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She swings the camera to me, and I say cheerily, “I’m all for dessert climaxes.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” she says, upbeat and bright. “And those champagne chocolates from your pop-up were top tier. But I bet the ganache is better. And I’m gonna find out real soon. But guests first. Tell us about this ganache.”
I pick one up and sing its praises. “It’s handmade by me. Crafted from the finest dark chocolate. It’s decadent and sinful, and will make your day better. Chocolate produces endorphins and they say it makes you feel like you’re falling in love. Did you know Casanova consumed chocolate before getting intimate?”
She angles the camera toward me. I’m dolled up, like usual. Coiffed hair, bright red lips, long lashes, and a pretty red short-sleeve sweater. I take a slow, sensual bite of the ganache, sighing in a most satisfied way as I eat it, rolling my eyes in pleasure, then darting out my tongue to catch a drop of the gooey chocolate that slides down my chin.
She swings the camera back to herself. “I’m gonna need some now.”
Silver does the same, filming herself biting into a rich piece of chocolate, and she’s even louder than I am, slapping a hand on the table with a “yes” as she finishes.
She hits stop, shaking her head in approval as she points to the tray of goodies. “Damn, your chocolate is good. I never fake a dessert O or a real one.”
I hold up a hand in solidarity. “A woman after my own heart.”
I expect her to take off, but we chat some more, and she tells me she studied chemistry in college, attending on a STEM scholarship, and she’s always loved the science behind baking and chocolate-making.
“Me too,” I say. “I’m a science girl.”
“And I bet people think you can’t be because you’re cute.”
I shrug. It’s not my place to comment on my looks.
“Oh, c’mon. You are. We are. And we can be anything we want. We can be scientists or dessert devotees. We can be pilots or presidents. And we can be sexy if we want too.”
“I think I love you,” I say.
“Of course you do. I’m very lovable,” she says, and she makes no move to go. Instead, I give her a hot chocolate and we chat more about being a woman today in business. I feel a little like I made a new friend.
That night after we finish at the pop-up and I’m home, Amanda receives a reply from the art school that she passed the first round and they want to see a portfolio. I’m thrilled for her and nervous, too, about paying the tuition bills for her dream school.
I’m worried about something Gage told me when we were closing up. He thinks Sebastian is imitating me. He said Sebastian copied my fall colors chocolate box. And Gage is probably right, as much as I wish he were wrong. Sure, there are staples in the business—everyone carries a box of salted caramels, for instance. But the flavored bonbons in the same colors is a little…unsettling.
Especially since he’s offering them for half off my price, I learn when I check out his website.
But there’s hardly time to worry once Silver posts her video on Monday morning.
It goes viral by Tuesday.
On Wednesday, there are lines all day at Elodie’s. They get longer on Thursday. And by Friday I’ve hired a temp worker to help out when I’m at Special Edition that evening, where Felix tells us hotel business is ticking up. That night, I make another loan payment.
On Saturday morning, Elodie’s Chocolates is busier than ever. Samira pops in, clever eyes crinkling at the corners as she comes around and drops something into the pocket of my apron.
“What’s this?” I ask.
But I know—it’s my favorite perfume.
“Chocolate and perfume sell well together. My business is hopping,” she says. “And it’s the perfect timing too.”
I pluck out the bottle. “I can’t take this,” I say.
“You can and you will,” she says, then scurries off.
“Thank you,” I call out, and tend to the line.
And on Saturday afternoon, Gage meets me to take even more extra chocolate over to the pop-up that night. As he’s carrying the first batch over, I head to the back of the store to pop into the ladies’ room. When I leave, I’m tossing a paper towel in the bin as I push open the door with my elbow and a familiar newscaster voice says my name from the hall beyond.
“Elodie.” There’s a pause that slices the air like a knife. “Just admit it. You were always playing hard to get with me.”
