Page 7 of Fire and Icing (The Firemen of Waterford TN #1)

Emberleigh

Apologies aren't meant to change the past,

they are meant to change the future.

~ Kevin Hancock

“Enjoy that cake, Mrs. Manning,” I smile at my customer and hand her a paper bag with the boxed cake inside it.

The bell over the door rings. It’s still early enough that the stream of customers is constant. I look toward the door, a ready smile on my face. “Welcome in …” My words trail off when I see the man standing in the doorway, holding it open for a mother and her two children to pass him.

“Go ahead,” he says, as if he’s always considerate of people’s God-given volition.

Dustin, the rookie who hauled me out of my house during the kitchen fire, strides to the counter and leans his forearm on the glass I just wiped down only minutes ago.

Sydney appears at my side, nudging me. “Uh, Emberleigh? A word?”

She steps back toward the coffee station. I follow her, holding my pointer finger up to Dustin. “Give me a second, please.”

“What’s up?” I ask Sydney.

Her voice is barely hushed. Dustin definitely hears her exclaim, “Wowzah. Oh. Goodness. I mean, yes. Yes, indeed.”

“Get a grip,” I mumble to her. “I think you’re drooling. And did you just call me away from the counter to freak out over a man— that man?”

“The bigger question is, why aren’t you drooling?” Sydney whispers to me. “That brawny, chiseled, walking wall of muscle had you over his shoulder!”

“Without my consent,” I remind her.

I look over at him. If I hadn’t been the one standing in my kitchen one minute and then whisked off my feet and viewing the world upside down the next, I could see the appeal.

He’s smiling a nonchalant smile. Warm. That’s what it says.

Not, I’ll lift you and spin you without your permission.

If we had met in a normal way, maybe I’d see what Syd’s seeing.

Syd puts the back of her hand on my forehead. I jerk back, glancing toward the customers who are waiting at our counter.

“What are you doing?” I ask Sydney under my breath.

She’s not nearly as discreet when she answers me. “Taking your temp. You must be ill. How else would you explain resisting him? You totally undersold the hotness factor in the retelling of your house fire.”

“We’ll take this up later,” I mutter.

I return to our customers, intentionally avoiding Dustin’s eyes, which are definitely riveted on me and Sydney. “Good morning, Melissa. Hi, Peyton and Libby.”

“Morning!” Melissa’s twins greet me. “We want the smiley face cookie,” Peyton tells me. “We each get our own one.”

“You do, do you? Well, let me check with your mom on that.” I look at Melissa and she nods.

“Can I throw in a few of these baby donuts?” I point to the stack of donut holes in the glass case. “For another day?”

“That’s so sweet of you, Emberleigh,” Melissa says.

I may have recently lived through a fire that’s going to cost me an arm and a leg to repair, but I’m not about to stop handing out free treats to my favorite customers.

I’ll figure out other ways to pinch pennies—I’m going to have to figure out something.

The bakery won’t close this year, but our expenses have exceeded our income over the past few months and you can’t keep running a business in a deficit.

I set all thoughts of our bottom line out of my head and smile at Melissa.

“How about a latte?” I ask her.

“I’d love one.” Her eyes drift to Dustin.

He smiles a winsome smile at her. Then he glances over at me and our eyes lock. I busy myself with getting the twins their cookies. “Syd, can you help the rookie?”

“Gladly.” She nearly bounds to the spot next to me at the counter.

“I’m Sydney … Syd … Call me Syd. All my friends call me Syd,” she blurts to Dustin, tilting her head and doing everything short of batting her lashes at the man taking up the space of two normal-sized humans in front of our counter.

“It’s so good to finally meet the hero who rescued my partner from her house fire. ”

“A minor kitchen fire. Mostly contained before he arrived,” I mutter.

I ring up Melissa’s order, passing the bags of cookies and donut holes to the twins and setting her coffee in front of the register.

“Oh!” Melissa exclaims to Dustin. “You’re the new fireman in town?”

“Yes. That’s me.” Dustin looks almost bashful.

“Well, welcome to Waterford. We’re so glad to have you here.”

Melissa introduces herself and her two children, tells him all the details of her husband’s job as an accountant ending with, “Let us know if you need anything as you settle in.”

“Thank you very much,” Dustin grins warmly at Melissa.

She and her kids walk out, stopping to chat with one more local before actually making their way to the sidewalk.

“What can I get you?” Syd asks Dustin when he turns back to the counter.

“Actually …” he smiles at her too.

Again with that smile—the same smile he gave me after he hauled me out of my house.

