Page 26 of Fire and Icing (The Firemen of Waterford TN #1)

Emberleigh

Practice is everything.

~ Periander

We lost three couples today. And we’re staying. The cameras stopped rolling ten minutes ago. The lights are still hot, and I’m sweating. But we’re in.

One of the judges steps toward us, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable until he stops right in front of me.

“That honey marshmallow cupcake surprised me.”

I blink. “Surprised you?”

“In a good way,” he adds. “You elevated a childhood classic. That kind of nostalgia done well—rare. I’m Geoffrey, by the way. Or Jeff. Americans usually call me Jeff.”

He turns slightly toward Dustin, pausing.

“And you … you held your own. I guess.”

I glance at Dustin. His polite smile is tight, nearly a grimace. I’ve never seen him smile without warmth. Does he realize this is a judge—one of the six people determining our fate?

Geoffrey leaves us without another word. He smiles at me as he goes.

“He liked you,” Dustin says flatly.

“He liked our cupcake.”

“Pretty sure he liked the baker, too.”

“Dustin!” I whisper-hiss. “He’s a judge.”

“He’s also a man.”

I shake my head. “Let’s grab dinner and get to bed. I’m exhausted.”

Dinner is delicious and I’m ravenous. We eat with a few other contestants in the main dining area—a couple from Texas and another from Connecticut. After dinner, Dustin and I walk back to our room together.

“Do you want to get ready first?” he asks me.

“Sure.” I pull out a pajama set and my personal care kit from the top drawer and walk to the bathroom. Thoughts of our shared bed crowd my mind, but I’m so exhausted I could sleep standing up in the industrial refrigerator on set. I’m not going to accidentally cuddle anything or anyone tonight.

Dustin gets ready after me, coming out of the bathroom wearing a thin white T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. His feet are bare.

My eyes don’t know where to land. I’m trying not to notice his arms in that T-shirt, so I look at his toes.

But that feels weird, so I lift my eyes to his hands.

Weirder. His thighs? Nope. Not that. Finally, my gaze darts up to his face where I catch his amused grin.

“Don’t say a thing right now,” I insist.

“About?”

“Anything.”

“I was just going to tell you about when I was a kid,” he says with a wink. “Before I grew into all of this.” He makes a show of flexing both arms low like a bodybuilder. Then he tips his chin up, flexes his left arm down and his right arm up while gazing off into the distance.

He turns toward me and cracks up.

“I’m just messing with you, Firecracker.”

I smile at the nickname. I don’t hate it, especially when he looks at me like that.

Dustin walks over to the chair in the sitting area next to his side of the bed. He plops down into the chair, extending his long legs out in front of himself. I envy the way he’s always so comfortable in his own skin.

He looks over at me, stretching his arms and propping them behind his head.

I can barely look at him. Does he even know what he looks like?

He jokes about it. But I’m starting to think he has no idea how naturally magnetic he is.

It’s not just his buoyant personality and the way he rolls with any situation.

It’s his eyes, his jawline, his body which is obviously the result of hours and hours of hard work. I bury my face in my pillow.

Dustin starts to speak, “I tried to bake a few times …” His voice drifts off. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” I say into my pillow.

I can’t look at him right now. Every thought I just had will be painted on my face like neon graffiti on a cinder block wall.

“That’s what I thought,” he says. “Because when I’m okay, I burrow my head into my pillow.”

The smile on my face is instantaneous—it’s the one he never fails to draw out.

I lift my head. “Tired,” I say. “I’m just tired.”

“You worked hard today,” his face is soft and compassionate.

He needs to stop all of that, the whole thing …

Mister I’m sexy and don’t even know it , and I’m a playful puppy dog, but I’m also the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet …

and I can save you from a fire or protect you in a dark alley and then make you double over with laughter .

A girl only has so much resolve before she’ll crack and break every rule and code she carefully laid in place.

And then what?

He’s staring at me, but with an ease that’s so him.

“You were saying?” I ask him.

“Hmmm … what was I saying?” He runs a hand through his hair and looks at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded with sleep. “Oh yeah. I was telling you about my intricate experience as a world-class baker.”

“As evidenced by your blindfolded frosting skills,” I say.

I roll over onto my side so I’m facing him, curling into the mattress and exhaling a long breath.

We made it through round one. Dustin might think I made it through without his help, but I saw plenty of people struggling to get their partners to cooperate or learn under pressure. He did amazingly well.

