Page 2 of One S'more Time

2

FLOUR, FROSTING, AND SELF-DOUBT

ELLIE

I smooth the banner on my booth for the third time, though it already hangs perfectly straight. "Sweet Somethings" in elegant script, with my cupcake logo beneath it. The sun is just starting to rise over the Saturday morning farmer's market, casting a warm glow over the rows of tents. My display isn't exactly Pinterest-worthy, but the cupcakes themselves? Those tiny masterpieces could make angels weep. At least, that's what I tell myself on good days.

I've arranged them in neat rows: vanilla bean with raspberry buttercream, chocolate hazelnut with salted caramel drizzle, lemon lavender with honey glaze, and, debuting today, my new s'mores cupcakes with toasted marshmallow frosting. Each one is topped with the tiniest edible decoration I could find at 5 AM this morning when I was stress-baking. My ex always said I put too much effort into "just desserts," but that's the whole point, isn't it? Nothing about something delicious should ever be "just" anything.

"These s'mores cupcakes are next-level, girl." Krissa's friend Zara has just taken a bite, and her eyes roll back dramatically.The gesture sends warmth fluttering through my chest, not quite confidence, but something close. It's that little spark of validation that makes all those 3 AM baking sessions worth it. For a moment, I forget about the rent increase notice taped to my fridge or how my dating app has been suspiciously quiet lately. When someone enjoys something I've created this much, I feel almost whole again. Maybe Drew was wrong about more than just my cupcakes being "too much."

I've spent three nights perfecting that chocolate ganache center, the homemade marshmallow frosting with just the right torching technique, determined not to have a repeat of last year's bake-off disaster. Even though I somehow won despite covering three contestants in buttercream, I'd rather avoid that kind of chaos this time. Each graham cracker crumb was placed with tweezers because details matter.

My phone vibrates with a reminder about tomorrow's "Autumn First Fires" bonfire fundraiser checklist. I've been ignoring these alerts all morning, but there's no escaping the fact that I've volunteered to bring three dozen specialty cookies. Because apparently running Sweet Somethings isn't enough—I need to spend my one free evening piping little flame designs onto sugar cookies while binging reality TV. Drew would have called this "overcommitting again," but what does he know? The community center needs the money, and people deserve good cookies, even if it means I'll be up until midnight with orange and red royal icing under my fingernails.

I've committed to providing two hundred mini cupcakes for another event next week, which ensures no sleep tonight as I prepare. My tiny bakery kitchen will be a disaster zone of flour, butter, and chocolate, but what else would I be doing on a Saturday night? Certainly not dating. Not since Drew looked meup and down and said, "You'd be perfect if you just lost thirty pounds." The memory still stings like a paper cut—small but surprisingly painful.

"These should be illegal," Krissa mumbles through a mouthful of cupcake, and I can't help but smile. This—creating something that brings someone joy—is my safe place. No judgment, no disappointed looks, just pure appreciation. "Are you bringing these to the bonfire tomorrow?" she asks, and there it is: the question I've been wrestling with all morning.

Will people like them? Or will they be too messy for an outdoor event? Too fancy? Not fancy enough?The spiral starts, that familiar whirlpool of doubt that's been my constant companion since the breakup. "I'm thinking about it," I say instead of voicing any of this. "I'm worried they're not practical for eating around a fire."

Krissa and Zara exchange a look I can't quite decipher, and my stomach tightens. I busy myself rearranging the display, though it doesn't need it. I nudge each cupcake a millimeter to the right, then back again, as if the perfect alignment will somehow solve the knot of anxiety in my chest. It's what I do when I'm nervous: fiddle with things until they're exactly right, even when they already were. My hands need something to do besides twist themselves into pretzels. I'm not good with silences. They remind me of empty apartments and unanswered texts.

"You know what would be perfect with these cupcakes?" Zara asks, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "That new firefighter who just moved to town from the next town over." My face heats faster than my kitchen oven. I've seen him exactly once, striding into the coffee shop across from Sweet Somethings, all broad shoulders and quiet presence. His dark hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and I'd literally stopped mid-frosting to stare. Theman was built like someone had ordered him straight from my secret fantasy catalog—tall enough that I'd need to stand on tiptoe even in my work clogs, with the kind of strong jawline that belonged on a movie poster. And the way he'd smiled at Mia behind the counter had made my stomach do a ridiculous little flip. Not that I'd been watching or anything. I promptly dropped a tray of croissants.

"I don't have time for that," I say too quickly, focusing intently on aligning my cupcake boxes. What I don't say: I fall asleep every night to romance audiobooks, stories of women being cherished exactly as they are. I pause the steamy scenes at least twice, imagining hands on my curves instead of critical eyes. In my dreams, someone appreciates the softness of my body instead of seeing it as something to fix. I picture strong, appreciative fingers tracing the dip of my waist, the fullness of my hips—places Drew only ever saw as "problem areas." The disconnect between fiction and my reality is almost comical.

A customer approaches, saving me from further matchmaking attempts. She's an older woman with perfectly coiffed silver hair who eyes my display table with the serious concentration of someone selecting a diamond rather than a dessert. I'm grateful for the interruption, for the chance to slip back into the comfortable role of baker rather than reluctant romantic prospect. At least with cupcakes, I know exactly what I'm doing, in contrast to my love life, where I feel like I'm constantly reading from a script written in a language I barely understand.

I slip into my professional smile, the one that says I'm confident and accomplished—not someone who rehearses casual conversations in the shower or who stress-bakes until 3 AM. Not someone who both craves connection and runs from it in the same breath.