The one that belongs in a playbook. The one he probably honed as a teenage heartbreaker, sharpened like a blade, polished like a weapon.

A smile designed to disarm. A tool in his arsenal.

He wields that smile like a master swordsman.

And it gets the job done. Half the women in my shop fall into a collective sigh-fest—unwitting casualties of his tactical charm.

“I need to talk to Emberleigh,” Dustin says, unexpectedly.

“To me?” I touch my hand to my chest.

He nods.

“Oh, okay.” Syd’s obvious disappointment seeps into her voice.

“Nothing personal,” he says to Syd. “It’s sort of … well … I just have to.”

“Ahhhh …” Syd smiles. “Is this one of those initiation things y’all do at the station?”

“Initiation?” He winks at Sydney. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

Smooth. So smooth.

“I just need to say something to Emberleigh,” Dustin explains to Syd. “And give her our order.”

“Well …” Sydney waves as if ushering Dustin in my direction. “... be my guest.”

All eyes are on Dustin and me except for the few customers seated and chatting at tables down past the end of the glass case.

Dustin steps over to the spot in front of me, leaning just close enough to send an unexpected flicker of heat across my cheeks. He shifts, glances left, then right—like he’s checking to see who’s watching us. Then he takes a deep breath, pausing before releasing it.

His eyes lock on to mine, steady, unreadable. He rubs one hand over the back of his neck before finally speaking.

“I uh …” Dustin clears his throat, followed by a half-nod. His lips press together for a second before he lets out another sigh. It’s weighty, considering we’re in a bakery and he’s only here to give me an order for whatever the guys asked him to bring back.

“I’m truly sorry I—” he winces a little “—manhandled you like an oaf, Emberleigh.”

A slow, reluctant warmth fills my chest, one I refuse to acknowledge.

He actually called himself an oaf? And he admits to manhandling me? Huh.

Dustin’s gaze never wavers. Those slate blue eyes study me—more grey than blue today, with a stronger patch of brown around one pupil than the other. Distractingly uneven. Like maybe he’s not as put-together as his practiced smirk suggests.

“Okay. That’s fine. We’re good. Could we just not talk about it?” My words come out more clipped than I intend.

An apology was the last thing I expected—certainly not one delivered in front of my whole store during the tail end of the morning rush.

I look away from Dustin and down into the case. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a dozen donuts in whatever flavors you want to give us. But if you have any of those blueberry-lemon donuts, you might want to put a couple of those in—or three.”

“You like that one?” I ask.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of it after I ate it. Might have been the best donut I’ve ever eaten.”

I turn and pull a pink box off the stack under the counter and start assembling it. My cheeks heat for the third time in minutes. Ridiculous. People compliment our donuts all the time.

First he apologizes, and now he’s praising my donuts. He’s got his technique down, I’ll give him that.

I put a variety of donuts in the box, finishing with three blueberry-lemon. Not that I care whether he gets one or not, but he’s a customer and he stated his order. I can’t have people saying I don’t give customers what they request.

“I’ll ring you up over here,” Syd says when I hand the filled box over to her.

The bell over the door tinkles—a welcome break from the tension curling through my chest. Then I see her. Vanessa. My stomach tightens. My jaw does too. My fingers curl around the counter edge, pressing into the cold ceramic.

Vanessa walks in like she owns the place. Like she owns the whole town. Maybe, piece by piece, she’s starting to.

She’s wearing a low-cut blouse and jeans. Her hair is perfectly curled and her makeup is flawless.

“Mornin’ ladies,” she says to me and Sydney and then, of course, her eyes drift to Dustin.

He’s in his station uniform, a navy snap-up shirt and matching pants with black shoes and a black belt. It’s a telltale sign he’s a firefighter. And firemen just happen to be Vanessa’s kryptonite.

“Well, look at who we have here.” She walks over to Dustin where he’s slipping a few dollars into our tip jar—the one Syd taped a sign to a while back. It says, A little dough makes our day a whole lot butter.

“Hello, there,” Vanessa says, placing her hand on Dustin’s shoulder. “I’m Vanessa. And you must be Dustin.”

“Vanessa?” Dustin’s eyes widen with a look of recognition.

Did the guys at the station warn him about her?

He quickly covers his initial reaction with a smile.

“Yes. Vanessa Keele. I’m the other baker in town. I do my baking as a cottage business—from my own home kitchen. You’re welcome by anytime for a sample.”

Dustin’s lips thin just the slightest, but he smiles. “Thank you for the offer.”