I've filmed firefighters, chefs, artists, and once a cowboy calendar shoot that got me a thousand new followers overnight. I can handle one absurdly attractive single dad with forearms sculpted by the frosting gods.
Dylan is already at the decorating station with his sleeves rolled up. He pipes frosting across the middle tier of the festival cake with perfect focus, completely unaware that the sun streaming through the window hits him in a way that should be illegal.
I check my lighting and move toward him with a smile.
"Morning," I say. "Ready for your close-up?"
He looks at the camera like it's a wild animal that might bite him. "I don't know about ready."
"It will be easy," I tell him. "Just pretend I'm not here."
He gives me a look that makes it very clear that pretending I'm not here is completely impossible for him. The thought sends a warm buzz through my stomach.
I frame the shot and hit record. The camera captures the precise flex of his hands as he rotates the cake stand, the slow sweep of his piping, the concentration etched across his face. I swear the man could sell an entire frosting subscription service with these visuals alone.
"Beautiful," I murmur under my breath.
He glances at me. "The cake or the work?"
I lift my camera a little higher. "Take your pick."
The line earns me a faint flush on his neck. It’s unexpectedly adorable.
I switch angles and try a close-up of his hands. He moves with such careful control that I understand instantly why people trust him. You can see the story in the way he touches things. His life has carved precision into him.
"This is perfect," I say. "Can you go a little slower on the next pass?"
He nods and slows the piping; his forearm flexes. My camera loves it, and my brain goes slightly offline.
"That is incredible," I breathe.
He flicks a glance at me with a soft, slightly amused huff. "It’s just frosting."
"It’s frosting in your hands," I say. "Different category."
The faintest smile touches his lips. I feel smug for absolutely no reason.
I continue filming, moving around him to capture different angles.
The way the light catches the silver of his piping tip.
The way his brow furrows when he is working on a particularly delicate section.
The way he occasionally glances up to check on Maddie, who is coloring at her little table nearby.
Everything about this man speaks of care. Of intention. Of someone who has learned to hold things gently because he knows how easily they can break.
After about twenty minutes, I lower the camera. "Can we do an interview segment? Just a few questions about the design and what it means to the town?"
He hesitates, and I can see the anxiety flickering across his face.
"We can keep it short," I add quickly. "And you can review everything before I post it. I promise I'll not make you uncomfortable."
He takes a slow breath, then nods. "All right. But if I sound like an idiot, you have to delete it."
"Deal. Though I doubt that will happen."
I reposition the camera on the tripod and adjust the framing so the festival cake is visible behind him. He wipes his hands on his apron and stands a little straighter, like he is bracing himself.
"Okay," I say gently. "Just talk to me, not the camera. Tell me about the phoenix design. Why did you choose it?"
He glances at the cake, then back at me. "The town went through something traumatic with the wildfires a few years ago. A lot of people lost their homes. Some lost loved ones. The phoenix felt like the right symbol because it's about rising from the ashes. It's about transformation and renewal."
"And is that personal for you, too?" I ask softly.
His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't look away. "Yes. I lost my wife during the evacuations. So this cake is not just about the town, it’s about anyone who has had to rebuild after loss."
The raw honesty in his voice makes my throat tight.
"That is beautiful," I say quietly. "Thank you for sharing that."
He nods, and I can see the vulnerability in his expression, the effort it took to say those words out loud.
"One more question," I say. "What do you hope people feel when they see this cake?"
He considers for a moment. "I hope they feel seen. I hope they feel like their pain mattered, but so does their survival. I hope they feel proud of what this community has built together."
I stop recording and lower the camera, blinking back the sudden sting in my eyes.
"Dylan," I say. "That was perfect. Truly."
He shifts uncomfortably. "You’re just saying that."
"I'm not. That was honest and heartfelt and exactly what people need to hear."
He meets my eyes, and something passes between us, something warm and fragile and real.