"I'll take a dozen," the woman says, pointing to my s'mores cupcakes without hesitation. No deliberation, no doubt—just pure want. I carefully box up her selection, making sure each cupcake is nestled securely. "Enjoy," I say as I hand over the box, and she gives me a warm smile before moving on. For one fleeting moment, I wonder what it would feel like to be wanted that way. To have someone look at all of me—soft stomach, thick thighs, and baking-obsessed heart—and think:yes, a dozen of her, please.

As the afternoon wears on, the crowd begins to thin, and vendors start packing up their booths. I say goodbye to Krissa and Zara, who promise to text me later about plans for the bonfire. I load the remaining cupcakes into my car—the unsold ones destined for donation to the local shelter—and head back to Sweet Somethings. Mrs. Jenkins asked about pricing for her granddaughter's birthday party, and I already know I'll charge her half what I should. My accountant would have a fit if she knew how often I undervalue my work, but some things matter more than profit margins.

Later that night, back at Sweet Somethings, I let myself daydream just a little. I lean against the counter, mindlessly tracing patterns in the dusting of sugar across its surface. I've never had a man accept me for who I am. Not really. It's always been "you'd be so pretty if you just..." and what follows that "just" always feels like an impossibility. Shed those extra pounds. Wear more flattering clothes. Try harder with your makeup. As if I'm a renovation project with good bones but disappointing finishings. As if the softness of my body is something to apologize for rather than celebrate. I sigh and straighten my apron.These are dangerous thoughts to indulge in when there are still three batches of shortbread to finish before closing.

Thank goodness for the shortbread, though. For the ritual of baking. For letting my mind rest while my muscle memory takes over. There's something almost meditative about the way my hands know exactly how much pressure to apply when kneading dough, how to fold in butter until it's just right. The familiar scent of vanilla and sugar wraps around me like a comfortable blanket. But my mind is never truly quiet. It conjures up a picture of that firefighter—Nate, I think his name is—and runs with it. His sturdy frame, the laugh lines around his eyes that deepen when he smiles. I imagine if he looked at me like he actually saw me—not a project to fix, but a woman worth knowing. I catch myself smiling at the mixing bowl and quickly redirect my focus. I've been down this road before, letting my imagination get carried away with possibilities that never materialize.

I shake my head.This is dangerous territory. Men like that don't go for women like me. They just don't.I've watched enough romantic comedies to know I'm the quirky best friend, not the leading lady. Guys with hero complexes and perfect jawlines end up with willowy women who wear yoga pants as a lifestyle choice, not bakers who stress-eat their own creations. That's just how the world works. I've got the rejection scars to prove it, and I'm not interested in collecting another one, no matter how good his smile makes my stomach feel.

When the shortbread comes out of the oven, filling the bakery with its buttery aroma, I decide to scrap the "safe" cookies I'd been planning for the bonfire tomorrow and go all out with mini versions of the s'mores cupcakes that Krissa and Zara had liked so much instead.Why play it cautious when I could showcase something that actually makes people's eyes roll back in their heads?Besides, there's something therapeutic about the process: toasting tiny marshmallows with my kitchen torch,piping perfect swirls of chocolate ganache, crushing graham crackers into just the right consistency. My hands know what to do even when my heart's a jumbled mess. And if I'm being honest with myself, which apparently is today's unwelcome theme, maybe I'm tired of playing it safe in more ways than one.

I get started on the cupcakes and try my best to put cute firefighters out of my head. I focus on weighing flour with scientific precision, beating butter until it's impossibly fluffy—anything to drown out thoughts of strong hands and kind eyes. It's ridiculous how one brief encounter has me this distracted. I've got a business to run, for heaven's sake, not a fantasy to indulge. But as I pipe perfect swirls of buttercream, I can't help wondering if Nate likes vanilla or chocolate better.Ugh. This is exactly why I don't date customers.

This is exactly why I shouldn't date at all.All it leads to is confusion and self-doubt. Like I need more of that in my life. I've spent the last year trying to rebuild Sweet Somethings and my self-esteem, and one charming firefighter with kind eyes threatens to unravel all that hard work. Dating means opening myself up to judgment, to the inevitable moment when someone decides I'm not quite what they wanted after all. I've been down that road before, and the exit ramp was brutal. No thank you. I'll stick with my mixers and measuring cups; at least they never tell me I'm too much or somehow lacking.

3

EMBERS OF POSSIBILITY

NATE

The smell of sawdust and fresh-cut timber follows me everywhere these days. Even after three showers, it's embedded in my skin—a reminder of my new normal. I've caught myself absently running my fingers over the grain of wooden beams, appreciating textures I never had time to notice during my firefighting days. Twenty-two years of running into burning buildings, and now I'm supposed to figure out what to do with myself at forty-three. Early retirement wasn't exactly my plan, but after that beam came down on my shoulder last spring, the department doc made it clear: one more bad call and I might not have a right arm to use at all.

So here I am, cutting lumber for the community bonfire like some kind of glorified handyman instead of leading my crew into a blaze. The contrast isn't lost on me. Preparing wood for a controlled fire when what I really crave is the adrenaline rush of taming a wild one. My shoulder protests as I reach for another plank, a persistent reminder that my body betrayed me before I was ready to hang up my helmet.

My sister Tara thinks I'm "wasting away in bachelor purgatory." Her words, not mine. According to her, I'm supposed to be devastated about being single, like it's some terminal diagnosis. "You're alone because you choose to be alone," she said last month while simultaneously signing me up for some matchmaking service without my permission. "All those years of shift work gave you the perfect excuse to avoid commitment." I didn't argue because arguing with Tara is like trying to put out a grease fire with water—it only makes things worse. The flames just spread, and suddenly you're explaining yourself to the fire department while your kitchen ceiling drips black goo.

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