4. First Sparks at the Festival
4
FIRST SPARKS AT THE FESTIVAL
ELLIE
I'm trying not to hyperventilate as I balance yet another tray of s'mores cupcakes, my fingers gripping the edges so tightly my knuckles have gone white. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across my booth, painting everything in a golden-orange glow that would be beautiful if I weren't so stressed out.
The growing crowd at the bonfire fundraiser sends my anxiety spiraling with each new face that appears. Did I make enough? Or maybe I went overboard and made too many? What if no one even wants them, and I'm left standing here with dozens of untouched cupcakes like some kind of baking pariah? My stomach twists itself into a pretzel as I arrange the display for the fifth time in twenty minutes.
"Just breathe," I mutter to myself, adjusting the display one more time. My hands shake as I pipe another swirl of toasted marshmallow frosting. The graham cracker base needs to be angled just right; the chocolate drizzle has to be perfect. Every detail matters when you're trying to make a good impression. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with my wrist, careful not to smudge frosting everywhere like last time.
A child races past my booth, the sudden movement startling me. The tray tilts, my fingers lose their grip, and time slows as I watch two dozen cupcakes begin their descent toward certain doom. My heart plummets with them. These aren't just desserts—they're my reputation, my confidence, my entire morning's work tumbling through the air in horrifying slow motion. I can already hear the gasps from potential customers, feel the hot flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck, imagine the inevitable whispers that would follow me around town for weeks: "That's her. The baker who couldn't even hold onto her own cupcakes."
But they never hit the ground. Strong hands appear out of nowhere, catching the tray with surprising grace before disaster can strike. I follow those hands up muscular forearms to find the tall firefighter from earlier—Nate—holding my precious creations steady, not a single cupcake out of place, not even a smudge on the perfect swirls of frosting I'd spent an hour perfecting. My breath catches somewhere between relief and something entirely different as our eyes meet over the rescued tray.
"Good catch," I manage to squeak out, my face burning hotter than the bonfire they're setting up nearby. His easy smile makes my stomach do a weird flip that has nothing to do with panic. It's the kind of smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, genuine and unassuming, like he rescues pastries for a living instead of people.
"Firefighter reflexes," he shrugs, but there's a warmth in his voice that makes me forget about the disaster I nearly caused. The casual yet confident way he says it sends a little shiver up my spine. "Where do you want these?" He's still holding the tray, waiting for my direction like he has all the time in the world, as if saving my cupcakes from certain doom is the highlight of his day.
I point to the empty spot on my display table, watching as he carefully sets them down. His movements are precise, gentle even, and I find myself wondering how hands that look so strong can handle delicate cupcakes with such care. The contradiction is oddly mesmerizing. Stop it, Ellie. He's just being nice. That's probably part of his job, helping people in crisis, even if the crisis is just some clumsy baker almost destroying her inventory. Still, I can't help but notice how his forearms flex as he arranges the tray perfectly centered on the table, like he understands how important these little details are to me.
But then he stays, leaning against my booth with casual interest as I finish the display. His solid presence creates a shadow across my carefully arranged treats, and I'm hyperaware of him, somehow reassuring in the bustling market space.
"Are these the famous s'mores cupcakes I've been hearing about?" he asks, and something in his tone makes me look up. The way he's watching me—focused, curious—sends a flutter through my chest that I immediately try to squash. His eyes are warm and attentive, like I'm the only vendor in this crowded marketplace, and I find myself smoothing my apron unnecessarily, wondering if there's frosting on my face or in my hair. Get it together, Ellie.
A spark from the newly lit bonfire drifts our way, and Nate instinctively steps closer, as if to shield me. The movement brings him right into my space, and suddenly I'm very aware of how he smells like woodsmoke and autumn air. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I forget about everything else—the cupcakes, the crowd, my own insecurities. My breath catches in my throat as his shoulder brushes mine, solid and warm against the evening chill. There's something so effortlessly protective in the way he positions himself, not like I'm some damsel who needs saving, but like it's just second nature to him after years of running into burning buildings. I have to tilt my chin up to maintain eye contact, and when I do, the firelight catches the amber flecks in his eyes, making them glow with an intensity that makes my stomach flip in a way it hasn't in longer than I care to admit.
"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 at me —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 that makes 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?