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“It’s an old family recipe. We call it Grand-mère’s vanilla ganache.”
“It’s incredible,” I mumbled over a mouthful of sugary decadence. “Hale, you gotta taste this.”
He carved his spoon into the dense cake taking a much daintier sampling than I had. He was the well-mannered tortoise to my spastic hare. I watched as he tasted the cakes the way a sommelier might sample a three thousand-dollar glass of wine.
“It’s very good.”
“Hale, detergents or vacuums are very good. Cake—this cake in particular—is a work of art.” I picked up a clean spoon and tasted another one, but there was really no point. I was certain I wanted Grandma’s ganache until the new flavors of the next slice melted in my mouth. “Uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Is there a problem?”
Both men looked at me in concern and I frowned, then whined, “This one’s just as good.” My hand thumped on the table causing the silverware to rattle and I closed my eyes. “Are you kidding me?” Creamy frosting and decadent, perfectly fluffy butter cake burst over my tongue, a flawless combination of sweet and rich. “You’re not a baker. You’re a wizard!”
Chef Dubois laughed. “C'est bon! You like this, you’ll love what I have in the back.” He disappeared through the kitchen door and I looked up at Hale, tears of joy prickling my eyes.
“He’s going to bring out something better than this? Can we get married here?”
He laughed. “There’s a reason he’s been in business for nearly fifty years.”
“I’d say.” I shoveled another bite into my mouth. “Everything’s so moist you don’t even need milk.”
Hale grinned in his pristine, unwrinkled suit jacket and bazillion-dollar tie as he leaned closer to wipe a dash of icing off my lip. “You’re too sexy when you eat.”
I snorted. “You’re crazy.”
“For you.”
I hid a smirk. My boyfriend was so dreamy. “Seriously, you need to taste this one before I eat it all.”
“You know, you make the same sounds in bed.”
“You have a dirty mind, Monsieur Davenport.” I laughed around my spoon. This cake could give Hale a run for his money in the boudoir.
“Don’t fall in love with the Chef. He probably has grandchildren older than you.”
“Yeah, but he can probably make a woman come with eggs and flour alone.”
“And a very soft stick of butter.”
“Don’t be jealous,” I teased, leaning over to give him a sugary kiss.
Chef Dubois returned with more samples.
How was I going to pick just one? Every bite was better than the last. I wanted all the Dubois cakes. After thirteen samples—a full baker’s dozen—I was ready for a nap and thoroughly confused about which one I liked best.
“Qu'aimes tu, mademoiselle? Do you have a favorite?”
“The raspberry. No, the almond. Wait! No, the lemon butter. All of them! I don’t know. I can’t choose!”
Hale glanced at the wide-eyed baker and laughed. “You know your bride well, monsieur.”
I looked at Hale in question. “Why? What does that mean?”
“I had the remaining cakes delivered to the house. You can sample them again when we get home. I figured you’d need more time. That way, you can run an actual experiment. The one you destroy first will obviously be the favorite.”
This was not part of the engagement diet. Other brides were having things nipped and tucked and living off celery juice two months out from their weddings. My fiancé just had thirteen cakes delivered to our door. That was our kind of love.
