The heartbreak Twister cake went viral. Not in a salmonella poisoning way, but an Internet sensation way.

It was ironic in a way. The story of Mark and the fire had exploded after that first article, and as a result, interest in my cakes and the shop opening was a hot topic. I’d accused him of using my near-death experience as a stepping-stone, and here I was profiting off it as well.

There was nothing I could do to stop it, no matter how hard I tried to fend off messages and comments about the asshole Mark Ryder and his shady past. Once the train had left the station, someone had severed the breaks. I’d complained for years about my mediocre, lonely life, and now that something was happening, I wanted to get off. Stat. This was not how I wanted to be discovered.

So, when I got a message from Justin the firefighter asking me out for a drink, I immediately replied with a yes. Justin…well, he was normal. I needed normal. Normal was the antidote to drama, right?

We met at a bar on Brunswick Street the following Thursday. It was exactly a month after the fire and two weeks after the article about Mark broke. Which meant, it was two whole weeks since I’d seen the fighter. Our whirlwind romance had blown the roofs off the neighborhood, and now the cleanup was in progress. It was a strange notion when destruction only took seconds while the aftermath could take years to deal with. What a pain in the ass.

Justin arrived before me. He was sitting on a stool at the bar, watching the door anxiously, and when I arrived, he stood and smiled from ear to ear.

“You look beautiful,” he said, raking his gaze over me.

“Thanks.” I flushed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I was doing the awkward thing. Mark had said I did it when I was into someone, but I was beginning to believe it was a symptom of being the center of attention.

“What are you drinking?” Justin asked.

“Gin and tonic.”

I stood beside him, giving him the once-over as he placed an order with the bartender. Justin scrubbed up nice out of uniform. He was wearing a tight pair of blue jeans with his boots tucked underneath. His black shirt was buttoned up to the collar, and the arms were rolled down all the way. His hair was artfully messy. The kind of rough and ready look that probably took a good fifteen minutes to arrange each strand just so. And he was clean-shaven. Everything about him was the opposite of Mark.

Paying for our drinks, he picked them up as we scoured the little bar for a spot to sit. Finding a table among the crowd, we sat opposite one another. I perched awkwardly in the corner, nursing my bag on my lap.

“How’s the shop coming along?” Justin asked, attempting to get the conversation started.

“Good. They should be ready to start the fit out soon.”

“So back on track?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s almost back to the point I was at before the fire. I just need my oven and a fridge or two installed, and I can start using the kitchen again.”

“That’s great,” he said with a smile. “I often pass by and see tradies working in there. How are you after the fire? Have you been feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “I was fine after a little oxygen. No sweat.” Apart from a few nightmares. I didn’t add that last part on account of not knowing the guy. Best way to put a dampener on a first date was to talk about the dreams where you were being burned alive. That would go down a treat.

“You ended up finding the guy?” Justin asked, bringing up the inevitable.

“Yeah. Before it was in the papers,” I replied with a shrug. “I didn’t exactly know.”

“Of course, you didn’t,” Justin said with a reassuring smile. “No one did. He hasn’t given you any trouble, has he?”

“No.” I eyed him warily, sensing he wanted to go in to bat for me. It was a little too much, too soon. Calm down, I thought to myself.

I swirled the straw around in my drink, the ice cubes clinking against each other, then I stabbed the slice of lime repeatedly.

“That cake you posted online is amazing, by the way,” Justin said, attempting to change the subject.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t know how you come up with your ideas, but it looks complicated.”

“It’s not really,” I said. “It’s just chocolate sponge with a boysenberry jam filling. Then fairy floss and lots of icing and lollies.”

“You lost me at sponge.” He flashed me a dazzling smile.

“So how long have you been a firefighter for?”

“Five years,” he said, his face lighting up. “It’s a really difficult selection process. There’s a written exam, a fitness test, medical, psychological evaluations…”

He began to rattle off his life history in the Melbourne Fire Brigade, and I stared blankly at him, nodding and smiling at the right intervals. He was nice even though he was a one-dimensional guy, so why did I feel so disappointed? The moment I left, I had the odd feeling running up and down my spine that I would burst into tears.

Deep down, I knew nothing would come of Justin and me. Nothing at all. When I looked at him, I didn’t feel the spark I’d felt when I looked at Mark. When he spoke, my thoughts drifted away, and when he asked me a question, it was an effort to answer. I was such a bitch.

Glancing at my phone, I saw it was ten p.m.

“I’ve got to get going,” I said, showing Justin the screen. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Shoot,” he said. “Me, too. I lost track there.” He smiled again and pushed his chair back. Holding out his hand, he helped me to my feet like a gentleman. “Can I give you a ride home?”

“Uh… I’m not far. I have to make a stop on the way, anyway,” I replied, deftly dodging his attempts at getting me alone. He would try to kiss me, and I would have to let him down. I just couldn’t do it.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded.

“Well, I’ll see you then?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

“Sure,” I replied as we walked through the bar and out onto the street. Damn, he even held the door open for me. Why couldn’t my bits zing for him? He was hot, sweet, and all the things a girl could ever want in a guy. What was the problem?

We hugged goodbye and parted ways, and the date was over.

Walking down Brunswick Street, my shoulders sagged. There had to be something wrong with me.

Standing outside my shop, I smiled when I saw the signs had been put up in the windows. The glass was still blocked out with newspaper, but the gold decals were in place. The Fitzroy Cake Company was that much closer to becoming a reality, and for the first time since the fire, my heart began to race with excitement.

