8. Insecurities Resurface
8
INSECURITIES RESURFACE
ELLIE
I'm still floating on cloud nine three days after that incredible night with Nate. My body tingles just thinking about his touch, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was some kind of miracle. I've caught myself smiling at nothing while piping buttercream roses, humming love songs I usually roll my eyes at.
I'm boxing up an order of lemon squares when the bell above the door chimes. My heart does a little backflip when I see Nate walk in with a fellow firefighter. He catches my eye and his smile—God, that smile—makes my knees weak.
"Hey," he says, approaching the counter while his friend hangs back.
"Hey yourself." I wipe my hands on my apron, suddenly self-conscious about the flour dusting my arms and the smudge of lemon curd I can feel on my cheek. My heart's doing that ridiculous flutter thing that makes me feel sixteen again. Three days since he made me come harder than I have in my entire life, and here I am, blushing like it's the first time a handsome man has walked into my bakery.
His friend calls over, "Nate, man, you coming to Tony's retirement thing Friday?" He's leaning against the display case, examining the pastries.
"Wouldn't miss it," Nate answers, eyes still on me. There's something in that steady gaze that makes my stomach do a little flip. Like I'm the only person in the room worth looking at, flour-dusted arms and all.
"Good, because half the department's wives are asking if everyone's hero will be there." His friend laughs, finally glancing up with a knowing smirk. "They all want to introduce their single friends to Fireman Campbell. You're practically a local celebrity after that warehouse rescue last year." He winks at me as if letting me in on some secret, and I feel a sudden, ridiculous pang of jealousy at the thought of all these unknown women circling Nate like hungry sharks.
Something cold slithers into my stomach, spreading like ice water through my veins. Everyone's hero. Of course. The guy who runs into burning buildings without a second thought. The guy who helps damsels in distress at fundraisers with that perfect, reassuring smile. The guy who probably sees me as just another person to rescue—another charity case in his collection of good deeds. I press my lips together, trying to squash the unwelcome thought before it takes root. Why would someone like him see me as anything else? He's probably got a whole lineup of women who don't come with a side of emotional baggage and flour-dusted everything.
Before I can spiral further, the bell chimes again. A tall blonde in yoga pants and a fitted top walks in, all legs and confidence. She's the kind of woman who probably hasn't eaten a carb since 2015, with cheekbones that could cut glass. I have no idea what appeal my bakery could have to her, as everything I sell probably has more calories than she eats in a day. She spots Nate and her face lights up like she's just won some kind of jackpot.
"Nate Campbell! I thought that was you." She glides over, placing a manicured hand on his arm with the casual entitlement of someone who's never been told no. Her nails are a perfect glossy nude, not a chip in sight. "Remember me? Melissa Winters? We met at the charity gala last month. You know, the firefighter calendar fundraiser?"
"Right, hello," Nate says politely, shifting slightly away from her touch. I notice the subtle way he creates distance, but can't help wondering if it's just good manners. His shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, and he takes half a step backward, positioning his coffee cup between them like a tiny ceramic shield. Part of me wants to believe he's genuinely uncomfortable, but the rational side of my brain reminds me that men like him probably have women like her falling at their feet daily.
She continues chatting, laughing too loudly at nothing particularly funny, not once acknowledging my existence even though I'm standing right here, flour probably still dusting my apron and a smudge of vanilla frosting on my wrist that I didn't have time to wipe away. It's like I'm invisible—just the bakery owner, not worth noticing next to him. The human equivalent of wallpaper in my own damn shop. I've been here before, this feeling of fading into the background while someone prettier, louder, more confident takes center stage. My fingers fidget with the strings of my apron as I watch her toss her perfect hair, wondering if Nate even remembers I'm still standing here or if I've already been forgotten in the wake of her designer perfume.
"We should grab drinks sometime," she suggests, her meaning crystal clear as she tosses her perfect hair over one shoulder. The invitation hangs in the air between them like expensive perfume, heavy and impossible to ignore. My stomach twists into a pretzel as I watch this painfully familiar scene unfold—beautiful woman making a move, me standing awkwardly on the sidelines like some kind of pastry-wielding ghost.
"I'm seeing someone, actually," Nate replies firmly, glancing at me with those steady eyes of his. There's something in that look—something warm and certain that makes my breath catch. For a split second, I forget about the flour on my apron and the stranger with the perfect hair, because Nate Campbell is looking at me like I'm the only person in the room.
But even with that look, the damage is done. That familiar voice in my head whispers: This isn't real. He's just being nice. You're his charity case—the sad, curvy baker he's trying to save. Another rescue mission for the heroic firefighter who can't help himself. I feel myself shrinking, becoming smaller even as my body takes up the same amount of space.
I step back, mumbling something about checking the oven, needing space to breathe through the sudden tightness in my chest. My hair falls forward, creating a curtain between me and this moment I can't quite believe. It's the same retreat I've perfected over years of watching women like her slide effortlessly into spaces I've convinced myself I don't fit. The kitchen has always been my sanctuary—a place where measurements make sense and ingredients behave according to predictable rules. Unlike whatever this is between Nate and me, which feels as unstable as meringue in humid weather. I back away, wondering if he'll even notice I'm gone or if, like everyone else, he'll be relieved when the awkward, flour-dusted interruption removes herself from the equation.