5. The Art of Toasted Marshmallows
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 himself strategically 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 appreciate incremental 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.
"Sometimes you just need the real thing." I meet her eyes as I say it, and something shifts between us. The air feels charged, like the moment before a summer storm breaks. Her smile softens, the teasing edge melting away into something more vulnerable, more honest. For a moment, we're just standing there, surrounded by the smell of sugar and chocolate, neither of us looking away. My heart beats a steady rhythm against my ribs, counting the seconds of this perfect, suspended moment.
"You might be right about that," she says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between us, weighted with possibility.
ELLIE
I'm suddenly not sure what we're talking about—or even what I'm talking about. All I know is how good it feels to have Nate's calming presence in my bakery. The way he fills the space with his quiet strength, making everything feel more grounded somehow. My fingers fidget with the edge of my apron, and I'm hyperaware of how close we're standing, how I can catch the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the bakery's sweetness. It's distracting in the best possible way. Part of me wants to step closer, to see if this electricity between us is just in my imagination or if he feels it too. But another part—the cautious part that's been burned before—holds me back, even as my heart races ahead without permission.
Cooper saves me from getting too lost in my thoughts, bounding over with a tail that seems to have its own zip code, wagging at approximately a million miles per hour. His chocolate eyes look up at me with such unabashed adoration that I can't help but smile. It's funny how dogs have this sixth sense about human tension—like they're little furry emotional lightning rods, ready to diffuse whatever electricity is building between people. And right now, I'm grateful for the interruption, even as part of me mourns the moment that might have been.
"Hey, buddy," I say, crouching down to Cooper's level and scratching behind his ears. "You look like a guy who needs another treat." His ears perk up at the magic word, and I swear I can see the calculations happening behind those soulful brown eyes—as if he's trying to figure out exactly how much tail-wagging will maximize his chances of getting something delicious. It's a welcome distraction from whatever was building between Nate and me a moment ago, though I can still feel the lingering warmth in my cheeks.
I glance at Nate, and I see something that almost looks like frustration at the moment being lost, but I must be mistaken. There's a tightness around his mouth, a slight furrow between his brows that wasn't there before. For a split second, I wonder if he feels the same strange pull I do—that sense of something unfinished hanging in the air between us. But that's ridiculous. A guy like him wouldn't be disappointed about an interrupted moment with someone like me. I'm just projecting my own feelings onto his expression, turning ordinary politeness into something it's not. Again.
I've been through this before, and I never seem to come out the winner. The self-conscious voice in my head is all too familiar, the one that reminds me I'm setting myself up for disappointment again, reading into things that aren't there.
I pull myself together, straightening my shoulders and forcing brightness into my voice as I say, "Let me get these cupcakes wrapped for you." My hands are steady as I reach for the pink bakery boxes stacked under the counter, focusing on the task to ground myself.
"You're not going to sell them?" Nate asks, his deep voice carrying a hint of surprise that makes me look up.
I gasp in mock astonishment, pressing a flour-dusted hand to my chest dramatically. "These are your first s'more cupcakes! We can't waste them on customers ." The teasing lilt in my voice comes naturally, despite my inner turmoil. Whatever moment I thought we were having is gone, but at least I can salvage my dignity with cupcakes.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and I realize just how much I've fallen for him. That laugh does things to me—warm, fluttery things that make my stomach tighten and my cheeks heat. It's ridiculous how quickly he's burrowed under my skin.
Chill out, Ellie. It's just a laugh. And those are just broad shoulders. And that's just the kindest smile you've ever seen... Okay, not helping.
I hand him the box, our fingers brushing in that brief, electric way that somehow feels more intimate than it should. I wonder if I'm going to see him again now that we've made the cupcakes, whether this was just a pleasant diversion in his otherwise busy life. A one-time thing. Maybe we'll see each other across the street in the coming days, exchange polite waves, and go on our separate ways—him to whatever retired firefighters do, and me back to my ovens and piping bags.
My throat tightens up at the thought, a small knot of disappointment forming that I hadn't anticipated. It's ridiculous how quickly I've gotten used to his presence in my kitchen, his laugh filling the spaces I didn't even realize were empty before.
"Better get you some treats to go, Coop," I say, reaching for one of the bakery's branded paper bags. "A literal doggie bag." I snort a little in laughter at my own joke, my cheeks heating when I realize what I just did. Great, now Nate's going to think I have the humor level of a grade-schooler. But when I glance up, he's smiling at me with a warmth that makes my embarrassment fade. I busy myself selecting a few of Cooper's favorite treats, trying to ignore how my hands are suddenly a little unsteady.
"See you soon," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through my chest.
Is he really planning to see me soon, or is that just a generic statement? The kind of polite goodbye people toss around without meaning anything by it? With Nate, I can't quite tell, and that uncertainty makes my stomach flutter in a way I'd forgotten it could.
"Yeah," I say lamely, mentally kicking myself for not coming up with something wittier or more charming. "See you around."
And if I watch his firefighter's frame when he leaves, following that confident stride all the way to the door? Well, that's my little secret. Girl needs a few joys in her life, and the view of Nate walking away is definitely joy-inducing, even if it also comes with a tiny pang of something that feels suspiciously like longing.