Before either of us can say anything else, the bakery door swings open, and a woman walks in. She is probably in her early thirties, blonde, and polished in a way that suggests she put real effort into her appearance. She scans the room until her eyes land on Dylan, and her face lights up.
"Dylan!" she calls, walking toward us with purpose.
Dylan's expression shifts into something carefully neutral. "Hi, Vanessa."
Vanessa. The name lands with a weight I don't quite understand yet.
"I heard you were creating the festival showpiece," she says, stopping at the counter. "I had to come see it for myself."
"Yeah, it's coming along," Dylan says, his tone polite but guarded.
Vanessa leans over the counter to get a better look at the cake, and I notice the way her hand brushes Dylan's arm. It’s casual, yet familiar.
"It's stunning," she says. "You always did have the most talented hands."
The innuendo is not subtle, and I feel my stomach twist uncomfortably.
Dylan steps back slightly, creating a bit of distance. "Thanks, this is Piper, she is filming content for the festival."
Vanessa turns to me with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, how nice. Are you visiting from out of town?"
"Just for a few weeks," I say, matching her polite tone.
"Well, Valentine is lucky to have you." She turns back to Dylan. "I was hoping we could grab coffee sometime this week, you know, to catch up."
"I'm pretty swamped with festival prep," Dylan says carefully.
"Of course, well, maybe after." She touches his arm again, and this time it lingers. "It was good to see you, Dylan."
"You too, Vanessa."
She leaves with a little wave, and the tension in Dylan's shoulders doesn't ease until the door closes behind her.
"Ex-girlfriend?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
"Something like that," he mutters. "We dated briefly about a year ago; it didn’t work out."
"She seems like she would like it to work out now."
He looks at me, and there is something almost apologetic in his expression. "I'm not interested in revisiting that."
"You don't owe me an explanation," I say, even though part of me is relieved to hear it.
"I know. But I want you to understand that I'm not the kind of person who keeps options open. If I'm interested in someone, that is it. I don't hedge my bets."
The intensity in his voice makes my heart skip a beat.
"Good to know," I say softly.
We stand there for a moment, the air between us thick with things neither of us is quite ready to say out loud.
Then Maddie bounds over, breaking the tension. "Piper! Do you want to help me make decorations for the festival booth?"
I crouch down to her level. "I would love to. What are we making?"
"Paper hearts," she says seriously. "Because it's the Heart-to-Heart Festival and everyone needs hearts."
"That is very logical," I say.
She grabs my hand and pulls me toward her little table, where construction paper and safety scissors are scattered across the surface. I glance back at Dylan, who is watching us with an expression so soft it makes my chest ache.
I spend the next hour cutting out lopsided hearts with Maddie while Dylan works on the cake. She tells me about her favorite colors, her best friend at school, and the time she tried to bake cookies by herself and accidentally used salt instead of sugar.
"Daddy was not mad," she says. "He just laughed, and we made new ones together."
"Your daddy is pretty great," I say.
She nods solemnly. "He is the best daddy in the whole world. But sometimes he gets sad."
The observation catches me off guard. "Yeah?"
"He tries to hide it," she says, lowering her voice like she is sharing a secret. "But I can tell he misses Mommy."
My throat tightens. "I'm sure he does."
"Do you think he will be happy again?" she asks, looking at me with big, earnest eyes.
I glance over at Dylan, who is carefully piping delicate feathers onto the phoenix wings, his expression focused and calm.
"I think he is already happier than he realizes," I say gently. "And I think you are a big part of that."
She smiles and goes back to cutting hearts, satisfied with the answer.
When Dylan finishes for the day, he walks over to inspect our work. "This is impressive, you two could start a paper heart business."
"We could," Maddie says. "But only if Piper stays."
The statement hangs in the air, it’s innocent and weighted at the same time. Dylan meets my eyes, and I see the question there.
"We’ll see," I say softly, not willing to make a promise I don't know if I can keep.