“I tried to bake a few times,” Dustin says, with this impish look that makes me picture him as a boy. “Mother’s Day. My sister’s birthday. Things like that.”

“That’s pretty sweet,” I admit out loud.

“I made awful concoctions. Always forgot something or maybe I put in the wrong things. I don’t really know. My baked goods turned out like rocks or goo.” His brows raise.

“Maybe you didn’t know what the measurements were supposed to be. Or you overmixed.”

“Or I put cream instead of cream of tartar.”

I giggle. “Yeah. That’s a definite possibility.”

“But you always baked,” he says with this note of awe in his voice. “Your whole life?”

“I did. I grew up baking with Gran. I loved it from the very first experience, or at least the first I remember. It was magical how you could mix all these ingredients and end up with something delicious. Think about it. Flour? That’s like powder and it doesn’t have much taste.

Eggs. You’d never eat them raw. Butter. Well, butter’s awesome.

But baking soda? Baking powder? You put all these together and depending on how you do it, you get a cake or cookies or muffins …

basically the same ingredients make all baked goods. ”

“That’s incredible.”

“Yeah.” I yawn. “I baked simply to experience that magic for years.”

“And now?”

I don’t answer him right away. Instead, images of me fulfilling orders, balancing spreadsheets, taking inventory, greeting customers, and cleaning up after we’re closed flood my mind.

“Now I bake for the customers. Part of that has its own magic. A cookie to a child who had a bad day at school, a cake to celebrate fifty years of marriage, donuts on teacher appreciation day. What I bake spreads joy and makes people feel good. And I still love the early morning hours when the bakery is dark and silent, and I flick the switch on our kitchen wall and get busy creating.”

“You’re the best baker in the world,” he says it so earnestly I’d almost buy what he’s selling.

“I’m so not! You should travel to France … Belgium … New York. I’m good. But I’m not great.”

“Beg to differ. You passed the scrutiny of six snooty judges today in a competition with highly skilled bakers from around the country.”

“I’m good. Not great.”

I don’t know what it is about him, or this moment, the exhaustion, the ease between us … but I find myself sharing my heart as if I’m on one side of a confessional. “I don’t know what I’d do if I ever stopped baking. It’s really the only time I feel in control.”

Now I want to bury my face again. But I’m so glad I don’t because Dustin stands up, treads the few steps to the edge of the bed and sits down so he can look right at me when he says his next words.

“Everyone feels out of control, Emberleigh. That’s part of being human.

How do you think I feel running into a fire when humans are literally wired to run away from danger?

I’m so out of control at that moment, but I’m also more focused than any other time in my life.

I have no illusion of control in that setting, and I think running into danger on a regular basis has taught me to be fully okay with my own humanity.

I am what I am. And I can’t be more than that.

“Life’s risky—riskier than running into a fire. But if you don’t run in, you’ll miss all the action.”

There’s something in his voice—like maybe he’s speaking from more than just firehouse wisdom. Like he’s lost something by playing it safe before.

“So, I should run into fires?” I tease.

“You should allow firemen to carry you out of fires,” he says with a wink.

“I’ll consider it.”

“Good.” Dustin smiles down at me, then he pivots and lays on the bed.

He pops up as fast as he reclined. “Forgot the wall. Hold that thought.”

He busies himself grabbing pillows from where we stacked them under the window and reconstructs the barrier I need more than he’ll ever know.

“How’d Syd get in on the baking action?” he asks, placing the last pillow between us and lying down again.

“She was possibly roped into it at first. Way back in elementary school.”

“By a certain redhead?” He turns his head to look at me, lowering a pillow out of the way.

The soft yellow glow of the lamp on my side table cascades across his features making him into a fireplace, the kind you want to curl up in front of and never leave.

“Syd and I were friends. I was always baking. She learned from me. But don’t let that fool you.

She came to love it as much as I do. She’s honed her craft over the years.

She’s willing to take risks. Working with Syd has changed me for the better.

She’s so unconstrained. I tend to be a follow-the-recipe type, even when there isn’t a recipe—like in life. ”

Dustin lays across from me, his eyes on mine. He doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s taking it all in. I would have never imagined him being such a good listener when we first met.

“I hope Syd’s holding up without me there,” I say.

Dustin surprises me by asking, “By the way, is she seeing someone?”