He looks at the camera like it's a wild animal that might bite him. "I don't know about ready."
"It will be easy," I tell him. "Just pretend I'm not here."
He gives me a look that makes it very clear that pretending I'm not here is completely impossible for him. The thought sends a warm buzz through my stomach.
I frame the shot and hit record. The camera captures the precise flex of his hands as he rotates the cake stand, the slow sweep of his piping, the concentration etched across his face. I swear the man could sell an entire frosting subscription service with these visuals alone.
"Beautiful," I murmur under my breath.
He glances at me. "The cake or the work?"
I lift my camera a little higher. "Take your pick."
The line earns me a faint flush on his neck. It’s unexpectedly adorable.
I switch angles and try a close-up of his hands. He moves with such careful control that I understand instantly why people trust him. You can see the story in the way he touches things. His life has carved precision into him.
"This is perfect," I say. "Can you go a little slower on the next pass?"
He nods and slows the piping; his forearm flexes. My camera loves it, and my brain goes slightly offline.
"That is incredible," I breathe.
He flicks a glance at me with a soft, slightly amused huff. "It’s just frosting."
"It’s frosting in your hands," I say. "Different category."
The faintest smile touches his lips. I feel smug for absolutely no reason.
I continue filming, moving around him to capture different angles. The way the light catches the silver of his piping tip. The way his brow furrows when he is working on a particularlydelicate section. The way he occasionally glances up to check on Maddie, who is coloring at her little table nearby.
Everything about this man speaks of care. Of intention. Of someone who has learned to hold things gently because he knows how easily they can break.
After about twenty minutes, I lower the camera. "Can we do an interview segment? Just a few questions about the design and what it means to the town?"
He hesitates, and I can see the anxiety flickering across his face.
"We can keep it short," I add quickly. "And you can review everything before I post it. I promise I'll not make you uncomfortable."
He takes a slow breath, then nods. "All right. But if I sound like an idiot, you have to delete it."
"Deal. Though I doubt that will happen."
I reposition the camera on the tripod and adjust the framing so the festival cake is visible behind him. He wipes his hands on his apron and stands a little straighter, like he is bracing himself.
"Okay," I say gently. "Just talk to me, not the camera. Tell me about the phoenix design. Why did you choose it?"
He glances at the cake, then back at me. "The town went through something traumatic with the wildfires a few years ago. A lot of people lost their homes. Some lost loved ones. The phoenix felt like the right symbol because it's about rising from the ashes. It's about transformation and renewal."
"And is that personal for you, too?" I ask softly.
His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't look away. "Yes. I lost my wife during the evacuations. So this cake is not just about the town, it’s about anyone who has had to rebuild after loss."
The raw honesty in his voice makes my throat tight.
"That is beautiful," I say quietly. "Thank you for sharing that."
He nods, and I can see the vulnerability in his expression, the effort it took to say those words out loud.