Grabbing my keys from the bottom of my bag, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Darting behind the counter, I flicked on the light switches and took a deep breath. It was exactly as I’d envisioned it. Better, actually.

All that was missing was the shop fixtures. The counters, the shelving, display cabinets, tables, and chairs. And out in the kitchen, the ovens, fridges, and appliances were yet to be delivered. Then once the doors opened, it was time to start paying back my business loan.

I was on the downward slope of the speed bump. The one and only decline I was grateful to ride. This was the tipping point. The last month was an ugly pimple between my eyes, and now it had popped. This was it. Finally.

Turning, I envisioned the place where I would put the Twister-themed cake. Maybe I could do a special display every month and make a feature out of it. Spinning around, I could see the display cases lit up and stuffed full of colorful cupcakes and macaroons. Mix and match, pick and mix, twenty different flavors. Christmas-themed cinnamon spice, pumpkins at Halloween, mangos in summer, sparkles at New Year’s, rainbows for Gay Pride.

Turning, my elation popped and fizzed, then died completely as I came face-to-face with Mark ‘Storm’ Ryder. He stood inside my shop, his jacket half hanging off, his left arm in a cast, looking like a lost puppy that had been fossicking through a dumpster.

I opened my mouth, but he beat me to it.

“Before you get that restraining order, you need to know one thing.” He stared at me, his brow furrowed. “It was a lie.”

“What?” My gaze fell to the cast and back up again. I didn’t understand.

“What happened with that woman in America. It was a fabrication. I’ve never raised my hand to a woman in my life.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?” I asked. “Am I just supposed to take your word for it?”

“What would you like me to say?” he asked. “I wasn’t the first person she conned. It was her word against mine, and the evidence was stacked against me. A few photographs, a few tears, and all of a sudden, she was a hundred thousand dollars richer, and I was broke. She didn’t care what happened to me. I was destroyed. My reputation, my career, everything. I can’t even get a minimum wage factory job.”

It was my turn to stare at him. It was the most I’d ever heard Mark speak in back-to-back sentences, and I wasn’t sure how to take it. Those sad eyes that had haunted me the night of the fire were back and in full force. Was this his version of broken? Was this his truth? I didn’t know.

“Callie, I would never hurt you,” he went on. “I’m fucked up, but I would never hurt you like that.”

I wished there was a chair for me to sit on because my knees were wobbly like jelly.

“I want to believe you,” I whispered. “But… I went out with Justin tonight.”

His expression fell.

“If the story was a lie, then why did you let me believe it?” I asked. “Why didn’t you say anything when…”

“Because…” He took a deep breath. “Because…”

“Because?” I prodded.

“I didn’t do it, but maybe I deserved the punishment.”

“What are you talking about?” I scowled. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I was a jerk. I still am.”

I shook my head, not even knowing what to say to that. “I don’t know if I’ll ever understand you, Mark.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else, so I stay away.”

I snorted. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You say you’re pushing people away to protect them, but who’ll protect you? Huh? You can care about other people but won’t let anyone care about you?”

“You sound like Lori,” he muttered.

My scowl deepened. I didn’t know who that was.

“It doesn’t change the fact that you lied to me,” I said. “Not outright but by omission. Now you’re asking me to take it on faith you’re innocent, and you’re admitting to hurting people to save them. From what? Being associated with that domestic violence story?” I shook my head. “This is fucking crazy, you know that?”

He lowered his gaze. “I know.”

“So what changed?” I asked. “Why did you come back?”

“I’d given up,” he muttered. “I’ve got nothing, but when I was with you…”

He trailed off, and I waited, my heart jackhammering in my chest. This was the zing I was hoping for all night. The snap, crackle, and pop of electricity that signaled I was attracted to someone. Like a sordid joke, it was a complicated, brooding, messed-up man like Mark. How could I survive this?

“Callie…” he whispered, taking a step closer. “You’ve gotta believe me.”

His chocolate eyes were sparkling. Were they tears? For real?

Before I could reconcile my thoughts, Mark strode forward and pulled me against his chest. When his lips met mine, I wanted to push him away, but I melted. He was the fire, and I was molten metal. His desire bent me to his will, and I was a goner. The trouble was, I wanted him.

His tongue ran along the seam of my lips, demanding entrance, but it was I who forced my way forward. I buried my hands into his scruffy hair and held him close, kissing him back just as deeply. My body reacted to his, my nipples tightening and my clit aching as his taste overwhelmed me. This was what I was hoping for all night. Justin wasn’t Mark. That was the problem.

His left arm was tight around my waist, the cast feeling strange against my lower back, and his right hand tangled in my hair, holding me in place as his lips caressed mine. What should I do now? Believe his story and give him a chance?

“How could this be wrong?” he asked, his mouth brushing against my swollen lips. “How could it be when it feels like this?”

“Like what?” I whispered.

His eyes were hooded, his jaw tight.

“Like what?” I asked again.

“Like nothing else matters.”

We stood in the middle of my shop, tangled in each other, for a long time. I studied the flecks of black in his chestnut-colored eyes, memorized the line of his jaw, traced the curve of his cheek, and took in the last yellow tinges of the black eye he’d shown up with on our second date.

He was deeply complicated and a puzzle I might never solve, but I found myself wanting to give him a chance. One final chance.

Finally, I sighed, cupped his face in my trembling hands, and spoke the words in my heart.

“I believe you.”